for @karis-the-fangirl later rather than sooner, but here is the fruit of your Wife or Knife AU in my imagination!
It’s ended up being less about the source material and way more about the potential of a very rigid, very tall man being forced by a small pistol of a woman into a [fake?] relationship. It was incredibly fun to write, and rewrite. I hope it’s enjoyable to read!
1/12
The ball may have been the event of the season in the country town of Middleton, but it was hardly high society. This should have set Elias Carrick at ease. Considering that he wasn't really meant to be in Middleton, and his friend Napoleon was so determined he should go, the general effect was a more subtle form of disquiet.
Napoleon was not the actual inmate of Elba Island, but a friend from Oxford given the moniker for reasons best left unsaid in polite society: more properly George Solo. His reassurances were to the tune of, “If you’re ever to make vicar from curate, you’ll need connections. And to make connections you need polish. The first step to polish is to at least have attended a party once.” Not reassuring, and putting rather a lot of weight on a single performance.
Solo had been in the neighborhood of Middleton kicking his heels at his uncle’s home for several weeks. Finding that Carrick would pass through the country on his way to the parish in the North, he had invited him to stop for a short holiday. Carrick had surprised even himself by accepting. The amusements had been tame enough so far, but he could not shake the sense he might end up regretting this whim deeply. He had regretted every other caper the dashing but devious-minded Solo had drawn him into, back in the day.
He stood feeling rather like a lamp-post at the edge of a London bustle, stock-still and being bumped into as if practically invisible. There were silks and muslins fluttering about, and smart jackets darting between them, all turning eager faces towards each other with smiles in their eyes. The chandelier light filled the room with a slight haze of smoke, and the heat of so many people all crowded together made him feel a little out of sorts. He had attended a middle-aged woman to a seat, and had been quite happy to allow her to gossip away at him, but had been supplanted by a matron who thought she was rescuing him. Now he had to find some other way to be politely engaged in the party, and Solo was at his elbow to make sure he did.
"Solo! My boy," said a figure of rather aged splendor, approaching. "And your friend, delightful!"
Solo made his introductions between Carrick and the Squire--his uncle was helping the Squire in some matters of business, and the man had generously included them all in his invitation. The dubious nature of inviting the man of business's nephew and friend to a ball was probably just a highlight of the country life, but Carrick felt as though he shouldn't have accepted.
"You know, there just aren't enough handsome lads about in these parts to do the pretty, so it's a famous thing to have a few visitors! Now, come, I must carry you off to please the young ladies."
Understandably, he took Solo along first, and Carrick purposefully missed his look of beckoning, to remain shored up in the debris of the party's tides. The Squire bore back down on him pitilessly, however, and ushered him along to stand up with a young woman of reddish blonde hair and a delicate face. Since Carrick was well over six foot, and built on the lines of yeoman, she seemed to be in some terror of him.
He said gently, "I am not sure I will get all the steps right," since he knew that his preference for silence did not strike people as comforting. She glanced up at him nervously, but when he moved without too much clumsiness she seemed relieved, and even made some remarks to him as if taking pity.
Being a man of the cloth did seem to excite a certain tendency toward pity in women. At least he had found it so. She left his side at the end of the set without hesitation, but with a polite word of thanks, so she was not fleeing him, either.
He had hoped to disappear into the crowd again, but Solo bore down on him with a woman who he clearly had been dancing with himself, as they laughed together. She was dressed as a matron, but still young and lively, which suited Solo. In fact, she appeared to be a widow as well. Her dark eyes were gleaming as Solo said, "Elias Carrick, madame. Future vicar and current scrapegrace. Carrick, this is Mrs. Hettisham, the Squire's daughter."
"Pleased," said Carrick, bowing.
"Keep her safe from that clumsy fellow in the eyesore coat by taking the next dance, all right?"
"It would be my pleasure," said Carrick.
The woman was quite kind to Carrick, and far from nervous. He enjoyed the scant moments they had in each other's company in the country dance that was raucous and so disorderly that when he forgot his steps it was quite unnoticeable.
"Ah, it is so nice to dance again," said Mrs. Hettisham. "But I must retire or my mother's friends will think me quite lost in dissipation."
"Let me see you to a couch, ma'am," said Carrick. He hoped to settle her and then give her company, since it would mean not having to meet yet another stranger. However, the Squire was busier about the room than his slow gait would have led one to expect. He was at Carrick's elbow almost immediately, with another blushing young lady who had no partner.
As they entered their apartments at the inn after the evening, Carrick told his friend, "If you wished for me to go to this party to gain a little polish, I can't see how it could have answered the purpose. I spent the whole evening scaring little girls."
"Sometimes learning that you are the scariest thing in a room is just the thing to find the proper confidence. Mrs. Hettisham is a wonderful example. A woman who certainly knows her own worth well enough to command whatever situation she is in."
"She is lovely."
"You know, I don't think she is?" said Solo, musingly. "But it makes no difference."
-
Gabrielle Seymour was meant to be in mourning. In truth, she grieved, and was mourning the loss. She was impatient with the form of the thing, however, which seemed to force her to sit and think about how unhappy she was and how little she could do about it. She had "borrowed" some clothes from one of the maids to sneak down and at least listen to the music, but had been forced to take up a position in a corner just enough obscured from the ballroom to see the edges of the dance while also worrying someone would stumble onto her taking the wrong door for supper.
She was choosing her moment to sneak back away, and it was probably now. Her aunt was safely ensconced close to the door to the dining room where she could scrutinize her staff's missteps closely in setting refreshments, and her uncle was now holding court in the card room where his status as host would not prevent him from losing a great deal of petty cash to his guests.
Just then, her elder cousin Lady Hettisham darted over as if to smooth her skirts out of the crush. “Have you seen them?” this dab of a woman in a charming half-mourning of watered silk asked in an undertone.
“I can’t see a thing from here, as you well know, Maria,” Gabrielle retorted.
“Oh, do keep an eye out,” the young widow said, and escaped to not bring attention that way.
Gabrielle could not hazard a guess what it was Maria wished her to see, since what she found immensely entertaining ranged from a truly terrible clash of jewelry to signs of an incipient tendré between ill-matched young people.
Gabrielle was just timing her dart across the hall, risking being glimpsed from the door, toward the servant stair when she saw the stranger Maria had wanted her to notice. A fair man of some height was leading Mrs. Pratt to a seat at the wall. Gabrielle knew from her own experience of coming into this neighborhood several years before that Mrs. Pratt looked even at first sight like an obnoxious woman and proved to be so in a very short time of acquaintance, but he was leaning down to hear her over the music with an intent expression. He not only helped her to her seat but sat beside her as a sacrificial lamb to her conversation, without the slightest appearance of humoring someone he wished to avoid. For a moment, Gabrielle sat riveted by the grave, square face of the young man at her uncle's ball. Then she recollected that if she could see him so well, they also might see her, despite her drab dress. The odd pair had found the few chairs shoved beside this side of the fireplace, which she had relied on being unwanted as both hot and cramped. She fled as smoothly as possible from the area.
Maria was happily chattering as her maid undressed her when Gabrielle knocked and entered.
"Someone had a delightful time tonight," Gabrielle said, keeping her voice light.
"I had never thought a Middleton ball might see a rake who knows just how to entertain a young widow," said Maria with a chuckle. "It takes so very little to make me feel gratified this way!"
She cast a more piercing look at Gabrielle, however, and said, "You did not enjoy yourself, did you, coz?"
"My disguise made it quite impossible for me to do so," Gabrielle said drily. "I had to hide in a corner and wish in vain to be brought a cool drink. I saw that large, fair man with Mrs. Pratt, but you would be put to the test to convince me he was a rake.”
"Oh no! He danced by me with little Georgina, and looked as though he were trying to juggle eggs, he was so nervous and gentle. I believe he is destined for the church. Luckily, his friend is destined to be a man of business. I do not understand how they are friends."
Gabrielle asked for more details on the flirtation, so she might not have to discuss more about her own evening, and soon bid her cousin goodnight. She spent some time in her own bed thinking, however. It made more sense that her cousin had been pointing to two strangers, particularly one who had flirted with her.
It stung more than it ought to that there were young visitors in the village that she would probably never meet. She didn’t want a London season, or even to be asked to dance at the ball--she just hated to be hidden from the world as if it were shameful that she had lost both her parents. As if she was too young to be trusted to behave in company like a mourner.
If they didn't treat her so much like a disobedient pup, she would have an easier time behaving.
Looking over, his first thought was, Oh, I haven't seen that friend in a while!
His second thought was, Oh, that girl is absolutely provoking.
He quashed the third thought trying to emerge, while he stalked over mostly to prevent more people looking to see who was calling for whom.
"Hello, Hettisham," he said with some emphasis.
"Hallo, parson," she said, as he discovered with some surprise that she had a dimple. He had not apparently thought this worth noting when she was just a lad.
"Did you put Solo up to this?"
"Solo? Is he about?" At his no-doubt darkening expression, she hastily admitted, "Yes. I'm sorry. I just wanted to see you once in a way that made it easier to talk. See, you're angry and that means it's not as hard to say something."
"How did you get here, you little fool? Are you totally unaccompanied?"
Gabrielle's eyes dropped, and the part of him that had been silenced earlier tried to draw his notice again to what it had to say, but was overwhelmed by his sense of outrage.
"I came with Maria, in a carriage," she said softly. "I will go back to her and we'll return directly to the house, never fear. I do not mean to make a scene, but I just wanted to see you once. Without…"
She did not finish her sentence, and turned. Elias also pivoted on his heel and went back how he'd come, only to be caught by Solo at the gate.
"You," Elias said bitterly, "need to stop being a help to that reckless girl!"
"What? Were you challenged to a duel again? Sorry to have missed that."
"No, she was…in costume."
"I am also sorry to have missed that," Solo admitted, "though it seems to have made you furious. Is she provoking you on purpose, do you think?"
"She said she wanted to talk with me angry rather than…I don't know what."
"Ah, yes. No, I know what she means. Easier for you to at least see each other first while you're being a self-righteous jackass and not a pillar of salt or something."
As if asking a perhaps sensitive question, Solo added, "Was she…still lovely?"
Elias swore and walked away from his friend, who followed with an annoying chuckle. The thought he had been suppressing broke free with this jab, however, and aired itself in what could have been verbalized most closely as, He's got the right of it.
Maria was very patient with Gabrielle's first quarter hour or so of restless pacing and muttering of self-condemnations, but then said, "You knew he would hate it. Why did you do it?"
"Because, it seemed important to remind him. I can tell from his recent letters that…well, he is quite kind in them. He's forgotten what I'm like."
"You're not always like that," Maria protested.
"I can't bear it," Gabrielle burst out. "I can't bear to love him still. If he had gone cold or gone offended, then it would have ended things, and it would all be easy. We would all have what…what we want."
"Except that you want to be with him," Maria said softly. "You cannot forget that."
"No," said Gabrielle, close to tears. "He shouldn't have answered my letters so well. He shouldn't have seen me and looked glad at first!"
"Well, all this blaming is not helping. What are you going to do about it now?"
What she did was send him a note with their address and the invitation to call.
Then she went and reread the letters she had from him to try and make herself see a resentment, a distaste, anything that could rescue her from feeling so drawn to him. But neither his letters nor her heart were so obliging.
Dear Miss Teller,
Your letter reached me in good time, as I was just about to quit my apartments in Cheapside for ones nearer the school where I am going to be teaching. You may use this new direction for any further letters.
My trip was uneventful once I reached the stage coach successfully. Bandits have disappointed me in all prior trips and I hope continue to do so despite my boyhood keenness for an encounter.
You may, if you see him to speak to, give Solo my regards. We are not much for letters between us unless it is to arrange a visit.
His hand is neat when it comes to ledgers and copying but if you ever have a chance to view a sample of his personal writing you will understand there is pain for his correspondents to endure. Luckily, he is not much of a letter-writer.
Nor am I, if this is an example.
Your servant,
Etc. Elias Carrick
Dear Miss Teller,
I did appreciate the gifts toward my recovery, and I believe they all reached me well.
The proper amount of items ascribed to the appropriate senders arrived, though if Ms. Parson sent any new potatoes they were compassionately removed before I received the parcel.
I am a bit abashed to admit that I was nearly all recovered by the time they came, but the tea and throat-warmer soothed the last dregs of the headcold and the rest cheered me from the doldrums of being abed with no one to nurse me but the cross landlady.
Once my head had cleared up most of the way but I was still not comfortable out in the cold I was able to do some reading in the volume you recommended…
Carrick stopped pacing long enough to realize he'd clenched the short invitation until it was rumpled like a day's worn cravat. He set it on the small desk in his apartments and smoothed it out with irritation. He was mentally dictating how he would respond, when Solo came up from the street, whistling an unseasonable carol.
"Is that the fair Miss Teller's hand?" he inquired as he entered.
"Do you know it so well, then?" Elias demanded.
"No, I merely hazarded a feminine writer must be she. You are still cross about yesterday, I see."
"Cross?" Carrick was amazed. "The young woman who is openly proclaiming to be my betrothed accosted me in a public park wearing the clothes of a man, and you think I am merely cross?"
"She is not actually openly proclaiming it. The family wished her to keep it private for the time being, so she has obliged."
Solo's wry expression indicated the convenience of this. Why did that not make him feel better?
"She has sent her formal invitation for me to call on her at home."
Solo scrutinized him. Then he said, "I see why I like her for you now. As a friend, I have pulled you into the world as you would not go on your own. She has the same audacity. It's good for you to be put off-balance every now and then."
"I was about to reply that she ought to cry off from the engagement soon, now that her plan has succeeded."
"Only if she merely wished for a trip to London--which I think we both know is not the case. Anyhow, you will not. You may compose such a note, but I don't think you would actually stoop to sending it, even if I didn't say so. You must see her, you know. For all the foolishness, you don't want to make her appear poorly in front of her so-worthy family. Besides, you haven't really gotten to have a real conversation. You should call on the family, and go with me to take her and Maria to the park on Thursday."
"Why should I?"
"Because you are a man of honor, and you implicitly gave your word that you would treat her well when you let her say you are engaged."
"I take it as personal affront when you are right about respectability matters," Elias said, but without rancor.
"I am calculating, so I am usually a good judge of what the proper thing to do is, even if I choose not to do it. You go by your conscience, which is less reliable in results."
Alas, Elias' conscience confirmed what Solo's cunning said about the right thing to do. He went the next day to wait on Miss Teller. He sat for half an hour with her and her cousin Mrs. Hettisham, alongside the newlywed couple from Middleton's whirl of festivities. It occurred to him, during this very ordinary visit, that Mrs. Hettisham was as ill-suited to her kin as was her cousin. Clever, imaginative, a bit of a daring reader if he guessed right. Their chaperoning wedded couple spent most of the time asking him questions about his connections, his hometown, and telling uninspired anecdotes about their own. Since he had spent a few weeks in Middleton, he had already been told most of these tales at least once.
He promised to come walk with the ladies to the library in the future as well as to accompany Solo the next day, and took his leave. He shared only a few words with Miss Teller herself, and he wasn't sure what to think of that. Perhaps it was for the best.
