who: Ethan Chandler & Charlotte Wells when: June 13th & 14th where: Briefly the Resettlement Bureau, mostly Charlotte Wells' residence What: Ethan returns to Tumbleweed and in the midst of trying to wrap his mind around things, is pulled into the home of Charlotte Wells for her gathering. warnings: References to Charlotte's profession but otherwise nah? status: COMPLETE.
It was near dusk when he'd finally ventured away from the Bureau. He'd been warned prior to departing that the town had changed some since he'd last resided here but the warning hadn't been adequate enough. Stepping away from the base, he'd actually come to a complete stop as he'd looked out ahead of him. Though he'd only been to the military base once prior, his recollection of events when he was of sound mind was always strong, and the scenery did not match up with memory. If he'd not have been warned, he would have thought this was an entirely different town and the circumstances were only similar. Of course, he did not doubt the informants at the Bureau. They'd not steered him wrong previously. This was Tumbleweed, Texas and instead of being the year 2017, he was now in 2018.
His immediate question had been simple.
'Miss Ives?'
And he'd had a sense of dread as he waited for the answer. The person who was getting him up to speed, preparing his tablet and setting up his accounts, did not seem to understand the gravity of the answer. It was given with just a negative shake of the head before holding out the items to him. He'd taken in a breath, nodded his head in return, and refused to display any of the emotion that the answer had summoned up within him.
Moving from the Bureau, he'd gone off in no particular direction. A key to a generic apartment had been given to him. He didn't feel like rushing to find the dwelling just yet. Instead, he chose to walk through the town, which had undeniably grown in scope. Buildings were out of place. He recognized street names from his time before but they weren't in the same locations that they'd once been. It felt impossible to try to find the street where Malcolm Murray's house had once been transported in time. And if he were to find it? It would be as empty was it was in his own time. He doubted the Bureau would have been unaware to its reappearance.
There was no point in searching for it.
Continuing to move through the streets, occasionally his gaze would move to examine the new locations of the ever expanding town. He was doing this now, as he walked slowly through the street, eyes transfixed off to the side at one house in particular, where he could hear the distinct sounds of laughter and voices culminating together. A small smile formed. He might be alone, in a Century not his own, but life still went on and for some reason, this was a small comfort to be reminded of.
It was a handsome brick house with large keystone windows that let plenty of light in. Unlike the other buildings lit with electricity, this one cast warm candle light through its windows. The front doors were unlocked though there was no doorman to speak of. Charlotte hadn’t hired one and though she made playing the hostess look effortless, it was one long hustle.
The newest arrival seemed different. He did not come in with the same look of curiosity or expectation that others did. If anything, his arrival seemed random.
“Are you lost, sir?” While that might have been a polite dismissal from most houses, Charlotte was quick to put a glass of wine in his hand and make him right at home, with a hand to his arm as though determining if he were alright. Her eyes looked him up and down not for injuries, but an evaluation of a different sort.
“Perhaps you’d like to wash up before you join us,” she offered. It was not an insult, but a chance to give him a moment to himself if he desired.
Ethan hadn't expected an invitation into the home. Even more so, he hadn't expected a home that was reminiscent in feel to the dwellings he'd previously resided in. Though not unfamiliar with electricity, the candle light was something of a comfort. Eyes had shifted to the woman, who was quick to his side with a glass, and his gaze flicked up to look upon her. "In a manner of speaking," he replied.
He let his gaze move from her towards the entrance of the house, still picking up sounds of those in her company, before he looked to her once again. "I didn't mean to intrude, Miss," he said now, eyes looking down at the glass for a moment, before his hand reached out to offer it back to her should she like. "I was just getting myself reacquainted with the neighborhood."
“Then you are no intruder,” Charlotte said warmly. “I have recently arrived here myself, and have made it my goal to acquaint myself with my circumstances quickly. Take your time. There is no rush. Miss Charlotte Wells. I can’t promise to be polite company, but I will do my best to be memorable.”
She glanced from the party to a stairway where the bedrooms were. Deciding not to throw him immediately to the wolves, she slipped her arm in his and guided him upstairs. “No doubt, some of the guests will be passed out by the end of the night. It makes no difference to me if you do the same. Just for the evening. And if you’re interested in a wager, we will be playing a friendly game of cards soon.”
"Is that so?" He inquired, the apprehension seeming to fade, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to dissipate. "Well, Miss Wells, the names Ethan Chandler and I can't say I am much of polite company myself."
He moved up the stairwell with her. He wasn't sure if he would take her up on the offer to freshen up or not. His attention kept drawing back towards the chatter that was now below them. "I'd not want to impose. I'll make my way out with the rest of your guests," he stated, firmly, before looking to her and giving a slight smile. "Seems I arrived at the perfect time."
There was a very purposeful layout to the home, common among houses of ill repute where the bedrooms were lined up just so upstairs, with spaces for socializing and entertaining downstairs. Easy to overlook to the modern eye where such places were no longer common, but not subtle to those from a bygone era.
“I do have rooms available, if you’re in need of one. The rates are reasonable,” Charlotte said. “Come down and join us, when you’re ready, Mr. Chandler. Take the time you need.”
"The welcome wagon set me up, but I'll keep that in mind, Miss Wells," he replied before nodding his head in response. "Thank you," he added on before moving to take advantage of her hospitality, shutting the door behind him. The layout of the house hadn't gone amiss to Mr. Chandler. Eventually, he made his way back down stairs, weaving into the open space with his wine glass in hand.
It wasn't precisely the way he'd expected his night to turn, but being in mixed company with conversation and spirits was far preferable to dealing with the reality of being in this foreign time alone. He didn't leap into the stakes at the card table and instead hovered around the fringes, spectating with a glass occasionally raised to his lips. He gave a hearty laugh as a good natured sport was just beginning to pull on a corset over his frame.
Charlotte had to assist each time some new layer was put on. She didn’t seem to give much care to the things in her home. She certainly wasn’t prudent with the wine, nor with the expensive dresses she’d hung around the home like taxidermied skins. The party was a way of airing the house out, of destroying everything Mrs. Quigley had built on the backs of other women. And maybe she relished a little, each time one of the dresses had something spilled upon it or tore, hidden under the warm, understanding smile of a hostess.
It was when helping someone at the poker table with a wig that she spotted Mr. Chandler, smiled directly at him and winked. She was talented at giving each guest several moments in the night of feeling like they were her favorite, that out of everyone that attended they were the one she was glad to see. In Mr. Chandler’s case it was partially true, she was thankful he had somewhere to go being newly arrived.
And as needed, she was always there to direct her guests to more alcohol.
Ethan was being observant even as he relished in the delights that he'd stumbled into. He was thankful for the revelry, the company, and the spirits. But that didn't mean that he didn't take into account the sort of house he'd stepped into paired along with the manner of which the possessions were being aired out. The garments were out and in use for the entire host of people at the party. It didn't seem to matter the size or frame of the person that had found themselves in the misfortune of having bad luck at the card table. Ethan suspected that if the wardrobe were truly treasured, they would have been treated as such. He didn't know what Miss Wells' true goal was but he got the impression that she didn't seem too upset with how the value of the garments were being lowered with each passing hand.
This observation was held back for the present, something to take into consideration for a later point in the coming hours, but he caught her smile and lifted his glass, a half smirk being offered in her direction as way of gratitude.
And while it hadn't been intention to remain the night, this was what had occurred. He did not drink so heavily that he couldn't function but by the time he'd have considered leaving it was well into the early morning. There was an unspoken comfort of sleeping in a bed that was familiar to the sort he'd had in his own time. He didn't relish the idea of sleeping on one of the modern mattresses in a lifeless room.
Slipping from the room the next day, he wore the same garments as the prior night and slipped downstairs, listening out for Miss Wells. She was new to him but he was really rather good at identifying people by the sound of their movements and he'd made observations after all.
Charlotte was in the common spaces, cleaning up from the night before, picking up bottles and glasses. She didn’t have the money for a housemaid and really there wasn’t an need to make the home instantly presentable here. There were no culls knocking on her door. She didn’t know how things were done here, but she would be satisfied if they never knocked on Mrs. Quigley’s door ever again.
She separated the dresses depending on the damage done to them-- those which could be sold to Mr. Holmes and those she could pitch in the fire and never think of again. She didn’t know the girls who were surely paying off a debt from the dresses they were made to wear, she hadn’t been in the notorious bawd’s house that long. She couldn’t help them now, but at least she could destroy the symbols that remained.
Her shoes sounded nothing like modern shoes. The material was different, the shape of the heel and distribution of the weight was different. Charlotte would eventually become acquainted with what women of the day wore, but there was no rush. She looked like a remarkably different person by herself than the way she had presented herself in front of guests. There was no need to put on airs and her eyes could look as unhappy as they pleased.
He took his stride into the room that he could hear her moving around in, hands resting in both the pockets of his threadbare jacket, but didn't enter silently. In fact, as he approached, he opted to speak up. He had been capable of seeing what she was doing as he'd approached. "Might I offer a hand?" He asked as he stepped through the entrance to that area, eyes examining the damage from the previous evening.
Charlotte’s demeanor changed. Her eyes lit up as though she were only too happy to see him, her posture straightened, as she put on the role of a lady and not a salty harlot. “Mr. Chandler…” she started.
She had been about to turn him down, as she would with any of the other guests. Except Mr. Chandler, she suspected, was not like the other guests in that he likely had nowhere to go. At least nowhere he was immediately needed. It didn’t seem to be the kind thing to send him off, and she’d never concerned herself with doing the unseemly.
“I’m told we live in a free country now. You may do what you wish.” She went back to cleaning up the party but struck up a conversational topic, “What will you be doing now that you’re here?”
He nodded his head in her direction as way of greeting, the lightest smile offered, as he waited for her response. This was a different dynamic than the night before. There were no other guests to entertain and he didn't feel as though he needed to be mindful of taking up too much of her time. He also did not feel comfortable with moving into a room without a proper invitation now that the party had ended. He'd have not, under normal circumstances, stayed the prior night after all.
Stepping inside, he moved to an untouched corner to begin picking up the wreckage from the prior evening. "Not had much time to give it thought," he responded, tucking a bottle under the crock of his arm. "Last time I was here in Tumbleweed I had considered giving marksmanship lessons. Firearms remain popular even in this day and age. Seemed a good avenue," he told her, with relative ease, before glancing her way. "Have you given it much consideration?"
“I wondered. You seemed to be taking your new circumstances in stride. I was not aware I could reappear here again, but then this is all very new to me.” Not that Charlotte, besides her initial arrival through the portal, had acted like her new circumstances were upsetting. She was a hustler by nature and had no time for panic. Panic would not save her from her current circumstances.
One of the finer glasses caught her eye on the table that had been used for gambling the night before. Charlotte pushed it over the edge and let it shatter on the floor. Her guests had been far too polite, all things considered. Staring at the broken pieces she sighed as though it had merely been an accident.
“I plan on renting out the rooms. Perhaps to those who are new and having difficulty adjusting. Or perhaps those who don’t care for what the rest of the town has to offer. I’ve also taken a job at a club, but we shall see where it leads.”
"Not many other options if'n you ask me. Got to play with the hand you are dealt." There could have been a prolonged period of self wallowing, and indeed it had been considered, but that didn't seem desirable now. "Way I remember it, this place is a bit unexpected. Could be here forever or could come and go over and over, sometimes with recollection and sometimes without. Happened to be with in my case."
His eyes had shifted to the table and the glass the moment it began to fall, well before it had hit the floor and had shattered. In fact, he'd made to move in her direction, as though he'd have been able to intercept the glass from falling. And this movement had come seconds before it should have been possible to register what was happening. Only, he'd stopped himself once he knew that there was no reaching in time, and his eyes fell to the floor. They only lingered there for a moment before he lifted them to look to her. He didn't speak about it for now.
"You've certainly got a nice place here. Should bring in enough folks. Could offer it as temporary lodging to those who are traveling through, too," he suggested, eyes moving around the room as he said this. "Wasn't yours though? Was it?" He asked, without judgement, but relative certainty.
“No,” Charlotte said. Her voice was subtly different from the night before as though she couldn’t be bothered to put on the more ladylike affect. The way she spoke had a rough, not-so-subtle burn like whiskey. “It belonged to a Mrs. Quigley. Though I was born in this house. I know it quite well.” She crouched down to pick up pieces of broken glass very delicately with her fingers, careful not to prick herself, though she knew several puns about what it was like to be pricked.
Ethan nodded along with that response. He'd made that assumption the night before. And it didn't surprise him to discover that she was well acquainted with the lodgings. He'd seen that well enough for himself. "My first time here I was given a house I knew well but wasn't mine," he told her, conversationally, "But it didn't come through with me this time." Not wanting to remain across the room as she picked up the shards of glass, he came towards her, and bent down to follow suit. "Mrs. Quigley the lady of the house?"
Charlotte smiled bitterly at the question before it faded into something more gentle. “It was her house,” she said, unable to refer to a monster like Quigley as a lady. “It’s mine now. She can hang.”
Charlotte’s H’s were barely present in her speech. Hang sounded like ’ang, but instead of sounding lowly, Charlotte made it charming. “Why do you ask?”
His eyes flicked up to her with the statement. It was harsh, but Ethan suspected not unwarranted, and he wasn't going to judge for any resentment that may have been implied by the way he took her words. "Well, then I say, take it and do as you please," he offered up, encouragingly, though he was well aware she'd not need encouragement. She was quite clearly already doing that. If anything it was supportive of what he'd suspected he was seeing occur the night before with the carelessness
"Meant no disrespect by it. Just taking a honest guess since you mentioned her," he then replied.
“You’re more respectful than most,” Charlotte assured him. She assumed most people knew what she was, as though her reputation had somehow followed her through the ages across the ocean. She never spelled it out, but partially because she assumed she didn’t need to. “I don’t think I’ll be renting the place to outsiders. Just those in our circumstances. At least not until I know more about the way things are done here.”
"In some instances, perhaps," he conceded. He generally tried to be respectful for all ladies, regardless of place in society or profession. With her next statement, he gave a nod. "That's a reasonable decision, too," he stated, even though he'd been the one to suggest potentially renting rooms out to travelers. "You give any idea of how much you were thinking of charging per room?"
“Four hundred each month for the room. Access to the kitchen, anything else you need in the house comes with.” The truth was she’d been prepared to be talked down by Rogue and Pyro when she offered them a room for four hundred a month, but they hadn’t. Perhaps she hadn’t asked enough or it seemed a reasonable amount. Charlotte wasn’t entirely sure. “You interested?” she asked.
"You ought to go higher," he commented, having a memory of how exponential prices seemed in this day and age. When he's first arrived, he didn't have any grasp on what was considered too low or high of a price tag. He'd thrown out a random suggestion of money when he'd needed the services of a witch and he'd later felt like he'd extremely undervalued her assistance just by lack of knowledge. Regardless, he knew that four hundred dollars was a steal, especially in a house as large as this. As for the following question, he gave a warm smile. "Very much so but I unfortunately do not have four hundred dollars to my name at the moment."
“You’ll have it to me by the end of the month,” Charlotte said. Not an offer, more like a command. Charlotte didn’t look like she’d accept him turning down her offer, nor did she look like she’d entertain the possibility that he wasn’t somehow cunning enough to work out how he’d be paying his rent. “If you need work in the meantime, I can introduce you to Kenzi and Vex. They run the club I was speaking of and said they were looking for bouncers.”
There was a half smirk at the way it almost felt like a command. In a way, it made him appreciate her even more. With a firm nod of agreement he repeated, "by the end of the month." It wasn't a free accommodation like the Bureau had offered but it was something that was far more to his liking and would feel the slightest bit like home. As for the suggestion of introductions, there was a nod, "Well, I'm always in favor of a little night work."