Dora Thayer (singularanomaly) wrote in athensrising, @ 2008-10-25 23:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | alexander bowdoin, dora thayer |
First Impressions (Alec Bowdoin and Dora Thayer)
Who: Alexander Bowdoin and Isadora Thayer
What: A first meeting
Where: The sanctuary and grounds of the Old South Church
When: Noon-ish, Sunday August 21st
Warnings: n/a
Summary: Alec and Dora meet for the first time. Alec is anti-social, Dora extends metaphors. The whole thing...goes as well as can be expected.
The organ at Old South was a glorious thing; it was the only reason Alec kept returning every Sunday. He closed his eyes as he finished the postlude, drawing out the notes until he no longer heard the murmur of congregants, then switched to Bach: first the Kyrie, then Gloria. He felt the rumble of the chords in his feet and his muscles and his chest and he smiled.
“And of course it cannot be said that the match will be undesired…”
“Certainly not, Mrs. Bainbridge!” laughed Mrs. George Hinton Thayer, draining the last of her lemonade with a beatific expression. Dabbing at her mouth with an embroidered handkerchief, she held out her empty glass to the mousy-haired girl beside her, adding as afterthought, “Dora, have that refilled for me, there’s a girl.”
Dora smiled and accepted the glass, turning her back on the gaggle of society matrons as she made her way to the table of refreshments at the back of the church lawn. Had the topic not already been discussed to death, she might have stayed, but the inevitable marriage of the heir to the Saville fortune and the eldest Talbot girl had been an incontrovertible fact in the mind of anyone who was anyone since both parties were in swaddling clothes. It was old news, unhappily brought up again by the fact that both parties were now of marriageable age, as the society pages had been reminding its readers every day for the past six months. Everyone had known it was going to happen, which, in terms of annoyance, was why all the tittering and whispering was multiplied tenfold; it was like exclaiming over a rumour that come the autumn, the leaves on the trees that lined Copley Square would change colour, then wither and die.
She did hope that that would come true sooner than later. They were reaching the end of August, but the heat still remained as stifling as any tropical isle, entirely unhelped by the humidity after last night’s rain. Dora never worked well with extreme temperatures; like everything past moderation, they made her fret and tested her patience. The church might be cooler, though. And it would give her an excuse to escape from the discussion of marriage before her own came into consideration. With this hopeful thought in mind, Dora placed the empty glasses on the table, crossing the lawn to the steps of the Old South Church, where the last few congregants were drifting out as the postlude ended. The church, in all its Gothic Revival glory, was next to empty; but the organist still sat at the bench, playing away as if there was nobody else in the world. She drifted up the aisle by degrees, not chosing any particular pew, but simply listening as she took her chance to admire the empty chapel.
Alec moved from the Mass pieces to one of his favorite Bach sonatas. He flexed his hands, savoring the dance required by the organ: pedal and keys, fingers and foot. Now that there's no congregation for him to deafen, Alec indulged himself. He toyed with the different stops, enjoying the time before Rev Mather ordered him to stop.
After a moment, he stopped on his own. His thoughts circled restlessly and he shifted his posture, slouching a little, stretching his arms, and then he resumed playing. This time, however, he didn't play Bach; instead, he toyed with the strands of a composition, teasing out the melody. The notes, however, didn't ring right and Alec dropped his hands to his thighs. "Blast it," he muttered, and he mussed his hair impatiently before brushing it back in a habitual motion.
Dora, by now, had settled into one of the frontmost pews, idly thumbing through a beat-up Bible. It really was cooler in the church, she thought, running one hand over the oak of the pews as she turned the page of the book in her lap. Her attention was so invested in the words that the music, though resound from starry cupola to familiar floor it did, had faded into the background; she had half-forgotten she was there at all. Her reverie, however, was quickly shattered when the next turning-over of the leaf tore the page from its binding. Dora hissed aloud, clapping the book shut with the offending page in place and then quickly looking back and forth, startled at the sound of her own voice in the empty church. She realized quickly that the music had stopped.
Alec heard the echo and spun on his bench, staring at the offender with a dark frown. "Do you mind?" he asks, trying to sound insulted -- but he's more curious than offended. "Or did I interrupt you?" The woman looked so startled it occured to him that his abrupt stop might have been more distruptive than he thought and he tries to muster some gentlemanly charm. He straightened, squaring his shoulders and attempted a smile. "May I provide some music to help elevate your meditations?"
Dora was fully prepared to make a hasty apology and leave as quickly as possible when the offended organist suddenly changed his tack; all gracious solicitude, as expected of a gentleman in the presence of a lady. He had realized her superficial identity just as she realized that she was sitting in an empty church unchaperoned. It didn't affect her particularly--men and women had been educated side by side at St. Lawrence--but the fact that they happened to be the only two people in the church made her (rather unfairly, she felt) a little uncomfortable. And now he would expect her to leave. The offer was a formality; she would, of course, graciously decline and head back out into the heat and noise. That was how these people operated. "Oh, please, don't trouble yourself--I was just leaving," Dora answered, returning his smile as she replaced the Bible on its shelf in the back of the pew.
Alec nodded brusquely, unsure if he was disappointed or pleased at the woman's impending departure. "You needn't leave if you don't wish," he snapped, the words out before he was aware he had thought them. Immediately he was embarrassed, and he frowned, as if the woman provoked him. He disliked how much he craved an audience and hated it when the need became too apparent. Without a word, he turned back to the organ and resumed playing, uncomfortably aware of how badly this interaction had gone. His only comfort was the knowledge his mates hadn't witnessed this scene; and cheered, he began another Bach sonata. He would have about ten more minutes before Rev Mather chased him out and he intended to enjoy the remaining minutes, aggravating interruptions be damned.
Goodness me, how swiftly the weather changes. "Well, if you want to be alone, I'll let you be," replied Dora in a considerably different tone--not aggressively, but with none of the blushing deference she had displayed previously. She rose from the pew and began to depart up the aisle, secretly exasperated at having to give up the cool and solitary (well, relatively solitary) sanctuary for the bustling outside world. No matter. All respite had to come to an end eventually--she only wished it hadn't been so soon. She might have been able to fix that book, had she had a little more time. No matter how banal the contents, Dora believed that books, like people, deserved to be clean and well-outfitted; to see it in such a shabby state always awakened a spring-cleaning instinct in her. They could buy a new one, but it would be a terrible waste. She would have to speak to the Reverend...
Alec allowed himself a glance over his shoulder and he hated the bitter disappointment he felt when he noticed the young woman had left. He told himself he was just out of sorts because of the start of the new semester, but he suddenly didn't want to play the organ any longer. Confused by the strange feeling in his chest, he slipped off the bench and covered the keys, then walked behind to the steam-powered bellows to shut them off. To talk well and eloquently is a very great art, but an equally great one is to know the right moment to stop. The quote, by his hero Mozart, floated into his head and he turned it over. Should he find the woman and apologise? What did he have to apologise for? But he knew he had been rude -- in a church, on a Sunday, to a young woman -- and so he stalked down the center aisle of the church, buttoning his jacket. Outside, the bright splash of sunlight blinded him and he stopped to wait for his eyes to adjust. For a moment, he wondered if he would even be able to identify the woman if he saw her, and the defeated feeling returned. "Blast it," he muttered again.
The two glasses, Dora noticed, had been swiped from under her nose when she had slipped inside the church. A glance over her shoulder, though, told her that her mother had refilled her own glass, and--as she caught the widow's eye--that she would be audience to a lecture on Neglecting One's Social Duties once Davies came round with the carriage. Had she known that Dora had been neglecting said duties to pursue a short-lived, unchaperoned non-conversation with the church organist (who could well have been engaged, for all she knew; though he had the carriage of a brittle old man, he looked far too young to be married) she wasn't sure what her mother's reaction would be. Outward disapproval, most likely; but she would be sure to ask his name, his age, how she liked his looks, and all-importantly whether or not she had gotten his card. Her mother would tell her again that she had impossible standards. Personally Dora thought that mutual respect, similar worldviews, and some degree of intelligence was not so unreasonable a wish--but until that day came, if it came at all, Dora was happy to be unattached. She hadn't gotten his card, and even if she had, it wouldn't really matter. If she played her cards right, she would be far too busy working for the gentleman from Grantmore University in the future, and therefore be able to neglect her social duties to her heart's content. Dora refilled her glass with this happy thought in mind, smiling as she replaced the ladle in the bowl and turned to face the assembly.
It was a mistake to have walked outside: now he was faced with the milling crowd of church goers and he ducked his head, embarrassed. His hat was still inside the church -- thus barring his escape -- and he debated turning on his heel to return to the cool shadows of the sanctuary. But pride kept him from making a cowardly retreat and instead he stalked over to the table of refreshments. From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother gesturing at him and he groaned inwardly. That was the last thing he wanted; the absolutely worst way to conclude his morning.
Pointedly pretending not to see her, Alec studied the collection of tea sandwiches as if the plates featured a fascinating phyllum of sea creature. After a moment, he cautiously lifted his head and tried to discreetly observe the crowd, searching for the woman.
No shade, no silence, and no privacy. Such, she reflected as she sank into a wicker chair at the edge of the assembly with a glass of watery lemonade, was the experience of any given individual put up on the public stage, with the limelight constantly burning above their heads. Though happy at getting something out of the dismal situation, Dora mentally dissected the metaphor, vaguely wondering if it was too deriviative of Shakespeare. Jaques' speech in As You Like It had been burned into the public consciousness--but it stuck, she supposed, because it was true. Society's elite were the gods and heroes of the modern age, their exploits and follies passed down by word of mouth, each retelling distorted until even the loyal scribes of these gilded archetypes, hiding behind false names and coy, dash-ridden prose, could not discern truth from fiction. Merely players...the heroes of the story refrained from commenting, of course--they could not contradict the people who made them who they appeared to be. One could not interrogate someone who may have never existed...yes, yes, that was interesting, astute. Something could come of it. Dora made a mental note to copy this down the moment she got home--the effect of being created in the public conciousness, the degree to which public mystique was attached to private persona. Dora positively itched for a notebook, but that would have to wait--Mother would want to stay for the next twenty minutes at least, and she would be expected to make conversation to appease her. Not yet, though. Not yet.
Alec spotted the woman taking a seat near a group of matrons, unfamiliar to him, and he shuffled a moment in place, trapped between the table of refreshments and his mother. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her gesture at him again -- and that made his mind up. Stiffly, he stalked over to the woman from earlier, bobbing his head in greeting even though she wasn't looking at him, and awkwardly he cleared his throat, trying to get her attention.
"It was cooler inside." Alec tried to pitch his voice low, a desperate attempt to minimize who heard his inane observation. But it still came out like an accusation and Alec huffed impatiently, wishing he had just gone over to his mother. But now he was exposed, so he continued: "Rather warm for autumn."
Dora turned in the direction of the voice, looking--to some astonishment--up into the scowling face of the organist. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt; she was aware that her mother had begun to regard her curiously. Her cheeks burned, both with realizing that he would probably expect an apology for having his free time interrupted (a break from the public stage--oh, Go--er, goodness, what had she done?) and that, mid-epiphany as she was, she had not heard a single deuced word he'd said. "I...I beg your pardon?" Dora answered weakly, fighting the temptation to claim a headache and run back to the carriage.
"I said--" Was this woman deaf in addition to being infuriating? "Rather warm for autumn." Alec spoke through clenched teeth, desperate to minimise the increasingly embarrassing moment, and he glowered at the woman as if she had approached him. There was an awkward pause, and then he growled: "Ask me to sit." The pressure of a dozen curious eyes was making him feel dizzy: it was one thing to be watched while he played but it was another thing entirely to be stared down while making polite conversation. His poor decision -- approaching an unknown woman -- was growing into an epically disastrous social situation. He prayed Allaster wouldn't hear of this or he wouldn't hear the end of it.
"Alec Bowdoin." He made a cursory bow and stared at the woman, silently begging her to relieve his embarrassment. "Alexander, actually--" Dear God, was he really blathering on so idiotically? He finished limply "--but everyone calls me Alec," and waited miserably.
This was becoming ridiculous. She was perfectly willing to apologize if that was what he wanted, but to go about it in such a roundabout way was making the situation far more uncomfortable than it needed to be, and putting them both through a world of unnecessary torture.
"Ask me to sit." "Without even a by-your-leave!" muttered Mrs Atford behind her palm fan. The gallery of wittering hens were taking umbrage. One of the main drawbacks to the public stage was that one's audience was frequently vocal, especially when it was not required of them. Once the ordeal was over, she would have their sympathy whether she wanted it or not. Dora put on her most civil face and gestured to the chair beside her. "Isadora Thayer. Do sit down, Mr Bowdoin," she replied, praying that the situation was resolved as quickly as possible--she just might have that headache after all.
Alec dropped to the empty seat with relief, schooling himself to refrain from glaring at the staring matrons. "Miss Thayer," he murmured, simply to fill the silence, and he struggled to think of something to say. His mother was staring at him, disbelief and irritation playing across her face, and he made a low grumbling noise. He'll hear about this tonight, he thought, and embarrassed, he pretended to brush something off his trousers.
"Are you related to--" He tried to recall a Thayer, any Thayer, just someone they could talk about, but no one came to mind. "I actually don't know any Thayers," he concluded miserably. He wished he had a glass of lemonade to sip on, to occupy his hands; really, he wished he remained in the church and without meaning to, he gave the woman another dark glare. Blasted women. Allaster would probably have her roaring with laughter and he tried to imagine what his friend would do in this situation. But he could think of nothing -- amusing or otherwise -- and he frowned.
Dora wished he'd stop looking at her like that. It was very warm and she was trying to be patient. It was not her fault that he didn't know any Thayers--the Back Bay Thayers were herself and her mother, and the Georgia branch of the family she wouldn't expect anyone in Boston to know. "My father, Captain Thayer, served the Union during the war," Dora replied quietly. "And we are related to the Manhattan Haldimands on my mother's side..." She dropped a crumb of knowledge in his path, hoping--if nothing else--that it would stop him from glowering at her so. "Rather obscure otherwise, I'm afraid." She smiled, hoping she appeared civil and demure rather than like someone attempting to conceal the fact that their blood pressure was rapidly increasing.
"Reverend Mather speaks very well." He did, frankly--he was always careful not to let his sermons go on too long, and he appeared to genuinely care about what he was speaking about rather than how he presented himself, and while Dora did not know him well, she respected him. "The quality of mercy," she added in an attempt at wit--the sermon had been on the nature of mercy, and Portia's speech had been running through her head the entire time--"is not strained."
"It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven/Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes," Alec continued, feeling rather pleased. There: Allaster wasn't the only man who could quote poetry on command. But the woman, rather than appearing impressed, seemed only impatient and Alec brushed his trousers again, stymied. What did she expect?
He tried another tack. "Manhattan," he echoed politely, then offered what he hoped was a friendly smile. "My close friend Allaster Holt is from New York. Do you know the Holts?" Immediately he regretted asking: the last thing he wanted to hear was an exuberant speech on the charms of Allaster Holt and his sisters.
"Holt, Holt..." Dora repeated, attempting to recall the name. The Thayers were aware of the existence of the family, of course, but Brahmins would never dream of descending so low as to speak to anyone associated with the Confederate, even if said "yellow-bellies" were attached to the New York Haldimands by blood and the Boston von Stadts (old Dutch merchant stock seemed to make up the bulk of the upper tier) by marriage. She wondered how Beatrice was faring--she was five months into her fourth confinement now, and her eldest had just been sent off to school. A good place for him, frankly; he caused poor Bea no end of trouble, and she was so soft-hearted she would continue to indulge him no matter how he made her fret. "I can't say we do," she answered, partly to spare her mother the embarassment--she had invited the Holts to four seperate functions, and all of those invitations had been declined.
Dora smiled in acknowledgement of the reference. "It is important to forgive others their trespasses," she commented, though, frankly, Shylock had gotten the book thrown back at him--the comment was meant for a different stage, a sort of peace offering, a declaration of a temporary truce between North and South.
Well, at least he was smiling.
Sitting, as they were, in the direct sunlight only served to increase Alec's discomfort; he shifted uncomfortably in his chair and kept his smile frozen on his face. But the woman's mention of forgiveness gave him pause and he stared at her, nodding his head mutely. "Yes," he agreed, baffled by her meaning. "It's the...Christian thing to do." He was floundering, he knew, but he couldn't ascertain how to right himself. A quick exit would be humiliating but he was at a loss for how to proceed. "Well, Miss Thayer," he started, giving her another stiff smile, "it was a pleasure." Alec frowned as he spoke: it indeed sounded as if he were excusing himself. "I shouldn't take up more of your time..." The words drifted off as he waited for her response.
"Quite," Dora replied, though she was not altogether sure he had caught what she had meant. She took a sip of her lemonade, by now lukewarm--the sourness, undiluted by ice, was much more apparent now, forcing her to wince as she swallowed.
"Are you leaving, Mr. Bowdoin? How unfortunate." Her voice was carefully nonchalant as she studied her glass, wondering whether she would drink the rest or not. Dora was privately a touch miffed that he would leave her to their mercy without first redeeming himself in full, but he was uncomfortable, that much was clear--it would be merciful to let him go. It wasn't as if they'd ever see one another outside of church.
"Yes, I wouldn't presume to take up any more of your time," Alec growled, unsure about why her disinterest bothered him so. "Surely you and your mother," and he canted his head toward the watchful group of matrons, smiling stiffly, "have other acquaintances to greet." He stood, smoothing the wrinkles out of his jacket, and nodded once more.
"Miss Thayer, perhaps I might have the pleasure of calling on you sometime?" The words were out before he could stop himself and Alec knew he didn't disguise the surprise on his own face. Automatically he clenched his teeth, trying to force his expression into something more neutral before he further humiliated himself. He was behaving quite shockingly; now he had to pretend his mad request was intentional.
Well, what was she supposed to say? Dreadfully sorry, we're already entertaining "sometime", perhaps we can work you in before hell freezes over? I'm afraid not; we've already filled our roster of tedious male callers and are not currently accepting any more? Very well, but I warn you, the house has been destroyed in a mysterious flood and we will not be able to serve a proper meal until some sort of Ark is built?
"We'd be delighted, Mr. Bowdoin," Mrs. Thayer spoke up, ignoring the expression of shock on the faces of both parties. The hens were rumbling contentedly; this was how it was supposed to go, brooding Mr. Darcy drawn to Lizzy Bennet and her "fine eyes", the hearts of Rochester and Jane Eyre connected by a string, indifference and hostility giving way to inexplicable affection. Just as it should be.
Dora was ready to die.
"Would you give us your card?" Mrs. Thayer enquired.
He could see his mother sitting, if it were possible, even more stiffly; she likely heard every word of this humiliating transaction which meant he would hear about it later. But he tried to keep all this from showing: he smiled politely at Mrs Thayer and nodded once more. Reaching into his vest pocket, Alec extracted one of the cream-colored paperboard cards. His full name -- Alexander Bowdoin -- was engraved in a small, precise font as custom dictated. The Bowdoin men favored a cleanly designed card -- no flourishes, no scalloped edges, no additional embellishments -- and Alec offered it to Mrs Thayer with a small bow.
"I look forward to it," he pronounced through clenched teeth, taking a modicum of pleasure at the thought that Miss Thayer looked as unhappy as he felt.
"As do we, Mr. Bowdoin," Julia Thayer beamed, registering nothing but civility in the tone of his voice. She took the gentleman's card, exchanging it for a cream-and-blue one---Mrs. G. H. Thayer, Miss Isadora Thayer, 156 Beacon Street, etc.--with an illustration of a languid-eyed, beribboned soubrette admiring her reflection in the corner. Her hand was laid atop her daughter's, a subtle remprimand against any sort of faux pas, which certainly included throttling her mother where she sat. Dora smiled at them both, her eyes reflecting all the serenity she did not feel.
"As do we."