Thank you kindly for the lovely reviews guys. It's been a sad week after saying goodbye to my kitty and your words of encouragement were spots of light on my horizon. As you might imagine, writing hasn't been easy; it's hard to bring emotion to characters when you're feeling pretty drained of emotion yourself, but it's also been a nice distraction from reality.
Finally some HG/Myka interaction (though only a bit).
Chapter Seven
Despite her disturbed night's sleep, Myka woke with the dawn, her stomach fluttering with the prompt realisation that Helena was in the same house. She debated the sense in getting up verses staying in bed. Though she was now wide-awake, the air was still frigid; the house not yet warmed by the servants' efforts to light the morning fires.
Instead of braving the cold, the curly-haired time-traveller hugged her daughter closer and let her mind drift over the past few days.
Beside the turmoil of trying to figure out why they were there and how to get home, the experience had been fascinating in regards to what she'd learnt about the daily life of the upper-class Victorian and thus, about Helena's early life. Even, to a certain extent, she'd seen what some of the less well-off classes did, day by day.
Among the first things she'd noticed were the smells. Paraffin, mostly in the evenings; smoke from various fires throughout the day; cleaning solutions drifting sporadically through the house, particularly when there was laundry being done, and a veritable smorgasbord of odours whenever she ventured outside. The visit to the Warehouse had brought her into contact with the worst of it, while travelling through the centre of London, but even here, a fair distance from the nearest factory, the stench of industry loitered in the atmosphere.
More pleasant smells sometimes reached her olfactory senses, mostly of the food variety. Other than fish, which appeared to have been cut from the menu since their arrival, in anticipation of each mealtime, there would waft through the house many delicious scents.
Another thing she had noticed were the different noises. Univille was not a noisy town by any means and night times were usually fairly quiet, but it was strange to go for so long without hearing a car, the radio, television, an occasional aeroplane, the ringing of a telephone – mobile or otherwise. Microwaves, the percolator, the gurgle or a radiator or hum of the A/C. Someone typing on a keyboard or flicking a light switch. So many everyday sounds that often passed without notice were suddenly conspicuous by their absence.
How had her lover endured that chaos after the comparative peace of the nineteenth century and the Bronze?
Instead, she heard the crackle of fire throughout the day and creaking of timber through the night; the occasional clip-clop of hooves, the trundle of carriage wheels upon cobbles and setts passing by the windows, and in busier areas, street-sellers shouting about their wares and the general hustle of many feet.
From the kitchen came the constant sound of toil; pots and pans, deliveries via the servants' entrance, someone shouting orders; sizzling, spitting, bubbling... Myka struggled not to be overwhelmed at times.
Overall though, she found herself adapting well to the changes. There was something oddly relaxing about being free from the shackles of twenty-first century life. She was looking forward to a nice hot shower (preferably with her fiancée for company), central heating and her own clothes, but mostly, she missed her loved ones.
Chaturanga had ended their meeting by promising to continue his investigation and to inform her of any changes as soon as they arose, but suggested that she make some time to establish her ruse in this time, to avoid suspicion and ultimately protect the Warehouse. Reluctantly, she had agreed. It was too risky for her to be at the Warehouse now that Agent Wells was back in town, she really didn't want to spend any time around Agent Kipling or allow him to gather any information about her, and most of all, she didn't want to make a habit of leaving Christina alone.
After last night's run in with the young HG, she knew she really needed to play her part as Mrs. Bering better. Helena had been so blasé, so undaunted by the whole incident that Myka knew there would be some sort of verbal fallout; teasing, innuendos, remarks designed to spark a reaction. Everything that the American was susceptible to when it came to falling under the inventor's power.
A part of her had already considered the ramifications of warning Helena about their daughter's death. She had visualised, as she held the girl close at night, Christina growing up in this time period with a mother who hopefully wouldn't suffer through the torment of losing a child. There were just too many unknowns. Her fiancée might never become a murderer, but what would happen to the lives she'd saved?
Had Christina's killers not met their end at Helena's hands, who else might they have victimised? Might Joshua's Trumpet have caused more chaos, killed more people before its capture because Agent Wells wasn't around to help identify it, track it and convince its user to stop searching for aliens and his father? What would have become of Claudia after her fall into that vat of Boiling Point energy drink or the Warehouse if McPhereson hadn't been stopped? Would Artie have died in Russia?
What of the lives of Helena's family? Would she and Christina have survived through two world wars? Would the eight-year-old have eventually married and had her own children? Would they have changed the world in their own small way?
Too many unknowns; I have to believe that all of this is happening for another reason. If Christina and Helena were meant to be a part of this time, why did they wind up in the future? Myka reasoned, feeling justified by her conclusion, but guilty too for wanting things to continue as they had when she knew the lives that would be lost.
At long last, grey light of morning penetrated the fog outside and roused both females from bed. Myka dressed quickly, needing to go to the toilet now that she'd stood up but still uncomfortable with the idea of using the chamber pot. She swept her hair up into a loose bun, letting tendrils fall haphazardly about her face as she left Christina to have her hair plaited by the young maid called Polly.
As with her midnight journey, the American hastened to the WC without thought for what might be happening around her and exited with a light fluttering of butterflies. Had Helena stayed the night? If so, which room had she stayed in and where was she now?
Half way through breakfast, Myka gave up on the idea of seeing the raven-haired inventor that morning. She couldn't quite decide which emotion was more acute, relief or disappointment.
Christina disappeared into the nursery the moment she was given permission to leave the table and Myka followed Eleanor into her personal study. They had agreed to discuss the results of her conversation with the Warehouse director upon her return, but the previous day had only provided a brief window for a quick chat. Myka was curious as to what the Wells matriarch thought she should do next.
"I hope you managed to sleep well after your altercation with my granddaughter last night," Mrs. Wells expressed her concern as she took her usual seat in a small arm chair, leaving her guest with the small sofa. "Helena seems to believe that rules are made for the specific purpose of entertaining her as she charges through them with abandon."
Myka chuckled at the summary of HG's natural defiance towards convention, her smile remaining in place as she pictured her lover's mischievous expression whenever she knew she was about to do something she perhaps shouldn't. "I woke up bright and early so I must have slept enough," she responded, avoiding a direct answer. It had taken her some time to get back to sleep, but she didn't want her host to know how much the incident had shaken her.
Eleanor watched the young woman closely. She admired her reserve even as she despaired at it. Her own natural curiosities pushed at her, encouraging her to dig deeper, but years of developing patience allowed her to slow the pace and prod gently at the topic. "You appeared a little shaken. Were you injured?"
"No, I'm fine," Myka answered, though she knew she probably had a decent sized bruise where she'd backed into the table; the area was more tender than usual. "I'm just relieved that it wasn't a real intruder. I still worry that the slightest action could warp the timeline," she admitted softly. "Though if Chaturanga is correct in his hypothesis, then nothing I do should make any difference to the time I come from. Every action I will make has already happened, in theory." Her eyebrows pulled together as her face scrunched up in thought.
Eleanor sat back in her chair, making herself comfortable. "How do you feel about that?"
The agent took a deep breath and ran a hand through her hair. She wished she could go into detail, to share all the ins and outs of her feelings on this subject, specifically why. "It would make my situation simpler. Easier in a way. I wouldn't have to worry about making a mistake; not that I would suddenly decide to run amok," she added hastily, a self-conscious chuckle escaping at the thought. "The idea of letting events unfold at their own pace goes against my nature; I like cold hard facts and a detailed plan of action. What choice do I have though? Christina and I were happy in our time, with our family; I wouldn't want to change that. There are so many ways I could try to change the future. I know that great atrocities will happen all around the world, millions will die needlessly and I can't help but wonder if I could somehow prevent it all from happening. Am I being selfish, wanting to return to the simple life I love, or sensible? Would I cause more chaos by trying to help?" She sighed again. "It just feels wrong to sit by and do nothing."
The older woman nodded thoughtfully. This topic was a minefield and she had to tread carefully. "Though I was raised as a Christian, I must admit that the idea of a single benevolent being has always troubled me. Still, I cannot help believing that there is a reason that events unfold the way they do. Is it tragic that people suffer and should we try to prevent it happening? Of course. Particularly as we command a position of authority, it is our duty to protect those who are unable to protect themselves. However, it is arrogant to think that we alone have the power to 'save the world'. We are fallible beings and thus, cannot know how our actions will affect others. I understand wanting to change the past, but I think you would be foolish to try."
Nodding slowly in agreement, the American felt her shoulders slump. It was one thing to guess that nothing could be done but another thing entirely to accept that she shouldn't and wouldn't try. "I guess the question now is, what do I do in the meantime? I can't just sit around your house, taking advantage of your hospitality indefinitely. Christina really needs to regain some sort of routine too."
"My daughter in law apparently agrees," Norie announced ruefully.
Myka's eyes widened in alarm. "Miss. Wells' mother? We've never met," she added with confusion.
"Questions regarding your arrival were bound to arise sooner or later," the greying regent explained, appearing decidedly more relaxed than her guest felt.
A sudden spark of understanding lit up green eyes. "That's why Helena… I mean, Miss. Wells, was here last night, to learn more about me for her mother?" She cringed inwardly at the natural familiarity with which she'd said her lover's name. She breathed a little easier when she remembered that the regent already suspected a connection.
"Oh my son's wife most definitely wants to discover more about you, if only to disperse the gossip mongers. Genevieve fears that rumours that reflect poorly on Rupert and myself will, in turn, reflect poorly on her." She shifted slightly in her chair, betraying some of her own irritation. "Unfortunately, a young woman alone with a child, arriving in the dead of night, sparks inquiry."
"Do you have a solution in mind?" Myka wondered, deferring to the Victorian's better understanding of the period and society.
"I discussed the matter with Helena last night." Eleanor paused deliberately, watching the time-traveller's open expression carefully as she pretended to make herself more comfortable.
Realising too late that she was allowing her emotions to show like an open book, Myka gripped the edge of the couch surreptitiously. "What did she say? Did she mention our scuffle? Was she hurt?"
The regent smiled kindly. "She's tougher than she looks. I sometimes think that nothing short of the apocalypse could put a dent in her," she laughed gruffly, narrowly missing Myka's far away look. "Normally, she doesn't pay much attention to her mother's concerns, but when they involve me, she usually pops by for her own peace of mind. I think you may have taken her by surprise but if anything, that has made her more determined to get to know you."
Myka met those wise, hazel eyes carefully and blushed uncontrollably at the knowing look staring back at her. Christ, she thought, desperately trying to control the uncontrollable. Why are we still tiptoeing around this? She all but knows anyway. Why don't I just come right out and say it? "That sounds like Helena," she conceded in a small voice.
Eleanor chuckled, enjoying her own small victory at having waited the young woman out and at the tone of affection in Myka's voice. "My dear," she began softly. "I sympathise with your predicament, I do, but it does neither of us any justice to fanny about with this topic any further. You and she are acquainted in your time; you care for her. You might be friends... or possibly more," her head lowered slightly but her eyes continued to gaze brightly at the agent, giving her that 'all knowing' expression. "I have some ideas for how she might have landed herself in the twenty-first century, but I'm afraid my imagination isn't what it used to be. For all I know, she built a blasted time machine with her own two hands." She gestured wildly with the last statement and then stood to ring a bell near the door. "I'm beginning to feel rather parched. Would you like tea?"
Myka shook her head, her brain rushing to catch up as she dwelled on the woman's words. "No, thank you."
"Are you certain? You should take care to stay hydrated in your condition," Norie observed kindly.
"I'm fine, thanks," the agent reiterated, smiling gratefully for the consideration. "You're... ok then... with her, leanings?" she asked with careful curiosity. She had suspected but not dared to hope that the woman's open-mindedness would stretch to Helena's sexuality and by extension, her own.
The older woman guffawed, amused by the American's delicate wording. "Certainly! I've no doubt that human sexuality stretched beyond the bounds of 'man and woman' long before there was a name for it. Long before some uptight, sexually repressed person, created the idea of Sodom and Gomorrah, and made us all ashamed of our reproductive necessities."
Myka shook her head in amusement. It was no wonder that her fiancée worshiped her grandmother; she must have been a beacon of light for someone as free-spirited as Helena, in a world where nicknames were created for body parts that were seen as being too risqué to mention. "You surprise me. Helena always talks about you like you were her idol, but I grew up learning about Victorian's as a generation of people who pretended that sex didn't exist, so I always assumed that she was exaggerating."
"Yes, well, ignoring something so natural has a tendency to push it underground. The upper echelon would have us believe that sexual desire and depravity belong to the lower classes, but the poor don't have the time or the means to frequent London's brothels or make use of its working girls. A prostitute sells sex for survival; the man with the chink of coin in his pocket is the one who seeks his pleasure." Eleanor's expression hardened the longer she spoke on the subject but softened again as she remembered Myka's words. "I'm glad that she has something to look back on with fondness. One's best childhood memories are always amongst the most precious. Is she... happy?"
Myka felt her expression pull into something tender and longing as she thought about home and the life she was making with her family. "Yes," she said with certainty. "Our time together hasn't been easy, and there was a period where I didn't have any hope that we would ever find our way back to one another; she was so... damaged, but in the last year so much has changed." She looked up from her distant stare at the rug to meet interested, gratified eyes and smiled warmly. "They are everything to me; her and Christina. I couldn't imagine life without them now."
"And you're engaged?" Norie couldn't help asking, her curiosity finally getting to her now that they had opened the topic. "You can marry?" she added hopefully.
"Yes." The longer they spoke, the more relaxed the agent began to feel. The woman had guessed so much already, it hardly felt wrong to give her some peace of mind regarding her granddaughter's fate. "Not everywhere," she cautioned. "There are some places that I would hardly dare hold her hand, but some attitudes are beginning to change. I think Helena would like to be married from London."
"And...?" Eleanor nodded to the young agent's growing bump.
"Oh!" Blushing, Myka shifted a little. In the few short days that she'd been in 1890, she'd really started to feel her body changing, instead of the sickness, parts of her had begun to stretch outward. "Artefact mishap," she explained briefly.
Leaning back with satisfaction, Norie nodded. "Ah. Say no more. It seems ever more evident that our Warehouse has plans for the two of you."
Before Myka could add anything or protest the idea, there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Wells bid the maid with the tea to enter. She was an older, slightly buxom woman with red hair tied back in a strict bun, who the American had only caught sight of through the kitchen door. Mostly, she could be identified as the one shouting orders and right at that moment, she looked none too happy.
Upon seeing the woman, Eleanor sighed. "She is awake then," she began with resignation. "What is she up to this time?"
With a small, respectful bow, the woman reined in her irritation and began to explain. "Beg your pardon Mrs. Wells, but she's in the stores again. I wouldn't mind only, you mentioned having guests this Friday coming and I'll have nothing left for the bread or dinner."
"I'll have a word with her, again, and see that you have what you need in good time." She shared an exasperated, if fond look with the red head before dismissing her. "Thank you, Susan, and please, let Miss. Wells know that, when she has finished pilfering my larder, I would like to see her."
"Very well, Ma'am," Susan replied, a small look of resigned amusement colouring her expression.
"She steals from you?" Myka asked, shocked.
Eleanor waved the concern away and leant forward to begin the ceremony of making her tea. "Salt and baking soda usually, for her experiments. She never thinks to order her own deliveries before she goes away, so when she returns from an assignment and has an urge to make things explode, she liberates the ingredients from my stores. She reimburses me of course, but it drives the kitchen staff to distraction when they come to do their jobs and half of their stock is missing."
The curly-haired visitor tried to restrain a chuckle but failed. "She is a handful."
"Hmm," the regent smirked around her cup as she sipped her tea. "I imagine you can attest to that quite literally."
Myka flushed at the insinuation, heat suddenly suffusing her body. She had to remember to watch what she said around this woman. Instead of responding verbally, she simply glared at the amused Victorian, making her disapproval known. It was in that moment, while the time traveller was still trying to rid her mind of images of her lover, that the young HG chose to enter.
Myka hoped that her reddening cheeks could be explained away by embarrassment for their run in the previous evening, and not recognised for her appreciation of Helena's figure in the period dress she wore. Gone were the shirt, waistcoat and trousers that the American loved so much but far from lessening the appeal, Myka found herself imagining the curves that were hidden instead. Oh, this is not a good start, she despaired silently as her gaze made an involuntary sweep and came to rest on dark eyes that sparked with mischief.
Barely hearing Eleanor's suggestion that the inventor should join them, she watched the deliberate sway of Helena's hips as she approached and felt her breath catch.
All of this could not have taken more than a few seconds but it was long enough for a small smirk to appear on the inventor's lips.
As Eleanor had seated herself in the only single chair, HG had no choice but to take the space next to Myka, though the American was certain that Helena sat much closer than she needed to given the width of the couch. Feeling curious eyes on her, Myka shifted, fighting valiantly against a surge of arousal as she turned to meet the supposed stranger.
Helena's elegant hand approached and waited, prompting an automatic response from Myka, who swallowed even harder when her offered appendage was swiftly captured and two soft lips caressed her middle knuckle. "Miss. Helena Wells," HG introduced herself smoothly, the glint still present. "Just to prove that I can be civilised," she added with a glance at her grandmother.
Willing the adolescent within to calm the sudden influx of hormones, Myka recovered her hand and folded it neatly into her lap with its partner, ignoring the tingling where Helena's kiss lingered.
"Myka Bering," the time traveller offered and then, remembering the ruse added, "Mrs."
Helena's expression dismissed the addition; she logged the hesitation as a point of interest and turned to face the elder Wells. "Have you discussed our plan with Mrs. Bering?" Before Eleanor could answer, the inventor returned her gaze to the curly-haired visitor. "Darling, that sounds awfully stuffy; would you mind terribly if I called you Myka? It just rolls off the tongue." She felt those forest green eyes dissecting her and wondered for a split second if she'd taken her bravado too far. A small nod belayed her fears and, bolstered by the small victory, she placed a hand on the brunette's forearm, leaving it there as if it had a mind of its own while she continued. "Thank you." She faced her grandmother again. "Have you discussed our plan with Myka?"
Eleanor mentally shook her head; sometimes she despaired at the lengths her granddaughter would go to spark interest in her prospective paramours, but she admired the girl's tenacity.
It was a curious experience, watching Helena with Myka. There was the usual posturing, the 'accidental' tactile overtures and the polite disregard of social boundaries, all of which could be explained away as simple quirks of character, over friendliness, but there was an underlying tenderness in her Little One that she'd never witnessed before. Helena cared. She trod cautiously to avoid rejection, when normally she would not have given a monkey's. It was subtle but to someone who knew her well, the signs of a deeper attraction were there.
"We were discussing the length of her stay and the steps we must follow to remove her from the grip of our good neighbours' unfettered curiosity, yes." She looked to the woman in question for acknowledgement but received none. She noted the American's slightly glazed expression and hid her smile.
As the regent found humour, Myka battled with her traitorous body. She itched to lean into the figure beside her; this electrical presence that set her pulse racing and her skin tingling. It was like the beginning of Helena's career with Warehouse 13 all over again, only now it was imperative that she didn't give in to temptation. She had been so sure that her previous experience would give her some advantage, protection against the assault on her senses, but it appeared that her hopes had been in vain; she was so used to indulging her need for intimacy with her fiancée that it was taking all of her concentration not to respond.
Realising that Helena's hand had withdrawn, releasing her from its tantalising spell, Myka heard the anticipatory silence and wracked her brain for an answer. "I can't continue to hide," she finally responded, hoping that she was on the right track.
"Precisely," Helena agreed. "But you're not to worry, darling; we have it all under control."
Full of enthusiasm, HG jumped into an explanation of her planned soiree, only occasionally pausing to debate the details with her grandmother when she disagreed with the number of guests or the timing.
Myka listened with half an ear, inordinately thankful for her eidetic memory as she used the time to find the control she needed and imagined the heated conversation she would have with her fiancée when she eventually got home. Helena would have some grovelling to do to apologise for putting her through this torture.
Not sure that I'm entirely happy with how the end of this sounds on paper. I couldn't seem to find the right words, grumble! I'm happy with KAG though :-)