Vanity Blair
Chapter V: Interview with a Millionaire
SPOTTED: At the Archibald ball – Miss W in conversation with the sharp tongued Widow S, Lady S dancing with the unknown junior H and his sister with Mr A. Mr B, interestingly, was nowhere to be seen... Tomorrow, however, the great and the good gather for the funeral of Sir H.W...
The day of her father's funeral had the indecency to dawn dull but warm. Blair stood wan faced in dove grey next to her mother, who was pressing a lace edged handkerchief to her dry cheeks.
Thankfully it was over quickly and painlessly. She took a respite in the shade of some trees from the throng of mourners around her mother. Society seemed to enjoy funerals as much as weddings.
"Waldorf."
She made no move to turn as she heard his steps approaching. "What do you want, Bass?" she asked evenly. "Must you try to seduce me even at my father's grave?"
"I am truly sorry for your loss, Blair." The lightest of fingertips touched her shoulder. "Sincerely. However, the information I must impart is no less urgent. We cannot speak here. May I call on you?"
"You may not," said Blair woodenly. "I shall not have the town's most scandalous rake calling on my home, especially in broad daylight, and during the mourning period. And please do not address me in such a familiar term."
"Then you will call on me?" He moved to stand next to her and she saw an unexpectedly earnest look on his face. He offered his card. "Say you will, Blair."
"I will."
Blair left it two weeks before making a move to call on the Bass household.
She was perfectly within reason, she told herself. Her mother floated about the house like a diseased ghost and the servants were even more absent than usual. The acceptable mourning period – no callers, no calling, no social events – lasted six weeks. Blair could never be bored, but she preferred to be busy.
"Dorota?"
"Yes, Miss Blair?" Her lady's maid was the only servant to appear with any regularity.
Blair checked over her lavender dress, lamented the fact that such a colour did not suit her skin tone but decided it was suitably sombre and said, "I am going out." She ignored the maid's sharp gasp of disapproval. Dorota adhered to a moral code stricter than her own. "To visit Mr Bass."
"Miss Blair!" was all that was needed to convey the maid's feelings of outrage at the impropriety and the lateness of the hour. Blair had left it until darkness for her visit, in the hope that no one should see her and Bass might be out.
"You are coming with me," Blair said firmly. "Tell Lucy to inform my mother that I have a headache
Minutes later they were in a cab, wrapped in warm pelisses and cloaks. "Miss Blair, I do not think that this is wise," ventured Dorota.
Neither do I, thought Blair, but said out loud, "Kindly keep your opinions to yourself, Dorota."
The coach driver descended to help them out. "Off to visit Mr Bass?" he enquired, a mocking smile on his face.
"I'll thank you not to be so insolent," snapped Blair, and refused to tip him.
Bass lived on a surprisingly respectable street. He did not live with his father and step family – so Blair could not use Serena as a cover for her visit – but unlike most of his age, he could afford to rent a whole house instead of just lodgings.
A grey haired butler answered promptly at Dorota's rap on the door. He had a respectable appearance. Blair breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, miss?"
Blair held out her card in one kid gloved hand. "Please inform Mr Bass that Miss Waldorf is here."
"Very good, miss. Do come in." He bowed, then vanished up the stairs.
A few minutes later he reappeared "Mr Bass will see you in his study. This way, miss. The maid may remain here."
Dorota cast a frightened look at her mistress. Blair turned away to follow the butler up the stairs and into the lion's den.
Chuck Bass sat in a leather armchair behind a polished oak desk. He started up when Blair entered, then walked quickly around the desk to usher her into a seat by the fire, waving away the butler. The servant departed, closing the door with a soft click.
Blair took a moment to inspect the room. Aside from the desk there was an assortment of chairs covered in burgundy damask, a small card table and above the fireplace, the portrait of a gently smiling woman, a contrast with the masculinity of the room. Either side of it were the marble figure of two females, clearly attired for warmer climes. The air smelt like the absurdly expensive cigars Bass liked to smoke. Clearly this was the inner sanctum.
She settled her hands on her lap and waited.
"I did not expect you to come," said Bass. He had settled himself against the mantelpiece in a relaxed position, tapping his fingers on the surface.
"I always keep my word," said Blair primly. "However, if my presence is not desired-" she made to stand.
"No – don't go."
"Well, what is it you want? And no foolish remarks, please."
Chuck stood up straight, pulling at his grey cravat. This item of clothing was normally in a state of elaborate yet suggestive disarray that took hours to prepare, but now it looked messier than ever.
"Sit down. Please." He pulled at another chair closer to the desk.
Blair sat, mostly because she had never Chuck Bass awkward before, and the prospect intrigued her.
"Would you like a drink?" Bass went behind his desk and opened a mahogany cabinet. Blair heard the chink of an exquisite crystal decanter. "Port or burgundy or ratafia..."
"No, thank you."
Chuck ran a hand through his dark hair and poured himself a glass of honey coloured liquid. He seated himself in the leather covered armchair on the other side of the desk and took a long drink.
"I know where your father is."
Blair looked at Chuck, an expression of polite confusion across her features. Bass must be drunker than he appeared, if he had missed the sombre clothes, the little black veiled hat, the funeral held a week earlier. He had attended it, in fact.
Bass leant back in his chair.
"I know that your father is not dead."