Chapter Text
SUMMER 1883 | Newport, Rhode Island
It is a silly thing to pick a fight over, admittedly. Larry would be the first to admit it — or he should be the first to admit it, if he wasn’t so stuck on the point.
“I think you were a little unkind to Miss Brook,” he tells Susan Blane, as they are driving home after Mr. McAllister’s party.
Susan frowns at him. “I don’t know what you mean, Larry. We had a perfectly nice chat.”
“It was just…” Larry turns the thoughts over in his head, trying to find the right words. “The way you greeted her.”
“How did I greet her?” Susan frowns, completely lost. “I am sure I was perfectly polite.”
“You said, oh, it’s you again ,” Larry says, and he knows he sounds petty. “It sounded like you were trying to slight her.”
“Larry!” Susan gives him an incredulous look. “I was being perfectly polite! I had no intention of snubbing the girl.”
“I am sure she was hurt by it,” Larry continues, casting his mind back to Marian’s face. “And the way you called her the neighbour . I think it hurt her feelings.”
“She is your neighbour,” Susan frowns at him. “Is she not? How could she be offended by being called what she is?”
“She is not just a neighbour,” Larry says, annoyed. “She is a very dear friend.”
“ Very dear?” Susan arches her eyebrows at him. “Oh dear, Larry, should I be jealous?”
“No!” He sputters, not sure why this makes him feel so very odd. “You know that — you know I care only for you.”
She smiles at him coyly, sliding a hand up his thigh, and he shivers at the sensation. Her hand climbs higher and he groans as she touches him through his trousers.
“The driver…” he whispers, half-heartedly, pressing into her hand.
“He cannot see,” she whispers, waving a hand.
She continues to rub him through the fabric, and he groans, bucking against her touch. But he stops her, after some moments, feeling like this is a distraction — albeit not an unwelcome one.
“Not in the carriage,” he says, embarrassed.
“You rather liked it, last time,” she grins at him.
He flushes. “I am worried about these trousers. My mother will know if something happens to them.”
She purses her lips. “I forgot you were still so tied to your mother’s apron strings.”
He huffs a little at this. “I am not — I am not tied, it is only that…” he trails off, for he does not have a proper response to this.
“Am I to endlessly jockey with your mother and Miss Brook for your attentions?”
He frowns — Marian? And then he snaps back to reality, remembering the conversation before she had begun to touch him.
“It is not like that,” he snaps, feeling tired and like he has had too much champagne. “She is a friend, and I care for her. She is sensitive — I do not want to see her feelings hurt.”
“If she is so delicate that she is wounded by such anodyne comments, she shan’t last long in New York,” Susan snorts. “Really, Larry, are we truly quarrelling about this? When we could be doing so many other lovely things?”
She puts his hand on her knee, but he doesn’t want to be distracted like a child right now.
“I don’t want you to speak about Miss Brook that way,” he says, pulling his hand back. “Can you accept that?”
“I think you’re being very silly,” Susan says, clearly annoyed. “And you’re making a huge fuss about something that doesn’t matter, over a girl you say is just a friend.”
“I just – I want you to take care how you speak to Miss Brook, “ Larry says, feeling flustered and annoyed, his head starting to pound.
The carriage stops in front of her house with a jerk.
“I don’t want to quarrel about this, Larry,” Susan says. “I will continue to be perfectly polite to the girl, as I always am, as I always have been.”
“That’s not – that’s not what I asked,” Larry says, and he doesn’t know why he can’t just drop it. “Because I think the way you’ve spoken to her has hurt her feelings. And so I don’t want you to continue on as before.”
She gives him an exasperated look. “Larry, if I didn’t know better, I think you’d rather prefer to make love to Miss Brook tonight instead of to me.”
“I did not say that!” He sputters at this, feeling curiously hot around the collar. The images that come to mind are not unpleasant, and he feels wrong-footed, and more than a little guilty for picturing his innocent friend this way.
“You didn’t have to,” Susan arches her eyebrow at him. “Now, are you coming in, or not?”
“Will you agree that you’ve been rude to Miss Brook, and that you must take more care in how you speak to her, going forward?”
“No, I will not,” Susan says, testily, her patience running out. “And I don’t think you should come inside tonight, Larry. I’m quite tired, and I’d like to have an early night. Alone.”
“Fine,” Larry says, leaning back in the carriage and crossing his arms. “Do what you like.”
***
He decides to go back to Mr. McAllister’s party. He doesn’t have to go home just yet, he thinks, irritably. He’s young, and the night is young, and he doesn’t want to go home.
When he arrives back at the party, he instantly perks up – parties have a way of doing that for him. He likes the noise, the bustle, the laughter, the movement.
“Larry Russell!” Mr. McAllister exclaims, with a twinkle in his eye. “And here I thought you had, uh, escorted Mrs. Blane home for the evening.”
“I did,” He says, politely, accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter. “And now I am back.”
“Ah,” Mr. McAllister smiles. “And here I thought you might, uh, linger.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he smiles blandly. “Who could stay away when a party such as this is happening?”
Mr. McAllister chuckles. “You’re smoother than people give you credit for, Mr. Russell. Smoother by far.”
To his tremendous relief, the face he sees next is the one he’s always happy to see. Marian and a man he doesn’t think he knows are walking towards them.
“Miss Brook!” he exclaims, grinning at her, lifting up his hand in a sort of half-wave. “How nice to see you again.”
“Hello, Larry,” She smiles at him, and he feels like he wants her to keep smiling at him like this – all night, if he can manage it. “I thought you’d left.”
“Oh, no,” he shakes his head. “I was simply – seeing a friend home. I’m back now. The night is still young, is it not?”
She smiles at him again, and it makes his heart thump painfully. He thinks of Susan’s comments, and pushes them away. She is his dear friend – of course he is happy to see her.
“Larry, this is Mr. Dashiell Montgomery. Mr. Montgomery, this is Mr. Larry Russell, my neighbour in New York,” Marian says, introducing the man standing next to each other. “And rather a good friend.”
“Oh, we’ve met,” Larry says, nodding, now able to place the face.
“That’s right,” the man – Dashiell – says, “At the Casino, I think?”
“Yes,” Larry says, as they shake hands in greeting. “How do you do?”
“It’s a fine night,” Dashiell says, smiling, “and I’ve been blessed with the loveliest company a man could imagine.”
He glances at Marian as he says this, and Larry feels unreasonably irritated – angry, even. He doesn’t like the way Dashiell smiles at Marian, or his ingratiating comment, or the fact that Dashiell has apparently been spending so much time in Marian’s company.
“Oh?” Larry asks, smiling, glancing between the two of them. “I can only assume you mean the radiant Miss Brook.”
He gives Marian a smile when he says this, and is thrilled by the way she smiles right back at him – there is something incandescent in the way she smiles at him, he thinks, feeling almost wistful.
Dashiell sounds a little annoyed when he speaks next. “Yes, Miss Brook and I are discovering we are quite suited to each other’s company.”
“Are you?” Larry doesn’t like the way he says this, not at all. He glances between them again, noting the way Dashiell Montgomery’s body is angled towards Marian, the way he seems to be watching her every move.
Marian isn’t paying that much attention to Dashiell, though. She’s not being rude, of course. She’s just not focused on him the way he is on her. She doesn’t seem to notice the nature of his words, which Larry thinks are far too flirtatious, far too proprietary. They can’t have known each other long, he thinks, peeved. It’s much too soon for the man to speak so meaningfully about her, especially in front of himself and Mr. McAllister.
“Yes,” Dashiell says, tightly. “We are.”
He glances in Marian’s direction, as though for confirmation, and Larry is strangely relieved to see that Marian doesn’t seem to notice – doesn’t look back at him.
The music picks up, then, into a rather lively number, and Dashiell turns to Marian, annoying Larry further. “May I have this dance, Miss Brook?”
“Oh, but she cannot,” Larry says, unthinkingly, before Marian can say anything. “For she has already promised me a dance this evening, and I’d rather like to claim it.”
Dashiell gives him an extremely annoyed look, and then looks to Marian.
“Oh,” she says, her tone interested. “Yes, of course – my apologies, Mr. Montgomery, but I did promise Mr. Russell this dance.”
“Very well,” he says, stiffly. “I will see you later.” And then the man kisses Marian’s gloved hand, which makes Larry clench his champagne flute far too tightly.
Larry downs the remainder of his champagne in a manner that is not entirely fit for polite company, and then offers his hand to Marian. “Shall we, Miss Brook?”
She puts her hand in his, and he feels his breath catch in his throat.
***
“Are you going to tell me the meaning of that?” She asks him in a murmur, as he is swirling her around the room.
“Of what?” He plays dumb.
She gives him a look. “Larry.”
“I just – I just realized we hadn’t danced tonight, and I thought we ought to,” He says, casually. “I like dancing with you.”
“I like dancing with you too,” She says, smiling shyly. “You’re a very good dancer.”
“We had a capital time at Gladys’ ball,” he says, “and every other time since.”
“Yes,” she says, “But why did you lie to Mr. Montgomery?”
“I didn’t lie,” he says, which is not entirely true. “I just – I didn’t want to wait.”
She laughs, and he loves the happy, bright sound of it tinkling in his ears. “I see I am to get no straight answers from you, tonight, Larry.”
He readjusts his grip on her waist, trying to pretend he cannot feel the warmth of her body through the fabric. “He means to court you,” Larry says, and God knows what compels him to say it.
“Who?” She frowns. “Cousin Dashiell?”
“He’s your cousin?” Larry asks, confused – although it doesn’t prevent him from courting her, he supposes. But it does seem to improve matters, he thinks, for it makes it less likely.
“He’s Oscar’s cousin, really,” Marian says. “He was Mr. van Rhijn’s nephew. So we’re not related.”
“Oh,” he says, feeling annoyed again. “Well, yes, that’s who I meant.”
“I don’t think so,” she shakes her head, her eyes very bright. “He’s simply being friendly. He has a daughter who is nearly 14, and his wife only died a year ago. And I have given him no indication that I would be – receptive to such a thing.”
“Would you?” He asks, and he knows this is improper. “Would you be receptive to his courtship?”
He can feel himself tightening his grip on her hand, and he cannot stop looking at her lovely face. He could lose himself in her eyes, he thinks, feeling dizzy from all the spinning.
“Why do you ask?” She says, suddenly sounding far more coy than he’s used to – and he thinks he sees her flush a little. “That’s a bit of a personal question, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he says, and he’s very aware, suddenly, of how close two people are when they’re dancing. So close it would be quite improper in any other situation. “But we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Friends,” she says. “Yes, we are.”
“So,” he says, smiling at her, trying not to think about the myriad of strange feelings and thoughts he’s had tonight – thoughts of making love to Marian, when he’s never really thought about it before – thoughts about how close they are when they’re dancing – how very much he likes the feel of her smiling at him – how very much he does not like that Mr. Montgomery. “Are you receptive to it?”
“I don’t know,” she says, frowning, and he can tell she’s considering it. “He is a little older, but it’s not wholly unusual…”
“He’s much too old for you,” Larry says, without thinking. “His daughter is barely younger than Gladys!”
She laughs at this. “Frances is a little girl, Larry, and Gladys is a woman.”
“She’s only nineteen,” Larry says, not wanting to concede the point. “You said his daughter is 13? 14? She’s not that much younger.”
Marian gives him a funny look. “You seem very concerned about this detail, Larry.”
“I just…” Larry shakes his head, trying to stop being so strange. “I think you ought to be with someone…younger. Your own age. A peer. Someone…energetic. Lively.”
She raises her eyebrows at him. “Dashiell could be incredible energetic, for all you know. You don’t even know the man.”
He huffs a little. “I just think you ought to have an exciting life, Miss Brook. I think you want one. And I think you deserve to get it.”
She looks a little stunned by this remark. “And you don’t think Mr. Montgomery can give that to me, I take it?”
“I just mean that you…” he is stumbling over his words, his head fuzzy with champagne and a strange emotion boiling inside of him. “You ought to be with someone who wants to be your…equal. Your companion. Who can bring out the sense of adventure in you. Someone you can have fun with.”
“You certainly have thoughts about this,” Marian says, laughing. “Have you any candidates in mind? Perhaps a friend from Harvard? Aunt Agnes would like that.”
“No,” he says, immediately shaking his head, suddenly feeling like every friend he’s ever had is an unbearable rake and he’d rather die than introduce any of them to Marian. “None of them are good enough for you.”
She laughs again, giving him a strange look. “But they’re good enough to be your friend? Just as I am your friend?”
“It’s not the same,” he mutters. He has somehow steered them quite close to the french doors, which are open wide to the balcony.
The music has died away, and he drops her hand, awkwardly, once they both realize it. He grabs two flutes from a waiter passing by, and holds them up to her. He gestures to the balcony with his head.
“Would you like some air?”
“All right,” she says, her voice hard to read.
***
It is so easy to be with her, he thinks, and that is why she is such a wonderful friend. She is so – lovely, he thinks. That’s the only word for it.
She is laughing at some silly remark he’s made, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright, and he cannot stop gazing at her. He’s had rather a lot of champagne, but he knows he likes her company with or without champagne.
“Let me get you another drink,” he says, gesturing at a waiter. He picks up two more glasses, and hands one to her.
She flushes. “I shouldn’t. We’ve – we’ve had rather a lot, don’t you think?”
“We’re still standing,” he says, roguishly, and he’s thrilled when she giggles.
“Everyone’s going to be wondering where I am,” she says, glancing around. “Cousin Aurora. Cousin Dashiell.”
“Forget them,” he says, annoyed to hear the man’s name again. “Aren’t you having fun?”
“Yes,” she says, giving him a smile. “You always make me laugh so, Larry. I’m having a lot of fun.”
“That’s all that matters, then,” he says.
He inches closer to her – she is so lovely in this dress, he thinks, and then he thinks, rather shockingly, that she’d be even lovelier out of the dress, and his stomach flips over at the thought. God, he thinks, he’d die to see that. He imagines it – her pale, smooth skin, and her narrow waist, and her long legs, and he feels like his mouth is watering at the thought.
Get a hold of yourself , he tells himself, sternly. This is indecent.
“Larry?” She says, waving a hand in front of his face. “You look odd.”
“I’m – I’m fine,” he says, thickly, shaking his head. “Just got – distracted.”
He inches closer to her again, like he can’t help himself. She looks at him, questioningly, and he feels like there is something strange and charged between them – something there isn’t usually.
It’s not that he hasn’t always thought she’s beautiful – he has. And he’s always liked her, always enjoyed her company. He’s always been attracted to her, if truth be told. But this feels different – intimate, somehow... electric, even, in a way they are not usually. They are not usually alone like this, secluded on a dark corner of a balcony, no Aunt Agnes in sight. No one in sight, really, something in his mind says.
He moves even closer to her, and they are so close that his forearm is touching her gloved one. He sees the breath hitch in her throat, and he enjoys this more than he ought to.
“What?” She asks him, her eyes wide. “You seem very strange tonight.”
“Just – just don’t marry Mr. Montgomery,” he says, stupidly, the words falling out before he can stop them. “Please.”
“Why?” She asks the question almost searchingly, and he doesn’t know what kind of answer to give. “Why should I?”
He looks at her again – her blue eyes, the golden cloud of hair, the delicate skin of her neck, and that pink rosebud mouth. He wants to kiss her, he thinks, the thought forming fuzzily in his head. He wants to kiss Marian Brook very badly. He does not think of Susan at all.
He picks up her gloved hand in his – this is a departure for them, as he usually only does this when helping her into a carriage or dancing – and he knows he is drunk now. She doesn’t say anything, her mouth opening a fraction. He moves closer to her, still holding her hand. Do it, he thinks. Just do it. The champagne is clouding his mind so much that he doesn’t care that this could shock her, could ruin their friendship. All he can think about is how very much he likes spending time with her, how beautiful she looks tonight, how right her hand feels in his.
With his free hand, he reaches out to touch her cheek very gently.
“What – what are you doing?” She asks, her voice shaking – but he does not think she sounds upset. “What are you doing, Larry?”
“Tell me to stop, if you want,” he says, quietly, still stroking her cheek with his thumb, moving closer to her by a fraction. “If you want me to stop, I shall.”
She shakes her head, swallowing hard, her eyes huge and fixed on his. “I don’t want you to stop.”
He moves closer to her, so that their noses are nearly touching. He sees her close her eyes, her eyelashes fluttering shut – she wants this , he thinks, feeling dizzy and delirious with…nerves? Lust? Excitement? Something else? And his mouth is nearly on hers – he can smell the flowery scent she is wearing, he can practically taste her already, his other hand coming up to hold the other side of her face – when he hears a voice call, “Cousin Marian? Are you out here?”
It is Aurora Fane.
They leap apart, breathing very hard, and Marian doesn’t meet his eye. “I’m here, Aurora! I’ll be right – I’ll be right there.”
“What are you doing over there, in the dark?” He can hear Mrs. Fane’s voice getting closer, and he shrinks back, into the shadows, to spare Marian the humiliation of being caught alone with him like this.
“I was looking – I lost a glove,” Marian says, stepping towards her cousin. “I found it, though!”
“Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Fane says, clutching Marian’s arm. “I thought I’d lost you! What would Aunt Agnes say? We really ought to get you home, dear, it’s nearly 4 in the morning.”
Marian lets her cousin lead her back towards the door to the ballroom, and he sees – or thinks he sees – her turn her head back towards him when they are near the entrance.
She looks at him, the light shining on her beautiful face, and his heart lurches. He should have kissed her, damnit, he thinks. He should kiss her the next time he gets the chance. He will, he thinks, his heart pounding.
***
When he wakes up the next day, his mouth cottony and his head pounding, he doesn’t remember much of anything after he returned to Mr. McAllister’s party. He feels wretched and guilty and irritable, and he knows he will need to apologize to Susan as soon as possible.
After he’s apologized, and she’s forgiven him very thoroughly and enthusiastically, he still feels strangely hollow. Something is missing, he thinks, and he doesn’t know what.