A Conversation in the Yellow Drawing-room
Dec. 17th, 2017 11:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scripsiTitle: A Conversation in the Yellow Drawing-room
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell
Genre Drama
Rating: Teen and up
Characters: Emma Pole, John Childermass
Words: 2203
Summary: Lady Pole writes a letter to her friend Mrs Strange about an unexpected encounter
AN: This fic was written as a treat forrosedamask during Yuletid 2015. But I ran out of time, and instead of posting it to the New Year Resolution, it slipped my mind. Yesterday when I was sorting through my files i found it, and realised the changes needed were minor, and it didn’t take me long to fix them. Thanks to Kate Nepveu for beta.
Dear Arabella,
I trust you will not be affronted if I don’t spend many words on asking how you are though I am of course wildly curious. I will expect a long missive from you describing everything in great detail. But such a peculiar incident happened to me today and I need to put pen to paper because I feel very confused. I am sure you will come to my aid with your usual sensible and thoughtful advice.
It was well past visiting hours, and I was busy going through my wardrobe with Pampisford. She’s assured me fashion will shift soon and the high waists of the past decades will move to a more natural place. She also tells me it will be a lot more flattering for a lady past her first youth. Meaning me, I suppose. I don’t feel old, having had so many years robbed from me, but I am nearing thirty and in the eyes of the world I am practically ancient. All the gowns I own were all picked by my mother when I was either too ill to be bothered or too lethargic to care due to those horrible nights dancing in Lost-Hope. I don’t care for any of them now and I am quite eager to figure out what my own taste is. I think I will have my new gowns cut a little longer in the bodice and in the warm colours of autumn. Either I will be a laughingstock or I will set a new fashion though in truth I do not care which.
But I digress. I was quite absorbed in the important task of choosing suitable fabrics when it was announced that “an individual” was asking to see me. The butler, though not as admirable as Stephen, is still an excellent man; from just those two words I understood he was shocked this person had used the main entrance and was not, in his opinion, someone I ought to receive. I instantly said I would see him in the yellow drawing-room.
And who do you think it was? It was that strange man Childermass. I had not seen him since the day my thralldom in Lost-Hope ended. He was somewhat (not much) better dressed, but he still had very queer eyes and hair worn like a black waterfall around his shoulders. When I saw him last there had been a terrible wound on his face, now it had healed and formed a silvery white scar on his cheek. I used to hate him very much, but then he brought my salvation and now I don’t know what I feel. But between you and me, my dear friend, I think he has more than a little fairy blood in him and a great deal of very strong magic.
I had no idea how to greet him. For all his entanglement in both my misfortune and my fortune, I have only ever said a handful of words to him. And somehow my governess never taught me how to properly address a man you have almost killed.
“Lady Pole”, he said abruptly without no pretence of grace or polite observations about the weather. “I have come here to offer my help.”
I don’t know what I had expected from him, but it was certainly not this.
“I thank you Mr Childermass,” I said. “But I hope you don’t find me rude when I say I do not need any aid from you.”
He looked at me with his strange dark eyes and it made me feel very odd.
“I think you may.”
“Have you been spying on me?”
I felt quite upset. I remember how you told me of the trick Mr. Strange used to do at parties; how he could conjure up a vision of what a person was doing, as real as life, in a bowl of water. It always struck me that a person lacking in morals and respect; someone unlike your husband, of course, dearest Arabella, could use that spell to learn to spy on a lady. Without her ever knowing the most intimate secrets could be revealed!
But Mr Childermass shook his head.
“No, the cards told me.”
He reached into a pocket and removed a small stack of paper, which he gave me. I noticed his hands were very clean too and his nails well-kept. The cards were quite interesting. They were crude, drawn on a variety of paper like bills and old receipts. The drawings were made by an untutored hand, but not lacking in raw talent, and despite their simple look I found them compelling. As I held them, I suddenly had a vision of Mr Childermass sitting at a table at, what I surmise, must have been a tavern of the rowdier sort. He was busy drawing the cards, badgering the drunks around him for paper, but otherwise not bothered by them.
It was a very brief vision, perhaps a second or two, but Childermass raised his head and stared at me, but when he spoke again he did not ask me about it.
“I can show you how. ”
It was tempting, but I shook my head and gave him back the pack of cards, and he shrugged and put them inside his pocket. I felt calmer, though. I doubt anyone could discern a lady’s intimacies from these ragged cards, however talented a magician.
“What kind of danger do you believe I’m in?”
“Few has spent more time in Faerie than you. There is a lot of fairy magic about your person, you almost glow with it, and has marked you for those who can see it.”
“I have no interest in the magic.”
He looked sceptical at that, but then he shrugged again before I could deny it more forcefully.
“And still you can tell a magician from the common man with just a glance?”
I nodded, and he continued.
“It is a good thing, because you have been turned into a beacon, drawing magic to you regardless if you wish it or not. I think it could be very dangerous for you. Someone may be attracted to you who comes filled with malice and a wish to be hurtful.”
I felt a cold trickle down my spine. The horror of once again being the centre of attention from such a creature as the Gentleman is a nightmare which has afflicted me again and again since I gained my freedom. (Dearest Arabella, I hope you are not affected by such dreams, though I fear I hope in vain.) I looked at Childermass and wondered if he had really come as my friend or if he would prove to be one of those evil beings he mentioned. But then I thought how he and M. Segundus came to my rescue and decided I could trust him.
“And that is why you are here?”
“It is.”
I don’t know what came over me, but his manner, though not at all gentlemanly and rather brusque, made me feel completely at ease and rather bold too.
“You are a magician, Mr Childermass. Are you attracted to me?”
“Lady Pole, you are a woman of great beauty- would that not be enough to captivate any man?”
“I don’t believe it would be enough for you.”
And I truly didn’t believe it. Most men fall in love with beauty or money and though I may sound conceited in saying it, I know I possess both. But I don’t think Childermass is an ordinary man, and I wondered what kind of woman who could catch and hold his attention.
“That is true, my lady.”
“And you still haven’t answered my question, I notice. Are you trying to evade me?”
For the first time I saw him smile. It was not a happy smile, nor did it transform his twisted face into a handsome countenance, but it rendered him a good deal more attractive nevertheless.
“You are astute. Very well, you entice me very much.”
I had expected an answer along those lines, my dear Arabella, but not quite as forthright as this and I was speechless for a moment. I forgot I am not a chit of a girl anymore and blushed. An ordinary man would have apologised for such behaviour, but not he and I quickly regained my composure.
“And now you are offering to be my knight in shining armour?”
I laughed when I said it to show him I didn’t take it seriously, but he did not laugh with me.
“No,” he said after some consideration. “I am merely offering my help should you need it.”
He then produced a letter and gave it to me. It was plain, unaddressed and sealed and felt heavier than it ought to be.
“I suggest you carry it with you, my lady, and all you have to do if you need my help is to put it into a burning flame.”
I weighed the letter in my hand and suddenly I wondered what would happen if I threw it in the fireplace in my room late at night when I was all alone. I think he must have read my mind because he lips curved in a decidedly ironic way and he added;
“It’s not meant to be used frivolously.”
I blushed a little again because even if I am not bothered by much that a proper lady should be bothered about any more, it’s still embarrassingly intimate to have one's thoughts understood so readily.
My dearest friend, I hope my candid words haven’t embarrassed you, but I find I no longer care much for the conventions and rules demanded of our sex. I have been silenced all my life, by illness and by enchantment and now I will speak my mind. People have already thought me mad for years after all. But I don’t think I will shock you too much, because you understand me better than anyone else, except perhaps for dear, faithful Stephen who shared my imprisonment even longer than you did.
There, in my drawing-room with this strange man, I could not help thinking what it would be like to be loved by him. You, I am sure, have never had reason to think such thoughts as you married a man you adored. But I didn't love Sir Walter, even if he was always kind and I liked him well enough. As for Lost-Hope and the Gentleman; what happened there I will not think about. But it occurred to me that Childermass’ love would be dark and tender at the same time and I shivered in my chair. I am sure you will not remind me of his low birth and that I am still married though I will never sleep in Sir Walter’s bed again, because I know it all very well. And have no fear, even though I am more daring now, I did not speak to Childermass about it, even if you probably think I was still much too forward in my answer. No doubt we exchanged words that can be described in no other way than scandalous.
“And what would you do if I handled your gift in such a careless manner?”
Suddenly his eyes danced with mirth. “I believe I would have to scold you, my lady.”
I was sorely tempted to ask him to elaborate on what a scolding from him would entail, but instead I rose and thanked him for his kindness.
He told me to think nothing of it and made to depart and I gave him my hand as I had done once before when he gave me my finger back. A gentleman would have kissed it, but he is not one and he merely covered it with his other hand for a moment. His hands were very warm and from it a heat spread through my whole body and now, hours later, I still feel like I have been set on fire. And, though he told me I had to be wary of people who may wish me harm, I am in very high spirits. Instead of worrying my thoughts return to Mr Childermass’ person. He seems to be a man of disheveled appearance and a rough nature, but that is the surface. I noticed his clothes was spotless, if worn and old, and his linen would not shame Beau Brummel. And though it seems he cares little about other humans, he was prepared to sacrifice his life for the detestable Mr Norrell, and now he has, unbid, come to my aid twice.
And there you have my curious afternoon. What do you say about it, Arabella? I wasn’t mad before, but perhaps I am a little mad now. I must see him again, he has a mind lie no other man, and I am sorely tempted to put the letter to the fire regardless of what he said. Write to me quickly and tell me all the good reasons for not burning the letter Mr Childermass gave me, and to put my strange thoughts about him away. My own voice of reason seems to have deserted me, so I rely on yours.
Your loving friend,
Emma Pole.
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell
Genre Drama
Rating: Teen and up
Characters: Emma Pole, John Childermass
Words: 2203
Summary: Lady Pole writes a letter to her friend Mrs Strange about an unexpected encounter
AN: This fic was written as a treat for
rosedamask during Yuletid 2015. But I ran out of time, and instead of posting it to the New Year Resolution, it slipped my mind. Yesterday when I was sorting through my files i found it, and realised the changes needed were minor, and it didn’t take me long to fix them. Thanks to Kate Nepveu for beta.Dear Arabella,
I trust you will not be affronted if I don’t spend many words on asking how you are though I am of course wildly curious. I will expect a long missive from you describing everything in great detail. But such a peculiar incident happened to me today and I need to put pen to paper because I feel very confused. I am sure you will come to my aid with your usual sensible and thoughtful advice.
It was well past visiting hours, and I was busy going through my wardrobe with Pampisford. She’s assured me fashion will shift soon and the high waists of the past decades will move to a more natural place. She also tells me it will be a lot more flattering for a lady past her first youth. Meaning me, I suppose. I don’t feel old, having had so many years robbed from me, but I am nearing thirty and in the eyes of the world I am practically ancient. All the gowns I own were all picked by my mother when I was either too ill to be bothered or too lethargic to care due to those horrible nights dancing in Lost-Hope. I don’t care for any of them now and I am quite eager to figure out what my own taste is. I think I will have my new gowns cut a little longer in the bodice and in the warm colours of autumn. Either I will be a laughingstock or I will set a new fashion though in truth I do not care which.
But I digress. I was quite absorbed in the important task of choosing suitable fabrics when it was announced that “an individual” was asking to see me. The butler, though not as admirable as Stephen, is still an excellent man; from just those two words I understood he was shocked this person had used the main entrance and was not, in his opinion, someone I ought to receive. I instantly said I would see him in the yellow drawing-room.
And who do you think it was? It was that strange man Childermass. I had not seen him since the day my thralldom in Lost-Hope ended. He was somewhat (not much) better dressed, but he still had very queer eyes and hair worn like a black waterfall around his shoulders. When I saw him last there had been a terrible wound on his face, now it had healed and formed a silvery white scar on his cheek. I used to hate him very much, but then he brought my salvation and now I don’t know what I feel. But between you and me, my dear friend, I think he has more than a little fairy blood in him and a great deal of very strong magic.
I had no idea how to greet him. For all his entanglement in both my misfortune and my fortune, I have only ever said a handful of words to him. And somehow my governess never taught me how to properly address a man you have almost killed.
“Lady Pole”, he said abruptly without no pretence of grace or polite observations about the weather. “I have come here to offer my help.”
I don’t know what I had expected from him, but it was certainly not this.
“I thank you Mr Childermass,” I said. “But I hope you don’t find me rude when I say I do not need any aid from you.”
He looked at me with his strange dark eyes and it made me feel very odd.
“I think you may.”
“Have you been spying on me?”
I felt quite upset. I remember how you told me of the trick Mr. Strange used to do at parties; how he could conjure up a vision of what a person was doing, as real as life, in a bowl of water. It always struck me that a person lacking in morals and respect; someone unlike your husband, of course, dearest Arabella, could use that spell to learn to spy on a lady. Without her ever knowing the most intimate secrets could be revealed!
But Mr Childermass shook his head.
“No, the cards told me.”
He reached into a pocket and removed a small stack of paper, which he gave me. I noticed his hands were very clean too and his nails well-kept. The cards were quite interesting. They were crude, drawn on a variety of paper like bills and old receipts. The drawings were made by an untutored hand, but not lacking in raw talent, and despite their simple look I found them compelling. As I held them, I suddenly had a vision of Mr Childermass sitting at a table at, what I surmise, must have been a tavern of the rowdier sort. He was busy drawing the cards, badgering the drunks around him for paper, but otherwise not bothered by them.
It was a very brief vision, perhaps a second or two, but Childermass raised his head and stared at me, but when he spoke again he did not ask me about it.
“I can show you how. ”
It was tempting, but I shook my head and gave him back the pack of cards, and he shrugged and put them inside his pocket. I felt calmer, though. I doubt anyone could discern a lady’s intimacies from these ragged cards, however talented a magician.
“What kind of danger do you believe I’m in?”
“Few has spent more time in Faerie than you. There is a lot of fairy magic about your person, you almost glow with it, and has marked you for those who can see it.”
“I have no interest in the magic.”
He looked sceptical at that, but then he shrugged again before I could deny it more forcefully.
“And still you can tell a magician from the common man with just a glance?”
I nodded, and he continued.
“It is a good thing, because you have been turned into a beacon, drawing magic to you regardless if you wish it or not. I think it could be very dangerous for you. Someone may be attracted to you who comes filled with malice and a wish to be hurtful.”
I felt a cold trickle down my spine. The horror of once again being the centre of attention from such a creature as the Gentleman is a nightmare which has afflicted me again and again since I gained my freedom. (Dearest Arabella, I hope you are not affected by such dreams, though I fear I hope in vain.) I looked at Childermass and wondered if he had really come as my friend or if he would prove to be one of those evil beings he mentioned. But then I thought how he and M. Segundus came to my rescue and decided I could trust him.
“And that is why you are here?”
“It is.”
I don’t know what came over me, but his manner, though not at all gentlemanly and rather brusque, made me feel completely at ease and rather bold too.
“You are a magician, Mr Childermass. Are you attracted to me?”
“Lady Pole, you are a woman of great beauty- would that not be enough to captivate any man?”
“I don’t believe it would be enough for you.”
And I truly didn’t believe it. Most men fall in love with beauty or money and though I may sound conceited in saying it, I know I possess both. But I don’t think Childermass is an ordinary man, and I wondered what kind of woman who could catch and hold his attention.
“That is true, my lady.”
“And you still haven’t answered my question, I notice. Are you trying to evade me?”
For the first time I saw him smile. It was not a happy smile, nor did it transform his twisted face into a handsome countenance, but it rendered him a good deal more attractive nevertheless.
“You are astute. Very well, you entice me very much.”
I had expected an answer along those lines, my dear Arabella, but not quite as forthright as this and I was speechless for a moment. I forgot I am not a chit of a girl anymore and blushed. An ordinary man would have apologised for such behaviour, but not he and I quickly regained my composure.
“And now you are offering to be my knight in shining armour?”
I laughed when I said it to show him I didn’t take it seriously, but he did not laugh with me.
“No,” he said after some consideration. “I am merely offering my help should you need it.”
He then produced a letter and gave it to me. It was plain, unaddressed and sealed and felt heavier than it ought to be.
“I suggest you carry it with you, my lady, and all you have to do if you need my help is to put it into a burning flame.”
I weighed the letter in my hand and suddenly I wondered what would happen if I threw it in the fireplace in my room late at night when I was all alone. I think he must have read my mind because he lips curved in a decidedly ironic way and he added;
“It’s not meant to be used frivolously.”
I blushed a little again because even if I am not bothered by much that a proper lady should be bothered about any more, it’s still embarrassingly intimate to have one's thoughts understood so readily.
My dearest friend, I hope my candid words haven’t embarrassed you, but I find I no longer care much for the conventions and rules demanded of our sex. I have been silenced all my life, by illness and by enchantment and now I will speak my mind. People have already thought me mad for years after all. But I don’t think I will shock you too much, because you understand me better than anyone else, except perhaps for dear, faithful Stephen who shared my imprisonment even longer than you did.
There, in my drawing-room with this strange man, I could not help thinking what it would be like to be loved by him. You, I am sure, have never had reason to think such thoughts as you married a man you adored. But I didn't love Sir Walter, even if he was always kind and I liked him well enough. As for Lost-Hope and the Gentleman; what happened there I will not think about. But it occurred to me that Childermass’ love would be dark and tender at the same time and I shivered in my chair. I am sure you will not remind me of his low birth and that I am still married though I will never sleep in Sir Walter’s bed again, because I know it all very well. And have no fear, even though I am more daring now, I did not speak to Childermass about it, even if you probably think I was still much too forward in my answer. No doubt we exchanged words that can be described in no other way than scandalous.
“And what would you do if I handled your gift in such a careless manner?”
Suddenly his eyes danced with mirth. “I believe I would have to scold you, my lady.”
I was sorely tempted to ask him to elaborate on what a scolding from him would entail, but instead I rose and thanked him for his kindness.
He told me to think nothing of it and made to depart and I gave him my hand as I had done once before when he gave me my finger back. A gentleman would have kissed it, but he is not one and he merely covered it with his other hand for a moment. His hands were very warm and from it a heat spread through my whole body and now, hours later, I still feel like I have been set on fire. And, though he told me I had to be wary of people who may wish me harm, I am in very high spirits. Instead of worrying my thoughts return to Mr Childermass’ person. He seems to be a man of disheveled appearance and a rough nature, but that is the surface. I noticed his clothes was spotless, if worn and old, and his linen would not shame Beau Brummel. And though it seems he cares little about other humans, he was prepared to sacrifice his life for the detestable Mr Norrell, and now he has, unbid, come to my aid twice.
And there you have my curious afternoon. What do you say about it, Arabella? I wasn’t mad before, but perhaps I am a little mad now. I must see him again, he has a mind lie no other man, and I am sorely tempted to put the letter to the fire regardless of what he said. Write to me quickly and tell me all the good reasons for not burning the letter Mr Childermass gave me, and to put my strange thoughts about him away. My own voice of reason seems to have deserted me, so I rely on yours.
Your loving friend,
Emma Pole.
