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In which there be dragons, and ginger cats
(February, 1815)
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By all accounts, the Baroness Greengrass should never have been considered a great beauty.
Her features were too bold, her mouth too wide, eyes too large and intelligent. She was shapely, no doubt of that — soft and full and lush, not a straight line or harsh angle about her — but her shoulders were wider than her hips, and she was just a little too tall for comfort.
There was a boldness about her without saying a word (but then, to make matters worse, she had several of those as well).
In a world where ladies were all the more remarkable for their ability to be ignored, Lady Greengrass had been born saying, I'll have no part of that, thank you.
It might be argued that Lady Greengrass was simply made handsomer by virtue of her wealth. But her younger sisters were possessed of the same wealth, and yet neither of them had been the recipient of quite as much admiration as Lady Greengrass had, back when she was Miss Vivian Clearwater — even though Miss Penelope Clearwater was a great deal more accomplished and Miss Audrey Clearwater had a far sweeter temperament.
Nor had any of that admiration waned after Lord Greengrass had taken her off the market.
Or, more precisely, she'd lost the admiration of one person: Lord Greengrass.
(In his defence, he couldn't very well desire his wife, for God's sake. There were women meant for pleasure and women meant for having your (legitimate) children, and who knew what madness might come from mixing the two?
(Truthfully, he'd been more than a little horrified at how eager and willing he'd found her in the beginning. But alas, there was no returning her, and anyway she and her sizable dowry were perfectly good jewels in his crown, for he wasn't a total fool — he could see how the ton were brought to their figurative knees by the enchanting baroness.
(He simply didn't know that on occasion she brought some of them to their literal knees as well.)
Had Lord Greengrass stopped to think about the matter for more than five seconds, he might have suspected that his wife had a string of lovers; but even then, he'd have cared very little, as long as she didn't publicly embarrass him. Besides, he had his own extracurriculars to be getting on with.
Lord and Lady Greengrass had two children, a girl and a boy. Once the requisite heir had been produced, Lord Greengrass's five-minute visits to her ladyship's bedchamber had greatly diminished in frequency. They still happened once in a while, because it would be nice to have a spare boy (just in case; things do happen). But for the most part they'd settled into an — if not pleasant, then — tolerable indifference.
But Lady Greengrass had never harboured any expectation of affection from her husband, a man a good fifteen years her senior. She'd entered into this arrangement for no reason more or less than that her parents had decided it should be so.
Mr Clearwater had made his fortune in trade — manufacturing, to be precise — and had brought up his daughters to be ladies. And ladies they were, absolutely unparalleled, and fetchingly rich. But they were still grown from a different sort of soil to the rest of high society, and not everyone were willing to attach themselves to those sorts of relatives. It had been imperative, therefore, that Vivian marry well, to pave the way for Penelope and Audrey.
That plan had turned out… interestingly, to say the least.
And when the Honourable Draco Malfoy arrived in London and came to call upon Lord Greengrass's youngest sister, the Honourable Astoria Greengrass, Astoria waited impatiently for Lady Greengrass to go out for the day, before breaking the exciting news.
"We are soon to have a guest," she informed him in significant tones, her petite frame perched on the edge of a green velvet chaise longue.
"Oh?" Draco looked up from an indifferent study of his fingernails as he lounged upon a gold brocade armchair with an artful carelessness. "Whom?"
Astoria dropped her voice to an unnecessary whisper. "Vivian's younger sister. Miss Penelope Clearwater."
Draco failed to see what was so gripping about a visit from a merchant's daughter.
When he affected a look of as much curiosity he could muster, Astoria realised, "Oh, but perhaps you haven't heard yet!"
"Of course he won't have heard," remarked her elder sister Daphne, who was also present in the drawing room, without looking up from a copy of La Belle Assemblée. "Do you think it's the sort of thing Vivian would flaunt about?"
Astoria shot her sister a look of annoyance. Daphne (more formally, the Honourable Mrs Warrington), was of a similar age to Vivian, not yet four and twenty — and had been already married and already widowed (and much richer for it). But Astoria was nineteen and had been out for one season, and therefore she knew everything.
"Well, everyone will know practically within a day of her arrival," reasoned Astoria. She turned her attention back to Draco. "Miss Penelope's parents are sending her here to find a husband after her own engagement was broken off not six months ago after a tremendous family scandal!"
Draco's gaze shifted to Astoria once more, still coolly but a little sharper this time. He and Astoria had something of an informal understanding between them, highly encouraged by their families. So the respectability of the Greengrasses' connections were entirely of concern to him.
"Scandal?" he echoed.
"Yes. She was all set to marry — a very suitable gentleman. And as it is, you know, she's quite on the shelf now — "
"She isn't on the shelf," interposed Daphne. "She's two and twenty."
Astoria ignored her. "And the other sister, Miss Audrey, she was engaged as well. It was all settled! And then, a month before the wedding, she ran off! Ran off in the dead of night!"
"How on earth would you know it was the dead of night?" scoffed Daphne, still without looking up from her magazine.
"Well, when else would you do it?"
"Who ran off?" Draco interjected sharply, waving his hand to draw attention back to the subject.
"Miss Audrey," said Astoria.
"Ran off where?"
Astoria rolled her eyes. "Where do you think girls go when they run away from home? Scotland, of course! To marry someone her parents didn't approve of, obviously."
"Marry whom?"
Astoria shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know. They never did find her, apparently."
Draco's face was a picture of genteel, stony outrage.
"And she's coming here?" he clarified.
"Miss Penelope, yes. Because of course her intended wouldn't have her after what Miss Audrey did."
"She's coming here?" he repeated, pointing to the floor.
"Yes, for the marriage mart. She's quite desperate, I think, though I suppose she does at least still have her dowry — "
"In this house?" Draco demanded.
"Draco, do keep up," quipped Daphne.
He scowled at her. "It isn't funny! The sister of a common harlot will be staying in this house? With you? And paraded about society by your sister-in-law?"
"Oh, for God's sake, Draco," Daphne sighed in exasperation. "Have a drink."
"Don't tell me you condone this!" Draco looked disgusted. "She'll ruin you by association alone!"
Astoria's bright green eyes widened. In her eagerness to involve herself in the thrilling drama, she had not considered this potential reaction.
Daphne, however, looked supremely unconcerned as she went back to her reading.
"I am a rich widow," she said. "There is nothing to ruin. And I am quite content."
"And Astoria?" challenged Draco.
Daphne looked at him sharply. "Astoria is the wealthy, beautiful daughter of a peer, and for every man who finds fault with her there are twenty more who would step over his dead body to marry her."
Then she went back to her magazine, adding lightly, "For whatever that information may be worth to you."
Draco flushed a faint pink, drumming his fingers sullenly on the arm of his chair.
"And anyway," offered Astoria in an effort to smooth this over, "it won't matter, will it, once Miss Penelope is married in the end?"
"What if she isn't?" countered Draco.
"She will be," assured Daphne.
"How can you be so certain?" he argued. "Scores of ladies far younger than she end the season without offers every year."
"Scores of ladies don't have ten thousand pounds. And you may pretend to be as scandalised as you like, but in the end you are all the same. Mr Fordyce himself would have married a light-skirt if he'd got ten thousand pounds out of it," scoffed Daphne. "And if they do have fortunes and they leave without engagements, it's because they had ideas above their station and failed to manage their expectations. I'm given to understand that Miss Penelope is not so unreasonable."
Her lips curved in a sly smile.
"And if all else fails, perhaps Vivian may take her to the seaside in August. There are sure to be scores of lonely officers there! My, wouldn't that be droll?" she suggested innocently. "A sailor in the family!"
Then she sat back in her chair and watched Draco's head positively explode.
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His first year in command of the HMS Dracaena, Captain Charles Weasley had sworn that no woman would ever board his ship. Not because of superstition or because he thought them a nuisance or even a distraction (after all, he'd never found them so, not particularly), but for the simple fact, he'd said, that if any lady were injured or killed under his command it was a mark his soul could not bear.
But Charlie Weasley, though he'd never felt a tendre for any person in all his life, was not heartless after all, and he was moved by Lieutenant Vance's earnest, impassioned plea not to leave his wife ashore upon their next excursion. Vance was a good lieutenant, and if he said Mrs Vance was capable and prepared to withstand the rigours of the sea then Charlie had no choice but to believe him, and yes, it was true that many other captains and commanders allowed it.
Still, Charlie had said no.
Then a week before they set sail, Mrs Vance had stormed into the inn where Charlie was quartered, informing him that it was outrageous that she should not accompany her husband whilst in service of King and Country, and if she wanted to risk life and limb to do so, that was her own deuced business!
Charlie had blinked twice, decided he liked Mrs Vance, and welcomed her aboard.
And Mrs Vance proved herself a worthy seafarer indeed, and — at least at the conclusion of this particular voyage — he'd be depositing her back on English soil in one piece.
But.
As it turned out, Mrs Vance did like to pester him about finding a Mrs Weasley. In any port. She'd have settled for a mermaid by now if they'd seen one.
"Are you glad to be home at last, Captain?" she asked when she found him on the forecastle that afternoon.
Charlie smiled, arms resting upon the bulwark, gazing at the horizon where landfall was just visible by the waning greyish light.
"I am home." He tapped his heel demonstratively upon the deck.
"But it will be nice to have some new society, at least for a little while?"
"Oh, surely not," he said wryly. "Yours is all I need."
"Ha!"
"I think you'd be surprised, actually. I love a good dance as much as the next person! And I clean up quite passably, if you believe what my mother says."
Mrs Vance laughed. "I have no doubt! Well, now that you know the sea deities won't strike you down for bringing a woman aboard, perhaps this time your dancing may become something more!"
"Oh, Mrs Vance, shh!" Charlie protested. He tapped his heel upon the wooden planks again and grinned conspiratorially. "She's jealous."
He looked out over the water once more. A breeze ruffled his hair — lighter than any of his brothers' thanks to years on deck in the sun.
"But you know what I will be glad of when we go ashore?" he offered fairly.
"What?"
"New jokes! One does tire of hearing the same ones for months on end!"
Thunder rumbled in the distance and Charlie glanced up at the thickening clouds.
"If you'll excuse me, Mrs Vance. I'd like to see if we can beat the storm."
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"A duke was driving one day through the village near his estate, when he saw a young man who bore him such a striking resemblance, it was like looking into a mirror. The duke stopped and said, 'You there! Was your mother ever a servant at my family's estate?' The man said, 'No, Your Grace. But my father was.'"
Fred strolled along the front line of the forty-two men of his company assembled at attention, a devilish smile on his face as he looked for any signs of laughter on theirs.
They'd come dangerously close to embarrassing themselves and him the previous day when a couple of them had barely contained inappropriate laughter whilst assembled with the rest of the regiment.
Fred stopped before a soldier who was biting his lower lip in the front line.
For a moment Fred just stood with his arms crossed, smirking at him whilst he battled to keep his face under control, which was difficult with Fred staring him down with an infectious smile.
"Do you find me funny, Jemison?"
"No, sir."
Fred stared a little more closely, and Jemison let out a little burst of something that might have been a cough but wasn't.
"Tsk." Fred sent a long look up to the sky, where the clouds had grown darker and the sprinkling of rain coming down was promising to become a steady drizzle.
"I must be candid with you all," he said, strolling back the other direction. "When the Major repeatedly said 'toss off' when 'cast off' or some such thing would have done perfectly — " He turned his head to catch a man called Barnes in the second row beginning to laugh — "did I find it funny? Yes, in point of fact, I did. However, the Major did not. You are fortunate that he only caught Anderson's company and not you. Or you thought you were fortunate.
"But now, I'm going to have to tell you the dirtiest jokes I can think of, and we are all going to stand here in the rain until I've been satisfied that Jemison and Barnes have learnt to control themselves.
"So, then: A soldier, a sailor, and a vicar…"
The sky was coming down in earnest by the time he'd dismissed them and returned to the inn where he was quartered, looking very much like a drowned ginger cat. A lone officer he did not recognise gave him an amused look.
"Drilling," Fred explained cheerfully as he passed by. But then he stopped and turned. "I don't believe we've met."
"We have not." The officer was easy in his deportment, his complexion deep and rich as blackwood, his hair short and tapered in sections.
"Lieutenant Jordan," he introduced himself. "I come to you from the 24th Regiment."
"Weasley. I expect you're to command Carmichael's company."
"That I don't know. I meet with the Major tomorrow."
"Well, if there's anything I can do to be of service. If it's amusing, anyway — if it isn't, bother Anderson." Fred flashed a grin.
"But for now," he added, glancing over his waterlogged self, "if you'll excuse me."
Jordan nodded and Fred headed for stairs, where he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Welcome to the 32nd, Jordan."
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Mr and Mrs Elliot, of Rosehill Manor in Wiltshire, were proud to say that they were perfectly respectable, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything revolutionary, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense —
"Checking that it's still all there?"
The lady jumped upon hearing her mother's voice from the doorway, and set aside the pages of the manuscript she held in her hands, smiling sheepishly. She wasn't certain what exactly she was doing. Assuring herself that it was all still there was a distinct possibility. Ever since she'd finished writing it out, not a day had gone by that she hadn't checked or rechecked some part of it — occasionally striking out or adding a word, but more often simply reading (though she'd committed it all to heart by now).
Her mother smiled.
"You've had a letter," she said, holding it out.
The young authoress accepted it, turning it over in her hand; she did not recognise the pen in which it was addressed. Breaking apart the seal, she bent her head over the letter, her lips moving silently.
"It's from Miss McKinnon!" she exclaimed, glancing up at her mother before looking to the letter again. Her hair, thick and unruly, was pinned up haphazardly, and she brushed back the wayward strands that fell across her eyes. "The lady Mr Lupin wrote of! She invites me to London, to stay with her as her lady's companion for the season. At her home in… Mayfair! My, she must be very rich…"
"Something the matter, dear?" asked her mother, noting the slight frown that had appeared on her face.
The younger woman sighed, sinking back onto the chair next to her writing desk. "I… I had no thought of going amongst fashionable society. My goodness, what would I even do? Can you imagine how dreadfully boring?"
"Boring? Why, didn't you enjoy yourself when you visited your aunt last year? You attended so many assemblies and parties then, many of them very fine."
"Yes, but not like this. This is… this is where peers live! And what business have I being companion to a lady who lives in… Berkeley Square or some such place?"
"Mr Lupin would not have recommended you if he had not thought you fit for such a role. You may have access to places you've never dreamed of. Didn't you want to meet great, learned minds?"
The young lady scoffed. "Great, learned minds who believe females should do nothing but sew, sing, and give parties."
An overly-fluffy orange cat bunted his head against her ankles, and she picked him up and set him on her lap.
"What do you think?" She allowed him to sniff the letter. "She says she'll give me an allowance of seven crowns a week — that's quite generous! Though — " she smiled wryly — "I suspect I'll need all of it for gowns I'll be fit to be seen in."
Then she yanked the letter away from the cat, who had decided it looked like something he ought to try eating.
"I'm sure many of your dresses will do the job just fine," said her mother, "but certainly you should have a few new things as well. Just think it over. It's a very good opportunity."
Then she left her daughter to her private contemplation.
The young woman scratched the ginger cat under his chin.
"Well," she sighed, turning back to her desk, "I suppose the book isn't going to take itself to London and find a publisher, is it — No, Crookshanks!"
She swept up a crow feather quill the cat had just started to bat about with one of his paws.
Her mother was right. It would be ridiculous to say no. There would be concerts and galleries — and libraries! And she did like parties and dancing much more than she'd thought she might, a couple of years earlier.
And Mr Lupin had said he would spend some time in London during the season as well. Perhaps she could even get some studies in!
She set Crookshanks on the floor, and before she began writing her response to Miss McKinnon she straightened the pages of the manuscript and tucked it safely into a wooden box, the title page staring up proudly in neat, careful handwriting.
A Woman of Letters:
A Novel
by
Hermione Granger
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Notes:
La Belle Assemblée - a ladies' magazine during this time period
James Fordyce was a Scottish clergyman who wrote Sermons to Young Women, which preached about virtue and meekness, etc. (It's what Mr Collins was really enthusiastic to read to the Bennet sisters in P&P.)
Fred has just told a centuries-old "your mom" joke. :D
I'm sure you recognise the opening lines of Hermione's manuscript as a bastardised version of the opening lines of HP & the Sorcerer's Stone.