Israel Alderdice (izzy_alderdice) wrote in v_nocturne_rpg, @ 2009-06-26 21:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | irina kirmasov, izzy alderdice |
Walked Down the Street
He never made it a secret that he hated this neighborhood. Or, rather, that he hated going through it at any hour of the day, especially during daylight hours. And, to be fair, he'd never actually told Mr. Prosser this, but he'd told the rest of the lads back at the boarding house and therefore it wasn't a secret at all, was it? Not if Jack knew, anyway, the bastard. Izzy was very happy they didn't even work out of the same place, mainly because Jack actually made quite a bit more than he did, so why he lived at the boarding house was a mystery, aside from the fact that he apparently used his room for little more than a glorified storage closet.
It was much easier to think about that than to consider his surroundings. The decadently carved stone buildings and fancy shops and people in their expensive outfits really only served to make him nervous. Izzy might have been well-dressed for someone of his standing and means, but he knew full well he was an outsider and that meant the coppers knew too. It didn't help that, right now, he felt like a starving wolf on a farm of very oblivious sheep and was trying very hard not to act on it. Why Mr. Prosser insisted on bringing him to his house was beyond Izzy, but aside from the walk there and back, he couldn't complain much. After all, it meant some damn good food if he didn't mind the servants looking at him funny.
Perhaps he should have been paying attention. Then, he might have noticed that he was walking faster than most people run, and in the cacophony of human scents upon the air he might have noticed that when he passed by the smell of a fine perfume, he was actually walking into it. Immediately, he turned on his heel and managed to keep from falling down. He'd walked into a lady who from the looks of her clothing was probably pretty high up on the ladder or at least wealthy. If it had been possible for Izzy to turn even more pale, he would well have done it. Hastily, he took off his hat and bowed a little, offering her his hand. "Oh my - dreadful sorry, madam! I - I - sorry, can I help you?"
The response the young man got was not spoken in English, but the tone was enough to convey annoyance. Irina had spent a long afternoon in the shops, and although most of the packages were en route to her address, she'd decided to carry the smaller items herself. The Russian briefly massaged her left temple. She should have asked Sergei to come along with her, but she'd wanted a few hours by herself, without a servant trailing along behind her. Good thing for the boy, too, otherwise the Pole would have cuffed him senseless.
"You may pick them up," she said in halting English, pointing at the three fallen boxes where they lay on the pavement. Thankfully nothing breakable was within the packages. Still, it was irritating. She hadn't realized how crowded London's streets were until she was right in the thick of the mass of humanity. She looked him over more closely. He was well-dressed enough, not shabby, but there was a furtiveness to him, as if he didn't belong and knew it.
"And learn to look where you are going, yes?" This last was said with the briefest hint of a smile, the faint turning up of a narrow-lipped mouth. "A carriage is much less likely to stop and apologize."
Her first response confused him, mainly because at first he thought she was just muttering something. Then, when she spoke again, he realized that she was a foreigner, but at that point it really didn't matter much to him. He was just very happy she hadn't screamed for help or that someone wasn't coming around right now to defend her in a painful way. He nodded quickly, said, "Yes, madam," and began to pick up the packages. Thankfully, it didn't sound as if he'd broken anything. More than likely, he'd have had to do a runner because, politeness, screaming ladies, or not, because he didn't have near enough to pay for anything they sold in this neighborhood.
Pressing his lips into a thin smile and blushing a little as he handed her back the packages, he replied, "I will, madam." He made sure not to look her directly in the eye, choosing a less interesting spot somewhere on the hem of her dress. Though he might not have been quite as prone as he was when he'd left Mr. Prosser, there was a small part of him that was smiling creepily and telling him that she probably was tender. The part of him that thought that was disgusting, thankfully, was winning out.
He nodded again, put his hat on, and backed away, ready to continue on his way. Giving the woman a small, polite smile, he said, "I'll keep than in mind, madam. Thank you for your kindness."
"I do not see you here before."
Irina had accepted her packages back and was inspecting them, looking over the boxes for dents before opening the largest one and looking inside for a moment. She also inspected the state of the boy's shoes, then the cuffs of his trousers. A bit frayed, some threads hanging loose, but nothing so obvious that the constables would consider him a person of interest. "You are a servant? Perhaps I should speak to your employer about this tendency to daydream as you walk along. My English is not so good, but I could make myself understood."
She had to look up to see his face, but even without making eye contact the force of her personality was almost a solid wall. Diminutive height aside, she was obviously of noble rank and could be intimidating if it suited her. She was trying to decide whether or not it suited her at the moment. "Why do you walk so fast, boy?"
It was, at this point, that Izzy realized he was probably not just dealing with some rich man's wife. Now it was starting to seem that, for every way out of this situation, there were a few factors that made it even more dangerous. She was probably famous, maybe. He couldn't pinpoint where she was from, exactly, but it was probably somewhere powerful and she was probably very famous and he'd probably never heard of her.
Now resting his gaze on the cobblestones, Izzy said sincerely, "Oh please don't, madam, I only just started working there." His tone was a little desperate, partly because of the act he was putting on and partly because of his desire to get out of this situation as soon as possible. Now, he might have had all day to chat, but in his line of work time really was money and he had to get going. It was likely to be a long night. He imagined that, even if he could have told her this, it wouldn't have mattered much to her, not only because of her apparent station but because of her manner.
"My apologies, madam. It's just that I - I'm soon to be late and I really ought to be going." True enough, in a strange sense.
His fidgeting amused her, but the Russian managed to keep a straight face. "Where do you go, then?" Perhaps he was an artist and that was why his clothes were more or less decent. Maybe it was that he was < i>supposed</i> to be working but was instead frittering away his time on something personal. The toe of one leather boot tapped on the sidewalk, her dress flouncing slightly in its wake.
"You will look at me, please." Yes, she knew the customs, the polite way a man of the lower classes should avert his eyes, but she wasn't particularly interested in the social niceties at the moment. "I am not about to beat you."
The question threw him, mainly because he wasn't entirely certain what she was referring to. He paused for a moment, then assumed that she meant 'Where do you work?' So she might actually be serious in her offer to go and take it up with his employer. He knew full well that he'd probably never see her again, so what did it matter if he lied? "Mr. Brandston's house?" he offered. It was a name he'd used quite often, the kind that made whomever it was think they knew the person but just couldn't put a face to a name.
Jerkily, he lifted his head up to look at her. To his relief, nothing took over. "Yes'm," he said, nodding. There was a certain amount of nervousness he couldn't help but betray. He laughed a little at her comment.
It was not an unpleasant face, she decided, although there was something uncertain about him and she couldn't decide why. "Mr. Brandston," she echoed, her heavily accented voice containing a note of musing. Being recently emigrated, she didn't know of such a person, and the sneaky ways of servants meant he could well be lying to her. Still, it felt worthwhile to prolong this just a bit longer.
"I suppose you have a name, boy." Irina tilted her head to the right, putting the glare of the late afternnoon sun behind his head and therefore out of her eyes. If she had been carrying her riding crop, it would have been tapping impatiently against the heavy fabric of her dress. "What is it, please?"
"Havisham, madam," said Izzy, "Izzy Havisham. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." He was doing something wrong, he decided. Either there was some foreign custom or some upper-class thing that he wasn't really familiar with. He could just tell that, whatever it was, he was making a mess of it and he wouldn't be able to take it back. At least, she seemed annoyed, and she hadn't just left already, like he dearly wished she would.
"Izzy." There was something classless about the name, as if it were fit for a dog instead of a man, and Irina's thin-lipped mouth quirked at the corners again. "I am Lady Irina Kirmasov of the royal court of Russia." Technically it was still true, even if she no longer lived in her father's house. Royal blood was royal blood, no matter your address. "I was on my way home. Now you may accompany me."
The tissue paper within the boxes crinkled in a muffled fashion as the Russian extended them towards him. Sensing his reluctance, she added, "My manservant will give you money when we arrive. It will certainly be enough for you to hail a carriage and not be late for your assignation."
Lady? Royal court of Russia? Well, he'd been right, then, she wasn't just some rich woman, and he didn't know who she was. He stood up straighter and bowed a little again. He'd never really been taught how one addressed royalty, especially foreign royalty. Even his mother hadn't expected him to reach the point where that would be necessary. Even when he'd come to London, he hadn't expected that he'd meet anyone especially important, especially just walking down the street. But there had been a lot of things he hadn't predicted since he'd come here.
Taking the packages, he replied, "It'd be an honor, Lady Kirmasov." That should have been good enough as far as formalities went, he supposed. At her suggested that he'd be getting paid for it, he smiled a little. Perhaps this wasn't too bad. "Thank you for your generosity."
Irina curtsied slightly, mindful of the dusty street, then waved him along. She'd only been a few blocks away from her apartments at any rate. Next time she would bring someone from the household. It was certainly the least the boy could do for her.
"I am sure your Mr. Brandston won't mind." If there even was a Mr. Brandston, which she doubted. It was of no consequence to her, regardless. "I greatly dislike this weather, Mr. Havisham. Is June in London always so sweltering?"
Izzy quickly followed, wondering at this turn of events. It was all just...kind of odd. Maybe even a little suspicious, but then again, it wasn't often he got paid for so little. When she mentioned 'Mr. Brandston' for a moment, he blinked before realizing what she meant and said, "He's a good man, I'm certain he'll be fine with it."
"I suppose," said Izzy, "I haven't lived here long, Lady Kirmasov, so I wouldn't be the best...authority on it. It's much nicer in the country."
"It is an improvement over ice and snow, I shall give it that," Irina said, as if the slight compliment were an effort. "I come to this country from Moscow, where the winters are hideous. I am still learning to speak better English. It is not my best language."
She watched a dray horse pulling a wagon along the cobbled street, the wooden wheels making a racket. "Still, one city is much like another. I have not seen so many people in one place in a while. Do you not care for it?"
Izzy nodded in agreement, though he didn't necessarily agree. Best to just go along with her, he supposed, though striking up a lively debate would be...well, it would be a stupid thing to do. But, she was rich, it might be profitable to be nice to her. "You might say that," he said with a smile, "But really, Lady Kirmasov, you speak English better'n most of the people I know."
"No," he said, "I've never really liked it here, either. But there're plenty of worse places I might have ended up." That was the truth. It might have beat living on the streets in Hatfield, but overall nothing good had happened to him since he'd come to London.
"Fortune or lack thereof is what we make for ourselves, Mr. Havisham." In other circumstances she might have asked him to use her Christian name, but not here in the street. They'd just met and he could be anyone. He couldn't be much older than twenty, she was certain of that much. Still, it would be unseemly to allow any familiarity at this point.
"And I speak other languages better," she said, looking at him in profile. "My tutor despaired of me. But the syntax is difficult. I am improving, but I do thank you for the compliment." That odd little almost-smile again as she faced forward, stepping aside nimbly to allow a gaggle of children to go darting past her. She would have to insist on tea when she returned home, just to take away the headache that was still threatening.
"Do you still live your family, Mr. Havisham?"
Nodding again, Izzy replied, "That's very true." He wasn't quite sure why she'd said it, but maybe he was missing something.
He listened to her as she told spoke about her talent in language and her tutor and what have you, and wondered why she was telling him all this. This was somewhat true of a few of his customers, that they just liked to talk and talk through everything, most often about their school days or when ever they were freer. Or, unmarried, as the case may have been. They had no one else to tell. Perhaps it was the same for this woman. "Well, I don't speak any other languages at all, so to me that's plenty impressive."
Shaking his head and stepping quickly around a child, Izzy said, "Oh, no. I send money back home."
It occurred to her that she was talking too much, and then that he wasn't the slightest bit interested, and she looked straight ahead as she puzzled over it. It was true that some men held the belief that women were mere social decorations, but that was largely among the upper classes, men of her own station. Perhaps there were some boundaries that money didn't affect.
"My door is in sight." The building her apartments were in was tucked behind a gated fence, and when the two of them got closer she could see Sergei's bulky frame beyond the iron railing. The Pole was supervising a pair of the other servants as they carried boxes inside, and she realized more of her belongings must have arrived by ship. He left off when he recognized his mistress approaching, moving to open the gate.
"Milady, lunch has been prepared. It awaits you in the parlor." He was giving Mr. Havisham a distrustful look, then dropped his attention to the packages the boy held. Dark brows beetled together over black eyes and a hawkish nose. "I will take those now."
It seemed that her house wasn't as far away as he had thought it might be. But then, why would she have been walking if it hadn't been? It also wasn't too far of a stretch to walk from here to Charing Cross, at least, not for him. The place certainly seemed nice, at least, in his view. It occurred to him that he'd never actually been this far into this neighborhood or at least bothered to have a look around it at all. Usually all he wanted to do was get out.
The butler made him a little bit nervous, but he handed the packages to him anyway and said, "Thank you, sir." He certainly wasn't scared of the man, for one thing, he was human and that really made all the difference, but he was quite intimidating. He supposed that was the point.
Turning to the woman, he bowed again and said, "It's been quite an honor to meet you, Lady Kirmasov, and an even greater one to speak with you." Classy. He mentally congratulated himself. "I thank you again for your kindness and generosity, and bid you good day."
"Sergei, give him some money," Irina said, lapsing into Russian because it was easier and she spoke it among the servants anyway. "Enough for carriage fare. And do stop scowling, please. You remind me of Father." Her boots made noise on the walk as she stepped past the open gate, then turned back to face Mr. Havisham.
"I bid you good day, sir, and give my regards to your...Mr. Brandston. I'm sure he is quite the gentleman."
She curtsied again, then turned and started inside. Even if there was no employer, he was a bit of a strange one. Perhaps they would meet again. What was the world, after all, if not an endlessly turning wheel?
"Here, boy." Sergei's thick-fingered hand was holding out some paper bills, and although his scowl had faded, the distrust was still there. "My lady wishes you to have this. She is a generous soul." More generous than I'd be. You'd get my boot in your backside if it was up to me. "Now, off with you," he finished, his accent even thicker than his mistress'. "There is men's work to be done. Good day, sir."
Izzy wondered what she was saying for a moment, but then decided not to wonder. They weren't knocking him out of dragging him inside to do whatever, so he was in luck. "I will," he said. When the butler handed him the money, he counted it, a little shocked. He'd expected no more than a few shillings at most, but who was he to complain? "She certainly is," he said, putting the money in his pocket, "Good day to you too, sir."
And with that, he turned around and began to walk at the same pace he'd been going when he'd crashed into Lady Kirmasov, albeit paying attention this time. That was...kind of surreal. Fortunate, he supposed, considering the money he'd gotten, but out of the blue if nothing else. About halfway back, he cursed himself for not asking for a job, though he doubted, considering the circumstances of their meeting, that he would have gotten one. It might have been nice, though, instead of going back to Charing Cross. But it seemed that this random occurrence had run its course.