fuckit-ficit

[fuckit-ficit]

Wildflowers I: A Ball at Hawthorn Hall

Wildflowers is a one-shot series (?) featuring Dutch van der Linde and his lost beloved, Annabelle.

"A Ball at Hawthorn Hall"

In which Dutch crashes a soiree with avaricious intent and encounters an unusual heiress. The two soon find themselves in a potentially compromising position.

******

Genres: romance (f/m), adventure

Rating: pg-13

Wordcount: ~1800

Content Warnings: gun mention, sexual references. Setting is the immediately post-war south, no overt violence or racism but still.

Cover image credit to queerhaw

******

Flecks of gold light cast by gas lamps and candles shimmered on the mirror-dark surface of the decorative pond. A dark-haired man re-situated his top hat before striding forth through the glowing doorway into the stately manor house. Inside, elegantly dressed guests were replete, their expensive perfumes not quite sufficient to disguise the smell of bodies packed into rooms built for opulence rather than airflow. Before the man took ten steps, he was politely accosted by a footman who held out his arm.

               “Sir, if I may take your coat and your name?” The attendant smiled blandly, and the newcomer returned it with a charming grin. He shrugged off his greatcoat and placed it atop the extended arm.

               “Why thank you, sir, my coat you may have but I think I’ll keep my name, as I’m fond of it.” And before the footman could answer, he continued. “It’s Smith, but you won’t find it on the guest register. I’m here on behalf of my employer, one Dr. Patton.” The footman frowned and hesitated, seemingly perusing the list in his mind. Smith took a moment to be impressed with his diligence and memory, and to resolve not to arouse this particular servant’s suspicion.

               “Dr. Patton, yes, from Annesburg, if I recall. He gave no indication that he would be attending tonight, nor that he would send a… colleague in his stead.” The footman said the word as if it pained him a bit, and Smith cursed, not for the first time, the common mannerisms that all his reading and acting could never quite smooth out.

               “Oh no, he much prefers spontaneity, Dr. van Doorne could tell you as much.” Smith replied, chuckling as if the two men had shared a joke. “I hate to trouble him on such a festive and busy night, but I’m certain Dr. van Doorne would vouch for me.” Smith looked at the footman guilelessly. The servant barely spared a thought before replying.

               “No, no. the Doctor need not be bothered with such things. Sign the guestbook, of course, and if you have a letter for the Doctor, any manservant will ensure it’s delivered to him at the earliest convenience.” ‘Any servant other than me’ went unsaid. Smith smiled brightly.

               “Good man. I thank you for your hospitality, and I wish you luck with the rest of the Doctor’s esteemed guests.” He clapped the footman on the shoulder and just then. a gaggle of men entered the foyer, talking loudly amongst themselves. The servant’s gaze slid off Smith like water off a duck’s wing. Smith turned and took in the foyer; the sweeping staircases on either side, the crystalline chandelier above him, the precious paintings and intricate molding lining the walls. He smiled, a warm flush of anticipation sweeping through him.

***

There was a slight swishing sound from well-oiled hinges and the warm light of the hallway washed the room. A figure was silhouetted in the door for just a breath before they stepped inside and closed the door behind. Smith had turned immediately, trying to the tabletop where his tools lay, and he affected a relaxed posture. As the figure stepped toward him, into the scant ring of light offered by Smith’s hand lantern, he could see it was a young woman. Chestnut curls were barely contained in an approximation of a fashionable coiffure; the few wildflowers placed at random throughout gave the sense that the young woman was deliberate in her abandonment of the usual sleek pompadour.

               “Good evening, sir.” The woman offered with a slight inquisitive tilt of her head. Her eyes flicked to the gun at his hip, revealed when his jacket was rumpled by his efforts, and then back to his own. He couldn’t see their color in the dim gas light, but he couldn’t miss the sharp glint in them. More notable, even, was her insistence on meeting his gaze, with no thought for the deference doubtless demanded by her upbringing.

               “And to you, ma’am.” He returned automatically.

               “What reason do I have, sir, not to scream for help. I really ought to report that there is an armed stranger in my dressing room.” Her gaze was cool on his, and her unsual tolerance for his presence did not seem to equate naivete to the precarious nature of their interaction.

               “What, Miss Annabelle, if I name you rightly, and if I may be so bold…” he paused, making sure she was hanging on his words. “may I offer you for your silence?” He’d spotted a curiosity in her, barely hidden beneath her polished façade, and he knew he’d been right when she willingly bit the bait he’d laid before her.  

               “Your name will suffice, I expect.”

               “A trifle. Are you certain you don’t want to ask for a little more?” He stepped a bit closer, holding her gaze and fully obscuring the table behind him. She smiled at him for the first time, a puckish tilt of her painted mouth which accompanied a quick perusal of his figure and finery.  

               “There’s much in a name. A past, a present, perhaps a future” She met his eyes once again “if you’re clever.”

               “What reason do I have not to give you a false name? After all, I have been caught in a truly unflattering position tonight.” He challenged, deliberately insouciant. She gave him a different smile then, a close-mouthed, subdued thing. A secret held there on her lips.

               “I’ll know.” She said. Dutch considered her for a half-moment. Never one to waste time on excessive second-guessing when time was of the essence, Dutch acquiesced.

               “It’s Van der Linde. Dutch, to my Friends.” He stated. In a polite fashion utterly unsuited to the circumstsances, Annabelle dipped into a curtsy.

               “Thank you for your honesty, Sir.” She acknowledged with a graceful dip of her head. “Now, a final bargain.” Annabelle rose and waited for him to agree, which he did with a nod. “Leave the ruby set, it is a favorite of mine, take whatever else you can hold in one hand, and I’ll show you a plausible egress.” She looked at his right hand (which had held the pick before he palmed it away into his sleeve), seeming to contemplate what he could hold there. Slightly wary, but seeing no other option nearly as appealing, Dutch turned to the jewelry case behind him and grabbed a handful of elegantly wrought jewelry, tucking it into one of several small silk purses he’d brought for precisely that purpose. Having done so, he turned back to his erstwhile companion.

               “Lead the way, Madame” He instructed, plucking his glossy top hat from where he’d discarded it and donning it once again. To Dutch’s surprise, Annabelle reached out and grasped his hand in her own. He wondered at the softness of it, the luxuriant lifestyle apparent in her well-maintained nails and unscarred skin. Still, Dutch could feel roughness across her palm, where reins would rest. The father raised and sold horses, that had been obvious in the information he’d meticulously gathered in preparation for this night. And the daughter rode, it seemed.

               The pair emerged into the well-lit hallway, and they were nearing the door at the far end of the hall, which Annabelle had explained led to the servant’s quarters, as well as their designated door.  But before they could disappear into the darkness of the passage, several voices rose from around the corner. Leaping into action, Annabelle dragged Dutch into a small alcove, pressing him against the wall in what could hardly be called a kiss.  

               “Miss Annabelle?” It was a maid, perhaps a few years older than her mistress, with sparkling brown eyes and a slightly untidy uniform. Annabelle pulled away from Dutch to look at the interloper. She had adopted a loose posture and hazy gaze, and Dutch would’ve thought her truly debauched if he hadn’t witnessed the unprompted change.

               “Oh, hello Rose. Don’t worry about me. You go along now.” She assured the servant girl with an unrefined flap of her hand. Dutch angled his face, remaining in the shadows as best he could. Rose smiled conspiratorially.

“Oh I will, I shan’t get between you and your beau.” The last word was drawled pointedly. Annabelle blushed, and Dutch found himself impressed at her ability to do so on command. Or perhaps their discovery was more nerve-wracking than she let on.

“Your mother sent me to find you, something about a Mr. Gray.” She paused for dramatic effect, still eyeing the couple. “But I reckon I’ll tell her I saw you heading for the parlor. That should keep her busy.”

               “You’re a treasure.” Annabelle replied sheepishly. Rose giggled.

               “You just mind you keep your treasures about you, Miss Annabelle.” The older girl teased bawdily. Annabelle blushed deeper, and this time Dutch could feel the heat of her flushed cheeks by their sheer closeness. Rose had no idea how apt her warning was.

               “Rose!” Annabelle scolded, but the maid just laughed, turning on her heel and heading back the way she came. Schooling her features, Annabelle turned back to Dutch, who spoke up.  

               “Forgive my haste but I’ve no desire to wait until someone else comes along and discovers us.” He urged, and the two set off once a again, this time reaching the servant entrance unhindered. Dutch whistled sharply into the night and turned to survey his companion. Annabelle’s gaze was searching, disarming, and she was ethereally beautiful in the half-light. The Count emerged from the grove by the lake where he’d been grazing, and his pale coat glinted under the near-full moon. Dutch greeted the horse with a pat on the neck and made to mount up, but Annabelle stilled him with a gentle hand on his arm.

               “Wait,” she interrupted “allow me to give you a token.” She plucked a delicate snowdrop from where it was stowed behind her ear and retrieved a straight pin from somewhere else in her elaborate updo. She deftly pinned the blossom to his fine woolen jacket, bending close to make out her task in the darkness. As she did, she gave a small gasp, and Dutch watched a single drop of blood sink into the fabric where she’d pricked her finger. Too soon, she stepped back and gave her handiwork a light tap, just over Dutch’s heart.

               “You pay me a dear compliment, Miss Annabelle.” Dutch remarked, low and rumbling. Holding her gaze, he grasped her right hand and bent to kiss it chastely. But soon enough the moment was broken by the sound of kitchen clamor floating from the open windows, and Dutch pulled away. He hoisted himself into the saddle and caught her gaze one last time.

               “Don’t be a stranger, Mister van der Linde.” Annabelle instructed. Dutch granted her an enigmatic smile and turned away, spurring The Count into a canter. He rounded the house towards the broad road out front, hiding him from view. The last Annabelle knew of him then was the steady rhythm of hooves on packed red earth.

[fuckit-ficit]

Blog Intro + Tags + Masterlist

main is @alfaromeo-and-juliet

my writing is tagged #fuckitficit

There will be adult content, I will try to provide adequate ratings and warnings in advance. please reply or send me an ask if I've neglected to tag any sensitive content/triggers

I am an adult, I am writing for adults. If you are a minor, please take responsibility for your own experience and don't read content that isn't appropriate for you.

do not, under any circumstances, use my writing in large language AI models or any other AI application

******

Masterlist

Red Dead Redemption 2

Dutch van der Linde "Wildflowers" Part 1