ataylorwright:
closed to: @dayanitas
evening of July 30th, 1889 Arthur’s birthday party at his house
The party is going well in Arthur’s eyes, especially when he finds out that people are in disagreement on how old he’s actually turning. He’s not planning to reveal the mystery anytime soon and he hopes that none of the people who actually know the answer won’t do so either. The truth does send a shiver down Arthur’s spine. Thirty. A rather unbecoming number. If he could stop time, he’d do so in a heartbeat—his twenties are certainly treating him well. Or rather had treated him well. This should’ve been a funeral themed party, an au revoir to his youth.
The ground floor is swimming in guests; friends, mere acquaintances and, frankly, a very large number of strangers—he’s been rather generous with giving out invitations. The more the merrier. The music, the loud laughter and the conversations all bring Arthur an immense amount of comfort. They’re also a distraction—while the hauntings have grown calmer and became almost dormant, Arthur’s started obsessively thinking about them instead. He’s so tempted to write about it all but he still remembers what happened the last time. He does not want a repeat any of it.
There’s one person Arthur sent out an invitation to that he didn’t think was going to show up. That’s why the surprise is clearly visible on his face when he finds Daya entering the celebrating crowd. He rushes down the stairs to meet her, catch her attention before anyone else does. “Do my eyes deceive me? This cannot be true,” he says, his tone teasing and especially dramatic. He breaks out into a smile right after, as if it were going to make them both forget that they haven’t really spoken in a while and when they did, it wasn’t all that pleasant. Arthur’s in a very amiable mood tonight, though, and he tries to sounds as genuine as he can. “I didn’t think you’d come, actually. But I’m glad you did.“
.
A funny thing happens when your world collapses in on itself - for everybody else, life goes on.
The departure of her husband from London (From England, mind you. It is as though he could not put enough distance between himself and Daya without fleeing to the other side of the continent) was no longer a secret, the intimate details of the affair, the child his mistress was carrying, and the wife that was left behind now a regular feature in London’s newspaper circuit. It is not pleasant. She has lived a life of privacy over the last few years, retreating further into herself as her marriage deteriorated. What’s left is a woman she no longer knows, who has hidden so much of herself, just to be left with nothing.
Well, not nothing. She has Pearl. If nothing else, marriage has given her this one small blessing.
Daya has always prided herself on her preparedness. In business, she knows how to navigate every calamity. When confronted with a difficult situation, she can survive. But the scandal that surrounds her is another matter altogether. She has never had to mitigate gossip such as this before. Despite all her husband has done, her own actions are under close scrutiny, her ambition and career, even her younger years on the London social scene a source of speculation, a possible motive for his departure. Her only response so far has been to lock herself, and her daughter, away from the world, hiding them both from vicious tongues.
But she cannot hide forever. It is a surprise to receive the invitation from Arthur, and one she contemplates carefully. She cannot hide forever, but reintroducing herself to the public needs to be done in increments. What better place is there than one of Arthur’s parties? She has moved in these circles before, a long time ago, and knows it will be full of attendees who have battled scandals of their own. Nobody will blink twice at something as trivial as a divorce.
And so, she attends, dressed in a silver gown that shimmers when she walks and jewels that catch the light just so. She attends, despite every nerve of her body screaming at her not to. She decides to remain on the outskirts, only long enough to see and be seen, and make an early exit. It is enough for her purpose. That is, until the host himself steps out of the crowd.
“I can scarcely believe it myself,” she deadpans, surveying him for a moment. She can hardly remember the last time they spoke civilly to each other. She waits for the facade to drop, but it doesn’t. Instead, he grins at her, as though they were both twenty-two again, and none of this had ever happened. “I should thank you. For inviting me, that is. Happy Birthday, Arthur.”
