Again, I swear this first bit was written pre-307 and I only swapped out the name...
Four days after the ball, Clarke received a package. This was a fairly rare occasion, so despite her mother's protests, she ran upstairs in an effort for privacy. The wrapping was superb and she admired this for some moments before removing the envelope from beneath the red ribbon. Her name was etched in thin slanting handwriting. She turned it over and observed the wax seal depicting a familiar looking dragon. Slicing through with her a hairpin, Clarke unfolded the note within and began to read.
Dear Miss Griffin,
You must allow me to once again apologize for the fright and harm that befell you at the ball. I am most grieved by the disgusting occurrence. Lord Rothenberg shall never set foot in my ballroom - or any other establishment of my families - again.
That had a rather ominous ring to it but Clarke wasn't prone to flights of fancy like Octavia, and hardly believed Countess Woods capable of physically harming Lord Rothenberg. Berating and intimidating him, yes, but actually harming, or killing him, no. After all, she could hardly go around maiming or killing everyone whom she despised, even if she was exceedingly rich. Sooner or later someone would notice if noblemen and women were vanishing without a trace. Still, the package was fairly large and heavy and part of her expected to find Lord Rothenberg's head within. However, her ridiculous fears were somewhat alleviated by the final line.
I hope you are well, and that you will accept and make great use of this small token of repentance.
Sincerely, Alexandria
Clarke was a little taken aback by the use of her Christian name, and nothing more. Even if it was only in a letter, it was somewhat peculiar considering they were still mostly strangers and she was a highborn. At any rate, Clarke placed the note aside and removed the lid from the box. Nestled inside was another slightly smaller box, this one wooden and highly varnished. She took this out and undid the clasp on the front. Holding her breath, she opened the box to find no severed head. Instead there were a variety of art supplies. These ranged from charcoal to paintbrushes, to many different types and colours of paint, to a couple of art history books. Everything was of superb quality and much nicer than anything she currently owned. Perhaps a small token to the countess, not so for Clarke. It was far too much compensation for such a trifling affair, but she was no fool and not about to return the items to the countess, gravely offending her.
She picked up a small jar of blood red paint and smiled to herself. She knew precisely the way to finally thank the countess for her assistance that night.
Clarke was well into the fierce depiction when Mr. Hawkins called. While he seemed amused, she was somewhat peeved at having her exploits interrupted once again.
"I would give you my hand, Mr. Hawkins, but they are quite the fright at the moment." Arcing a brow, "How is it that you are always calling on me as I pursue my artwork?"
He picked up one of the brand new paintbrushes and ran his finger along the horsehair tip. "Have you considered that you are often employed in such a manner?"
Clarke conceded his point with a look, knowing she frequently forwent her other studies until the last moment - namely German lessons - in favour of her one burning passion. It was not mere coincidence that the majority of this passion had been directed towards the countess as of late. She still had no idea who this woman truly was, and it was this lack of understanding that drove her hand ever onward, as if the understanding would come should she draw her enough times.
Mr. Hawkins moved closer to examine the painting of his cousin more readily. The countesses face had only been roughly sketched in for future reference. The outfit was the main focus of the painting at this juncture. Only an imbecile would not recognize who was being portrayed, and Mr. Hawkins was far from being one.
He appraised it quietly for some time and then glanced in her direction. "My cousin will no doubt be flattered by the finished product should you show it to her. Though I must warn you, Miss Griffin, she doesn't readily accept presents...or gratitude."
Clarke was well aware of this irritating and improper behaviour. "Do you believe she will have it returned if I send it off?"
Mr. Hawkins shrugged. "It's hard to fathom my cousin's motivations sometimes. If she does return it, I wouldn't take it personally."
She was not quite sure how that made sense but didn't see the point in acknowledging this discrepancy.
"At any rate," he continued, changing topics, "I came here today to see if you might like to attend the opera with me this evening? Your parents would of course accompany you," he added with a smirk and a twinkle in his eye. "We can't have you acting unladylike again."
With considerable restraint she held back the eye roll, also smirking. "Yes, that would be quite the travesty should history repeat itself. And yes, I accept your invitation, Mr. Hawkins. Where shall we be dining beforehand?"
"I've recently discovered a charming place not far from the opera house. Supposedly they have exquisite Blanquette de Veau." Conspiratorially, "We'll have to be the judge of that."
"Sounds wonderful," she said, struggling to remember what that was exactly. Her mastery of the French language was not much better than that of her German.
"Well then," he said clapping his hands together once, "I'll be calling on you again in four hours time. With any luck you won't be elbow deep in paint."
In a fit of childishness, she flicked some paint in his direction which he dodged with easy grace, laughing. "Where are your manners, Miss Griffin? Utterly shameful conduct," he grinned before hightailing it out of there.
She chuckled to herself softly and then got back to work.
They decided that in fact, the Blanquette de Veau was not quite as advertised and as such an extra serving of wine was had to wash the aftertaste away. As usual, her father seemed much more infatuated with Mr. Hawkins than she herself was. Clarke was amused by her mother's obvious irritation at being ignored, and the men going on and on about business and solar cells once more. She wondered what it would be like to be alone with Mr. Hawkins again, if she would feel any impetuous desires to touch or, even more scandalous still, kiss him. Certainly the impulse never crossed her mind at the ball, but she chalked that up to being thrown off by the countesses appearance. And all things considered, she did have some respect for (herself and) proper decorum, and wouldn't just throw herself at the first man who paid her the least bit of attention.
Clarke had only been in the opera house on a handful of occasions throughout her eighteen years of existence, mostly accompanying her mother when her father had no desire to go, or was otherwise preoccupied with his work. She had dressed for the occasion in considerable less finery than that of the ball, but even so, she was turning heads and eliciting hushed conversations. Or perhaps it was the company she was keeping that was accomplishing this. She supposed in the upper echelon's of society, people were more cognizant of who was related to whom, likely due to their complete and utter lack of occupation. The fact that they were seated in the countesses private box (located ideally up above and directly over the stage) was also cause for chatter.
"Does the countess often enjoy the pleasure of music?" she asked him while they waited for the curtain to rise.
"I don't believe so, no."
The thought made her irrationally sad. It was one of her own greatest pleasures in life, second only to that of art.
"Oh, that's a pity," said her mother, beside her, "if I had such a view, I would come here every night."
"Why does she own a box then- oh, yes, of course. This is her families box," Clarke continued on stupidly. "Or rather was..."
"Yes," said Mr. Hawkins, somewhat tight-lipped. "Like any other respectable family, the Woods family enjoyed their weekly opera visit."
"Terrible tragedy, that," added her father. "Must have been quite the blow. Hardly surprising she needed some time away from all this."
"Yes, well, the countess is a remarkable young woman," said Mr. Hawkins, clearly uncomfortable with the direction this discourse had taken. Clarke cursed herself for being as tactless as her father. "But she is also only human."
An awkward silence descended upon them until the curtain blessedly rose.
The classic opera, Rigoletto, helped to alleviate the previous pall, and Clarke found herself becoming increasingly immersed in the drama unfolding before her eyes. The story centred around the Duke of Mantua, who was quite the cad, and reminded her of Mr. Collins; Rigoletto, a deformed, hunchbacked jester; and his daughter, Gilda, who was reported to be exceedingly desirable, though the singer herself was only of average beauty. After the jester successfully encourages the duke to seduce one of the courtier's daughters, a curse is placed on both men. Predictably, this caused Gilda to fall in love with the duke. The conclusion saw Gilda's violent death as she prevented her father's assassin from killing the one she couldn't help but to love even though she knew him to be a licentious miscreant.
Considering the story was based off of a play by Victor Hugo, the same man who created the hunchback of Notre-Dame, Clarke wasn't at all surprised by the way it ended. Melodrama at its finest. It rather annoyed Clarke that the women often seemed to get the short straw in these types of affairs while the men walked away unscathed and continued on with their despicable habits.
The quartet proceeded to have animated discourse on the poor treatment of women in the entertainment industry, her suitor purposely playing devil's advocate to get a further rise out of her. Her mother eventually interceded before the hot tempered daughter did something she lived to regret and the party sat in silence once more as the carriage continued on its meandering way back home.
Mr. Hawkins eventually broke the spell by adding, "If you ever have the chance, Miss Griffin, I suggest you bring this topic up with my cousin. She is rather like-minded to yourself." He smirked in that charming, but currently irritating manner, and finished, "With any luck you will even get her to show you the novel she has been writing these past few months."
"She's writing a novel?" queried Clarke in some wonder. The countess did not seem like the sort to engage in such frivolous pursuits. Then again, Clarke really did not know anything about her save for what others had said.
Mr. Hawkins nodded. "Besides portraying a female protagonist, I have no idea what it is about. Perhaps you can persuade her to have a look someday."
The carriage came to a stop outside of their gate and Mr. Hawkins politely took his leave with the merest of kisses to her hand. All in all it had been an interesting evening, not at all dull and tedious like she was accustomed to. Clarke was definitely coming to appreciate Mr. Hawkins more modern sensibilities about certain issues...however, he was still far from truly understanding the depths of her plight, if only because he was a man. Those that were poor and women, had it worse still.
Speaking of...Octavia was waiting just inside for their return. She had clearly been in recent distress. Clarke escorted her upstairs to her bedroom where they could discuss what was bothering her in private, without unwanted interjections from her mother.
Once more Octavia was hysterical. It took quite some doing to bring her back down to a comprehensive level. When she had calmed down somewhat, Clarke sat them on her bed and took her hands while her friend informed her of the particulars.
"My brother called on me tonight. He received word of my engagement to Mr. Sterling and requested temporary leave from his station. He was enraged that I would enter into this union without first informing him of my intent. Bellamy refused to give me his blessing and forbade me from seeing Lincoln again. I told him I would marry him regardless and stormed out of the apartment and came here. Do you think I might possibly stay here for awhile, Clarke? Do you think your parents might take pity on me? I have nowhere else to go and I refuse to live under the same roof as that tyrant."
Clarke wasn't exactly shocked by this turn of events, even if Mr. Sterling now had a comfortable sum to support them for some years. It sounded like Mr. Blake had always assumed Octavia's education would cause her to wed someone quite rich and who would never have need of financial aid. For that single, yet fairly important reason, he disapproved with such vehemence. Clarke did not like to see her friend in such distress and planned on giving him a piece of her mind...tomorrow. For now she would comfort her friend as best she could.
"You will stay in my room tonight," she said, squeezing Octavia's hands. "We shall be bosom sisters until this ordeal has been sorted out."
"Do you truly think that possible, Clarke?" whispered Octavia, unshed tears clinging to her eyes.
"I do my dearest friend, I do. Now come," she continued, laying her on the bed, "and get some rest."
Octavia snuggled into her embrace, and though Clarke was fairly uncomfortable in her corset, she dare not attempt to rectify the situation until her friend was well on her way to dream land.
Despite often being up at all hours of the night, Octavia was an annoyingly early riser. And far from being the considerate type, she insisted that everyone rise with her. Or at least Clarke. Octavia shook her shoulders and bounced on the bed until Clarke wanted to throttle her.
"Get up sleepy head!" she exclaimed once more, hitting her with her spare goose down pillow. "The sun is shining this fine November morning! We must not let this opportunity go to waste! The snow will soon be here! A horse ride would be-"
Clarke glared at her grumpily. "Oh no, no more horse rides for you. And how are you so cheerful after last nights debacle?"
She wanted to chastise herself for such unfeeling behaviour but it was unnecessary as Octavia's smile never once faltered. "I will not let my brother's churlishness dictate my mood for the day!" She hit Clarke with the pillow again. "So arise fair maiden and let not another moment go to waste!"
Clarke grumbled but forced herself to get up lest her senses be further assailed.
Having Octavia as a house guest was wonderful in theory (she had never had a sister before) but in practice it only served to vex her more and more each day. Clarke could tell her mother was nearing the end of her rope and would soon issue the order for Miss Blake's dismissal, so Clarke finally took it upon herself to call on Mr. Blake, who had stubbornly kept his distance. Mr. Kane accompanied her in this endeavour.
Octavia's governess had apparently been dismissed, so the door was opened by Mr. Blake. Her friend had once shown a picture of the man, but it had been a rather outdated one from his teen years. The man before her was in his mid twenties, neither slight of build nor bulky, hair mussed and unseemly, and ironically similarly dressed to that of Lincoln, that is to say, he wore no suit. His red military coat could be seen just behind him, slung over the back of a chair.
Mr. Blake stared at her for a long moment and then said, "Miss Griffin."
"How did you know?"
"My sister writes of little else in her letters." He became sour. "Else wise I would have learned of her infatuation sooner."
If that were true, the governess had fallen down on the job in yet another way, and it was no wonder she may have been removed from her employ.
"I know why you're here, miss, but it was in futility. I will not change my mind in this matter. Mr. Sterling is not a fit husband. My sister will come to see that in due time."
Before Clarke could tell him off, he continued on, shaking his head, "I blame myself of course for being gone nigh on half a year. She would never have entered into such an unfortunate match if someone more sensible had been around to guide her."
Despite his self deprecating words, Mr. Blake glared at her in obvious reproach, and Clarke had to clench her hands to her side lest she assault yet another 'gentleman' this year.
"Mr. Blake, I believe if you would only speak to your sister and Mr. Sterling, you would see that they are in fact quite well suited to one another, and as such, your cause for alarm is unwarranted. Granted he is not as wealthy as some but-"
"And there's the rub, Miss Griffin. I have done everything in my power, time and time again to see she has the best chance at a fruitful union. I have given up my own happiness so that she may have reason to smile everyday. And how does she repay me? Engaged to a stable boy? I think not."
"I assure you, Mr. Blake, Mr. Sterling is far more than a mere stable boy. He has many admirable qualities and your sister loves him very much."
Mr. Blake scoffed at that, infuriating her. Clarke got into his personal space, looking murderous. The man looked a little uncertain but otherwise did not back down. "I for one believe marrying for love is far more important than marrying for money. Only the select few are blessed with both options. Octavia will marry Mr. Sterling whether you give your blessing or not. I suggest you bury the hatchet and make amends before she's out of your life forever." Clarke stepped back, softening slightly. "I understand this is not what you envisioned for her, but it is what she desires. You should respect her decision and let her live her life so that you may finally live yours."
The wedding proceeded without a hitch eight days later for which The Griffin's were quite glad. After several lengthy conversations with Mr. Sterling, Mr. Blake got over his grievances against him, to which Octavia was thrilled. She was further thrilled when he walked her down the aisle in full regimental attire, sabre included. The dress Clarke designed and Monroe brought to life was just as she had pictured it to be. Simple, yet not understated. No ridiculous backside or train for yards and yards of fabric. Just beaded lace across the front and back torso, and slightly puffed up sleeves, reminiscent of Octavia's own slight egomania. Finally, her face was covered in a traditional veil, scorning off evil spirits or whatever the reason was supposed to be.
Mr. Sterling and his two groomsmen were dressed dashingly, though she suspected they had rented their tuxedos and top hats for the special occasion, and really, Clarke couldn't fault them for that. It was rather absurd to pay large sums of money for a finely tailored tuxedo one would never wear again. The best man was Mr. Nyko Florence, a large bearded fellow that seemed rather out of place. According to Octavia he was a butcher and Lincoln's childhood friend. Her own suitor, Mr. Hawkins, was the second member of this party, no doubt due to his generous donation after the fight club.
She herself stood off to the side of Octavia, feeling distinctly awkward being the only bridesmaid, and therefore maid of honour. There was apparently no one else Octavia deemed worthy to share in this honour, which was flattering she supposed, but also somewhat sad.
Clarke never saw two people happier than the moments after they were pronounced husband and wife by the pastor. Her heart was full with joy and affection for her friends good fortune in finding someone she had little doubt would be her faithful servant until death parted them. Now was not the time to ruminate on such morbid things so she quickly shook it off, hugged and congratulated her best friend in all the world and cheered the newlyweds on with everyone else as they ascended into the garishly decorated carriage. Octavia insisted on this tradition, and Clarke bowed to her wishes.
The reception was held shortly thereafter in a quaint little venue not far from the church. The attendees pitched in to supply the food and drink for this part of the festivities, something akin to a potluck. Clarke and others gave short, heartfelt toasts over raised glasses of wine, and then the Sterlings shared their first dance together as man and wife. Most joined in during the next waltz. Over the course of the evening Clarke danced with a number of gentlemen. Mr. Hawkins first; then Mr. Blake, who thanked her once more for knocking some sense into him; her father next, who not so subtly hinted that it may be Clarke's turn to take the veil next; and finally Mr. Sterling himself, who also thanked Clarke for everything he had done for them. She did not make him promise to take good care of Octavia, she already felt it in her bones that he would.
Clarke and Octavia shared a tearful goodbye, and then her husband helped her into the carriage and towards their honeymoon destination outside of the city. They would be spending a few days at a highly recommended inn that offered a fine selection of horses to ride. Granted the weather was fairly chilly now and some snow even littered the ground, but Clarke knew something as trivial as that could never prevent her friend from reveling in the freedom of such a pursuit. She supposed Octavia would not wear her wedding dress while riding, but Clarke could not be certain.
Once the carriage was out of sight, she suddenly felt empty and forlorn, like a piece of herself had just been ripped straight out of her chest. Such intense feelings and she had only known the woman for a short while! It was somewhat unnerving to Clarke just how attached she had grown to the other woman. She didn't think she could bear losing another best friend and prayed with all her might that no ill or harm should strike Octavia down.
Perhaps it was this unsettling feeling that caused Clarke to take Mr. Hawkins into the alleyway and kiss him on the cheek. He raised an eyebrow at the unusual behaviour.
"Miss Griffin?" he said questioning.
Rather than explain herself she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips. She wasn't quite sure what to expect. His lips were cold but soft and very pliant. Octavia had said the experience was one of the highlights of her life. While Clarke enjoyed the few seconds that they remained lip-locked, she wasn't overcome with emotion or lust. Perhaps Octavia had exaggerated how kissing someone was supposed to feel – which was highly plausible – or perhaps Clarke was simply not in the right mindset to truly enjoy it.
When she pulled back, he placed a hand to the side of her face and just stared at her. "Are you all right, Miss Griffin?"
She nodded, embracing him, and he held her for a time. She felt safe and secure in his arms and like she could become accustomed to this new level of intimacy between them. "Please, Roan," she said boldly, "call me, Clarke."
"As you wish," he replied.
Call it woman's intuition, but he seemed slightly off himself and she did not believe it was due to the kiss. "Is everything all right, Roan?"
After a few moments of silence, "I was wondering, mi- Clarke," he paused after saying her Christian name out loud for the first time (in her presence anyway) before continuing, "would you have any interest in coming to the country for the holidays?"
She moved out of the shelter of his arms and blinked at him in confusion. "Christmas is not yet a month away."
He elaborated further. "Yes, but it will take me that long to convince my cousin to allow The Griffin's presence at her family estate."
"Oh, I would not want to impose on the countesses hospitality should she not wish to-"
"My cousin has need of company this holiday season," he interrupted firmly, yet not unkindly. "It will be the first she will have there since losing her family to that dreadful disease. She may not want the company, but she needs it. I believe some gayness and frivolity will do her heart some much needed good."
"Did she not take any enjoyment from her extended leave?" she asked cautiously, completely unprepared for the ensuing revelation.
Roan sighed. "I doubt she would appreciate my telling you this but I trust you to keep this between us." Clarke nodded and he proceeded, "At first she attempted to drown her sorrows in copious amounts of alcohol, then she took to starting fights with men twice her size, and finally she simply locked her door and lay there staring at the ceiling. She scarcely ate. It took me many months just to get her to come out and go for a stroll. Little by little she seemed to take an interest in her surroundings and by the end of that first year we began traveling in earnest, her thirst for adventure sparked anew." He sighed again. "However, the cycle invariably repeated itself as the anniversaries of their deaths approached. I fear she is headed towards her most closed off self once more. Titus and I are at a loss as to how to help her permanently leave the sadness behind."
Perhaps it was her artistic side, but knowing that a beautiful woman like the countess was in such pain seemed even worse than if she were plain.
"After such trauma as she has endured, there may not be a way."
Roan nodded, looking forlorn. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "That does not mean we will not try."
He gave her a sad, grateful smile, squeezed her hands and quipped, "And now we really must be getting back before your mother sets the hounds on me."
Clarke laughed at his inexhaustible propensity for cheer and took his arm.
WHAT'S IN THE BOX?!
Poor Lexa, she always gets the raw deal.
Yes, Roan, she needs some gayness in her life. Lol.