working_class (working_class) wrote in v_nocturne_rpg, @ 2009-06-23 22:20:00 |
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Current mood: | calm |
Entry tags: | elspeth fry, fox cullen |
A Rare Conversation
The boardinghouse where Fox lived was owned by a widow named Harriet Soames. She'd been a seamstress when she was younger, but after arthritis gnarled her hands to the point where she could no longer thread a needle without pain, she began to rent the rooms of the home she'd shared with her husband to supplement her income. The house was nestled on a quiet street, a rusty wrought-iron gate surrounding the property. The yard was a bit unkempt, one of the men who lived within occasionally doing minor tasks to keep the grass from getting too thick, but the inside was tidy.
In the kitchen, Fox was preparing a cup of coffee. Breakfast had already been served and eaten but as long as the tenants cleaned up after themselves the kitchen seldom closed. There was no work today; Mr. Templeton had told her before leaving last night that he'd be lunching with his wife and some prospective clients, so he wouldn't need her. Perhaps she'd visit the library, she was running out of reading material.
Carrying her cup into the front room, she picked up the newspaper she'd left behind and returned to the article she'd been reading. While not particularly educated, she didn't want to be ignorant of the world around her. Even while committing the most basic of deceptions, she could still learn if she wanted to.
Two sets of feet clunked down the stairs, which had only a threadbare carpet runner to mute the noise. The women who descended were close in age and also related, but only their dark hair would've given that away. The elder held her back with the rigid posture of an aristocrat (though she was not one), and the younger had an oddly abbreviated look about her, from her short arms and legs to the tiny nose that poked past her cheeks.
Taking the lead, Elspeth Fry shook out the fingers of her gloves. She listened as her cousin talked about the imprudence of burdening family with the likes of herself. From the exasperated look Elspeth wore, it was clear she didn't approve. "Ruth, I know you can manage on your own, but you shouldn't have to. And honestly, it's indecent, the way you make us look, carrying on as if you haven't any family in London." She rounded the banister and let the kid gloves rest against her skirt. "People will think we've turned you out on the street. You should've told us you were coming. We could've put you in a room at the house."
"Pish." Ruth smiled. The rounder her cheeks became, the more her nose retreated, and now it was a simple afterthought between two bulges of pink skin. "I don't mind being on my own. I like the quiet. Besides, it's only for three more weeks."
"Quiet." Elspeth's eyes cut left and she tapped her shoe. She took in the parlor and the young man reading his paper. "Here?" She lowered her voice to a hiss. "I have my doubts." Then, slapping the soft leather against her cousin's arm, she said, "Now go and fetch me a cup of tea before I leave. I'll be waiting."
The female voices approaching made Fox look up for a moment, then return to her paper. Although Mrs. Soames rented largely to men, there was the occasional female boarder as well, usually someone in the city to apply for work as a housekeeper or to join the teacher's academy. She'd had a truncated conversation with Ruth over breakfast once, but she was always worried that another woman would discover her secret. Men were notoriously unobservant unless it was very important to them, but women were different.
"Good mornin' to ye, missus." The words were polite, if muffled, and the brunette picked up the heavy white mug she'd been drinking from for another swallow of the strong coffee within. "Hadn't known Ruth 'ad a sister."
Elspeth had faced the kitchen but, when spoken to, looked in the young man's direction. He must be young to be so narrow of shoulder. Elspeth cleared her throat. "Cousin," she said. How long would Ruth be? Only a few moments, surely, for a cup of tea, unless there was none made. She contemplated staying in the foyer and then determined it would be rude. She folded her gloves in half and drifted into the parlor. The tips of her boots flounced her skirt hem. "Two years apart. She is my mother's niece."
A grandfather clock ticked in the corner. From the center of the rug, Elspeth watched its pendulum sway. "She sent a letter telling us she's in town. I wish I'd known." For what reason, she wasn't sure. Certainly, she was in no position to play hostess. Her brother James, who had taken over the late Mr. Fry's business and household, would do no better, though her parents might've managed. "Am I to assume you've met, then?" As was habit, she assessed the young man opposite from the floor up, meaning she started with the condition of his shoes.
"Only briefly, over a meal. We've not had many ladies visitin' us. She wanted directions to a place to post her letters that was closer."
There was probably some piece of etiquette she was failing to obey, and Fox could feel the way the other woman was studying her shoes. The pair she had on were for around the house, not the heavier boots that were lined up along the wall with several similar pairs that belonged to the other renters, but they were still fairly scuffed and worn. The slightly pointed toes of the visitor's boots were glossy, well-shined. It made her feel stupidly self-conscious. "It'll be a few minutes before the tea comes. Mrs. Soames' pot is older than I am, takes a while to brew up a cup."
"That will be fine." The widowed Ms. Fry looked around the room's furnishings. Her childhood and marital homes were firmly middle-class dwellings, so the contents of this one seemed ordinary and fine to her, if a bit stuffy. What concerned her was the predominant gender of the other tenants. At the sound of footsteps overhead, she studied the ceiling. It encouraged her to seat herself across from the boy, nearer the wall. "I would say I worry over Ruth's reputation, boarding around so many men, but I fear she's never put much stock in it, anyway." Elspeth set her gloves on a table and arranged her skirt.
Elspeth's own reputation had been a tightly guarded thing, until last year. It had a permanent black mark on it now. By no means a social outcast, she had found her name stricken from a few socialite lists, nonetheless. Killing one's husband, even in defense of the household, was a morally questionable thing.
She fixed her brown eyes on the boy. "What is your name? Do you have family here? I might know them."
There was the crinkle of newspaper as Fox folded up the daily issue and set it aside, then the rattle of crockery as she picked up her cup from the saucer. "Cullen, missus," she replied, making herself lift her head as she spoke because it seemed rude to not make eye contact. "Fox Cullen. But I don't think..."
She tried to imagine it, her stolid foster parents sitting down for any reason with this well-dressed young lady. The corners of her stern and occasionally even sour mouth struggled against the smile, for the visitor was likely to take it amiss. "No, no family nearby. I came to the city to look for work after Mr. Cullen, the man who raised me, passed on to his reward. I was - am, I suppose - a fosterling."
She said it without shame, having long since come to terms with not ever knowing her parentage. Mrs. Cullen had told each of her charges that it mattered not from who they came, but what they did with themselves. As long as they worked hard and obeyed God's laws, their lives didn't have to be sullied by charges of bastardy. "Might I know your name as well?"
"Elspeth Fry, nee Thomas." She tilted her head and studied the orphan-boy in closer detail. He had freckles, which indicated time spent out of doors, but more remarkable were his hands. The nails were short and rough-edged, making her guess he did manual labor of a sort. They weren't very big. "I was born in London," she said. "I've never spent much time outside the city. I had a grandfather who retired to the country, but he died before we were allowed a proper visit."
There was a sound from the kitchen door, but someone other than Ruth shuffled through it. Before the door closed, Elspeth caught sight of her cousin's brown skirt and heard her chattering away. She reached up and touched a necklace beneath the high-necked fabric of her dress. "Are you a laborer?"
"Aye, I'm apprenticed to a stonemason. Started out just tidyin' up, but Mr. Templeton decided I'd been with him long enough to start learning the trade." Elspeth. It sounded like a name out of one of Shakespeare's plays. Fox had struggled through Much Ado About Nothing after obtaining it from the library, but she wasn't much for plays, even comical ones. She looked down at the other woman's hands, noted the gold ring.
"I was born in London myself," Fox offered. "But this has been my first time here while bein' old enough to be on my own. Bit different without supervision. Does your husband have an office in the city?"
"Oh." Elspeth looked at her hand and fidgeted the ring. "I'm widowed half a year now." The plain, gold ring fit loosely on her finger. She spun it and thought of Carl, who had been a nice man and a good provider, if on the unremarkable side (save for the unfortunate werewolf incident, which was decidedly remarkable). When Elspeth's tongue was loosened with alcohol, she'd admit he was dumber than a bag of rocks, too. "Carl was a horse breeder. If you've taken a cab or carriage, you might've seen one of our horses. My brother took over his affairs."
She left the ring alone and smoothed her skirt. It struck her that Fox might apologize for bringing it up. Dealing with sympathy had grown tiresome; It required schooling her features into socially acceptable levels of grief. Of course, she hadn't wanted her husband to die, and certainly not from a fork wound, but they were neither in love nor close. Any protracted grief she might've felt over his passing was blunted by the memory of him gnawing on a mare like it was an overgrown dinner roast.
"You needn't apologize," Elspeth said and cleared her throat. "Really."
And so she didn't, but her ears did get red. Fox also cleared her throat, looked at her empty coffee cup as if it might advise her on what to say next. "Never cared much for horses," she said instead. "They're beautiful creatures, but they're skittish under bad conditions and they bite. Is your cousin intendin' on staying with you once she leaves here?"
It was a practical question more than anything else. As far as she knew, women usually lived with their families if there was no husband, and while the unwritten rule might be different for widows it seemed polite to ask. "This is a decent establishment, but as I said we don't get many ladies here. You needn't have....concerns, though."
Elspeth flicked a piece of lint off her sleeve. "I imagine she'll return to her parents," she said. "I don't believe her business will keep her in London long." In the kitchen, a teapot whistled and signaled that the brew was ready. It was often the case with Elspeth that she no longer wanted tea by the time it was finished. For that same reason, she abhorred most household crafts. She heard Ruth's merry voice in the kitchen and stood up. "That'll be tea." She retrieved her gloves and stood.
"You know." She eyed the boy's shoes again, contemplating something as she ran the gloves between a thumb and forefinger. "You ought to give horses a fair shake. Under the right circumstances, people are just as skittish. Some of them even bite, though I wouldn't give them the same sympathy." She smiled. "I think I'll join Ruth in the kitchen. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Cullen."
"Mrs. Fry." Fox was halfway out of her chair as Elspeth retreated, heard the kitchen door open and close. Her work-abraded hands remained on the arms of the chair for a moment, holding her suspended over the padded cushion, and then she lowered herself back into her seat. The newspaper was retrieved, opened to the middle section. She would return her cup and saucer to the kitchen, but perhaps later, once Ruth and her cousin had departed.
The grandfather clock kept ticking. It was turning into a very quiet morning.