#Anatopism | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mangoshorthand · 4 months

Text

Arrow of Time: Chapter 5 [Five Hargreeves/ F Reader]

(Hard Feelings Part 5)

SUMMARY: When the mother of all teenage tantrums causes time itself to fracture, Five has to travel back to 1831 to repair the damage. But will he be able to cope with what he finds there?

Chapter 6 >> << Back to Chapter 4

A new face and and old one.

Chapter 5: Sir Lewis Danforth

As always after the ladies withdraw, the men stay at the dining table to enjoy a drink. It’s a particularly unusual dining room, and the owner of the house at Lafayette Place does as much as possible to show it off to his guests, although they almost always leave it feeling slightly bemused.

The room is dominated by an immense crystal chandelier overhanging the dining table. It hangs by brass chains from a gold-leafed peacock in flight affixed to the ceiling. The body of the immense light-fixture takes the form of a lotus flower in full bloom off which sparkling cut-crystal festoons hang, catching the light attractively.

The rest of the room is equally striking in a way that, if not quite offensive to the eye, is at least highly bewildering: the jade-colored velvet curtains, (held back by gilded snakes wrapped around them), the painted walls adorned with marble pilasters and arched alcoves…it’s as if somebody who once heard the interior of the taj mahal inaccurately described decided to try recreating it in 1830’s Manhattan.

At the head of the long dining table, Sir Lewis Danforth sits splayed in the high-backed mahogany chair, a cigar in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other. Rather like his dining room, Sir Lewis has a look of opulent anatopism about him. Unknowingly, he is around thirty years ahead of his time in wearing a smoking jacket, but his descendants would be unlikely to choose a silk Sherwani to serve as one. His broad, slightly flabby face is currently ruddy with the drink, and he laughs along amiably enough with the other men.

Mr Wilson, a mousy lawyer at the other end of the table, (largely invited for the sake of his much more fashionable wife), ventures a compliment:

“I admired the food today. Most unusual. Quite the culinary experience.”

Sir Lewis smiled with satisfaction. It seemed Wilson had his uses after all. He was desperate to show off a particularly unusual acquisition and Wilson had given him the perfect opening to do so.

“I have not visited the Indian subcontinent myself,” continued Wilson, “but my good friend, Sir Henry Lytton has, and the food we sampled today seemed quite authentic to the flavors he described. Do you keep a Hindoostanne cook?”

“Lord no,” Sir Lewis chortled, “though not for lack of trying. Lady Anne won’t have anybody browner than a pail of milk on the household staff. She nurses unfortunate prejudices, I'm sorry to say.” he swilled down another swallow of liquor, cleared his throat and continued, “No, I had quite the remarkable little find. Ring the bell for me, won’t you, Smyth?”

The visitor at the other end of the table crossed to the bells to summon a servant. When the footman arrived, he was instructed to fetch the cook.

“Now just you wait here, gentleman, and tell me what you think of my special cook. Spent a year on the subcontinent at nineteen years old: India, Ceylon, Bengal and came back with capital knowledge of curries, spice blends, oriental herbs: all you could want.”

“Remarkable. His name, Sir Lewis?” asked Smyth, retaking his seat at the table.

Another chortle rumbled from Danforth as if traveling up his body from his toes, wobbling in his belly before bubbling out of his mouth.

“ Her name, Smyth.”

“A woman?”

“Precisely! And that’s the best part- she commands less of a wage than a man and she provides other… compensations , if you take my meaning.”

Other men around the table joined him in his lascivious chuckle.

“I’ve had her for nearly a year now and I’m perfectly satisfied with her. Hargreeves, she’s called: Mrs Hargreeves. No relation, I hope,” he looks laughingly at one of his guests and then tilts his head as if suddenly struck by his appearance:

“That’s a curious eye-piece you have there, Reginald. A single spectacle?”

“It's called a monocle,” said Hargreeves, shortly, adjusting it slightly, "my own design.”

“And an excellent piece it is too,” said Sir Lewis, “I say, you’ve visited the subcontinent: what do you think of my Mrs Hargreeves’ work?”

“Quite authentic,” he said, simply, “I should have guessed she wasn’t a native but she is, nevertheless, extremely capable.”

To go upstairs to the dining room, it's necessary to wash and change into a clean apron and cap. Why you couldn’t simply take off the apron was still a mystery to you. So many social conventions seemed bizarre, but blending in and keeping in your employers’ good graces was a matter of necessity. Your wages provided you with what felt like your only chance of getting home. Posing as the wife of a missing and presumed dead husband had been your only claim to respectability in this world.Sir Lewis found you on the street one night and assumed you were a prostitute. By then, you had managed to scrape enough money together to buy a cheap dress but not enough to afford room and board any longer.

After you’d refused his offer of payment for your ‘company’, he’d taken pity on you and offered you a meal. From there, conversation had flowed; your tale of woe had appealed to romantic ideas he had held as a very young man and your way of conducting yourself gave a ring of truth to what you told him.

He also mentioned in passing his interest in the Indian subcontinent and you’d leapt upon the commonality: describing the dishes you enjoyed cooking at home and what you knew of the geographical and cultural influences on each region’s cuisine, embellishing your knowledge with well-placed inventions. He’d been easily impressed: it soon became clear that he actually knew very little about the area.

Lady Danforth, however, had been less easy to impress. Although living in New York, she ran the household as if she still lived in England, underlining Sir Lewis’s aristocratic roots as much as possible as an attempted claim to prominence in this alien world.

You knew your presence was a constant annoyance to her. Although the domestic arrangements were her domain, Sir Lewis had imposed you upon her, insisting that she hire you after he had sampled a simple curry you cooked at his request. You’d tried to ingratiate yourself with her but with no luck. You could hardly blame her: like most women of this era, she accepted her husband’s dalliances as a matter of course. She could have probably turned a blind eye were he pursuing a buxom young maidservant, but to have him hankering after a middle-aged cook only a year or two younger than herself was an insult she couldn’t be expected to ignore.

The injustice of this rankles: while you've successfully avoided Lewis's sexual overtures, the entire world (including himself) behaves as if you're actually sleeping together.

The powerlessness is (and has long been) excruciating. For the first few days, you'd expected Five every moment, only leaving the vicinity of alley you arrived in briefly to find the site where the academy buildings would stand, several decades from now. You’d asked shopkeepers to convey a message to any frantic man who arrived but soon necessity had driven you to find this work. It wasn’t the nearest to where you arrived but trying to alert Five to your whereabouts cost money. Five knew what Viktor had done in Dallas when in a similar situation and trying to trace his family. Surely he’d check the newspapers?

That he’d do everything in his power to come was certain. That he hadn’t come yet was your major worry. You missed them both with intensity that had not waned over the months. Thanks to Sir Lewis’s favor, you were treated as an upper servant and this meant having your own small room in the basement servants’ quarters. Although you were suspicious of his reasons for this maneuver, (the hope of a private spot in which to visit you after dark), you hadn’t resisted it: the seclusion of your bedroom allowed you the space you needed to cry yourself to sleep virtually every night. Aoife’s smile and the memory of Five’s caresses were a toxic sustenance in your lonely existence: they formed the anchor to your real life. Too bad if that anchor’s prongs dragged and dug in your gut as if searching for purchase in a too-soft seabed.

Standing outside the drawing room now, listening to their manly, drink-addled chuckles, you take a deep breath and knock.

“Come.”

You open the door, advance a little way into the room and bob a curtsey to the gentlemen still around the table.

“Come in, Mrs Hargreeves. Mr Wilson here was just complimenting our good table.”

“Thank you, sir.” you nod demurely first at Sir Lewis and then at Mr Wilson.

“Very impressive indeed.” said one of the guests in another, clipped British accent. “Under whom did you study?”

The face of the man makes your stomach drop. You’ve seen that face, though older, in portraits and photographs around the Academy. The monocle firmly in place, the mustache, the goatee. Hair fuller and darker than you’d ever seen it pictured. As if to confirm your impossible identification, Sir Lewis says,

“Oh Reginald, you’ve and your odd ‘monocle’ seem to have scared my Mrs Hargreeves. I hope you don’t do the same to your own Mrs Hargreeves?”

He puts a flabby arm around your waist and slaps your hip bracingly and he chortles, pulling you a little closer towards him. As you regain your balance, you answer the alien in a skinsuit who is your father-in-law, for now pushing aside the fact that he’s appearing here nearly one hundred years earlier than any of his children estimated.

“Um…nobody in particular. I traveled and picked up what I could from local women…sir.”

Reginald eyed you with what your paranoid mind was convinced was suspicion as Sir Lewis began to rub firm circles into your hip. You extricated yourself smartly but politely to stand beside the intricately-carved mantle. He chuckled low in his throat. This, in his eyes, was you ‘playing hard to get’.

“You have talent,” Sir Reginald stated, taking a sip of his drink.

“You most certainly do,” concurred another guest.

“But this is a most extraordinary story,” Hargreeves said, speaking over him, “under what circumstances does a nineteen-year-old born and bred American female have the opportunity to explore the Indian subcontinent?”

“Extraordinary circumstances, sir,” you smile, unable to keep the nervous laugh out of your voice. Sir Lewis joins you, chuckling indulgently.

How to tell him or Hargreeves that your knowledge actually comes from cookbooks, youtube and living in a multicultural future? When it becomes clear that this won’t satisfy him, you tell the already-concocted lie:

“My father worked for a spice trader. When my mother died, he sent for me and I spent a year with him until he could secure a position in New York.”

“Hm.” by his tone, you can’t tell whether the sound expresses approval or doubt.

You bob another curtsey and cast a look at Sir Lewis in a silent appeal to be excused.

He nodded, mustache twitching with his grin.

“Thank you, Mrs Hargreeves. You may go.”

The other servants are starting to talk.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that you were strange, made the servants quarters smell of pervasive, unfamiliar spices and seemingly came out of nowhere, you’re also clearly having an immoral relationship with the master. That private bedroom, those evening visits to his study. (“We might not have much schooling”, said the ladies’ maid to the housemaid, “but we weren’t born yesterday”)

When the butler stumps his way ill-naturedly back into the kitchen, he looks to you with gruff annoyance.

“We ought to give you your own bell. Master wants you in his study again.”

You try to conceal a sigh, marking the page in your book.

“Thank you, Mr Hill.”

“Women of your age should know better than to read novels, Mrs Hargreeves. It’ll give you funny ideas.”

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

He doesn’t return your smile.

You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help but like Sir Lewis Danforth. It’s like being pursued by a horny old bulldog with a penchant for belly rubs. He always accepts your rebuffs with a good grace, perhaps even happier than if you’d given in. Yes, he can get a little handsy, but the thrill of the chase is the only thrill he really wants, even if he can’t admit that to himself. If only all sex-pests were as harmless. You’d learned quickly that 21st century feminist ideals were virtually useless here. It wasn’t a pleasant discovery but it had been a realization that helped you play the part you needed to play. It was no worse than keeping a smile on your face while being talked over in a sales meeting.

“You’re quite the saucy little vixen, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry sir?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, woman,” he said, waving an admonitory finger in your direction, eyes twinkling, “sit down, have a brandy.”

Before you arrived, you’d known little about this period of history, but it hadn’t taken you too long to realize that a sixty-five-year-old knight drinking in his study with his cook was not considered appropriate. These interviews probably aren’t wise but these times with Sir Lewis offer a rare opportunity to be yourself. This, you know, is why he thinks he has a chance of late-night rendezvous in your bedroom but it’s hard to let go of a small source of fun. He’s one of the few people who’s kind to you in this new life and, even more unusually, honest about his intentions.

Now, he wears a silk turban, a nightshirt and pajama pants: in this, like his improvised smoking jacket, he is an early-adopter. In all things, he takes his inspiration from India…or from the strange simulacra of vaguely eastern ideas he’s invented in his imagination. In your time, his cultural appropriation would be enough to get him canceled several times over: in his own time, he’s considered an eccentric sophisticate.

“So,” he says, handing you a glass and raising his to you, “it wasn’t enough for you to bewitch me, you’ve bewitched Sir Reginald Hargreeves too. Isn’t one man enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, letting your guard down,

“My husband is more than enough.”

He harumphs good-naturedly.

“Admirable sentiment, I’m sure. It’s in woman’s nature to be constant and it’s quite to your credit that your feelings are so loyal. But, if your husband lives, (and, for your sake, I hope he does), I can assure you he won’t have such fine feelings. He’ll be taking every opportunity to enter into amorous congress with a game lass. It’s quite normal for a red-blooded fellow. I'm afraid we can’t help ourselves.”

“We’ll agree to disagree there,” you say, swilling the brandy around your glass.

“Hmph. Well, he stumbled upon a gem when he snagged you as his bride. Damn, him. To his good health and safe return.”

He raises his glass in grudging tribute to Five before continuing.

“As I was saying, Sir Reginald has become an unlikely ally to me, even as he tries to court you himself.”

“You’ll need more than Sir Reginald Hargreeves on your side, Lewis. And neither of you will be courting me.”

“That’s the spirit I like,” he rumbled, smiling at your informal use of his Christian name, “but I’ve broken many a wilder mare than you, believe me. But that’s by the by: humor me and take a look at this.”

You’re unsure you believe that he’s broken any ‘wild mares’ in his time, but you take the piece of paper he offers you without comment. He ensures he brushes your hand with his as he transfers it to you.

It was a richly printed invitation inviting him to a party at Reginald Hargreeves' house in only a few days. At the bottom, in a neat, compact hand was clearly a handwritten addition:

Bring that intriguing cook of yours and tell her I'd like to claim her hand in the French waltz.

You look back up at him, a creeping sensation in your stomach. Because you can think of nothing else to say for the moment, you say:

“I don’t know the waltz.”

“I’ll teach you!” he said, clearly overjoyed at the idea of putting his hands on you.

You stare down at the invitation, taking a rather large swallow of brandy in order to give yourself time to think. You knew that trusting Reginald Hargreeves, especially when it came to maintaining timelines, was simply not an option. It was imperative that he learn nothing about who you are and why you’re here. You should refuse, you should stay as far away from him as possible…

But…

If Five’s anywhere in this time, he will sure as hell be paying close attention to anything his father does. Your other efforts have done nothing so far…so why not try a different approach?

“What about Lady Danforth?”

“That’s the best part, my dear. Staying with her niece. She won’t be home until the following afternoon. What Annie doesn’t know won’t hurt her, by God. And to stop tongues a-wagging, I’ll introduce you as my cousin.”

He smiles proudly at his own ingenuity.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Don’t concern yourself, my dear. I know you ladies can be very particular in matters of dress but will you allow me to select something suitable?”

You hesitate slightly. Knowing Sir Lewis, you’ll probably be turning up to this thing in the 19th century equivalent of stockings, suspenders and titty tassels.

“As long as you promise to keep it decent,” you say, warningly.

“Upon my honor,” he said, raising his right palm as if swearing on a bible, “it’s what’s underneath that counts, eh?”

You sigh again and down the rest of your brandy in one: sealing your decision.

“Then sure. I’ll go.”

After a lesson in the French waltz in which you had to readjust Sir Lewis’s hands several times, you make your way stealthily back to the servants’ quarters. As always, he’d signed off your private audience with him with a hearty: ‘May I come to you tonight, my dear?’ which you, as always, denied him. Expecting nothing else, he’d waved you off genially.

As you avoid the creaky floorboards outside Lady Danforth’s sitting room, you wish heartily that you could blink back to your room. Just as you think you’ve gotten away with it, her cold voice issues from within.

“Mrs Hargreeves?”

You wince and turn around, reluctantly entering the sitting room and bobbing a curtsey to the mistress of the household.

“Yes, Lady Danforth?”

You try to look innocent as she surveys you suspiciously from under her frilled cap. She’s a beautiful woman: what people of this time would call ‘handsome’. About fifteen years younger than Sir Lewis and five years older than you. Her long nose and hard expression added to her formidable demeanor. Her hair is an attractive graying blonde and her eyes a shrewd hazel.

“What are you doing in this part of the house?”

“I was summoned to the master’s study,” you say. Then, to try and ingratiate yourself while forming an alibi, “he was requesting some dishes for your absence next week but I suggested to him that they should be subject to your approval, given that you know the household matters best.”

“You presumed to tell Sir Lewis what was and wasn’t his jurisdiction in his own house?”

“No ma’am.” you say, having accidentally dug yourself further into her bad graces. The old-timey language is easy, the body language is easy, but your understanding of this era’s social dynamics is still constantly wavering. It seems like you can barely breathe without mortally offending someone.

“You were rather a long time,” she says, delicately, “for one discussing meals.”

You waver slightly, needing to come up with a convincing lie on the spot,

“Sorry ma’am. Sir Lewis had questions about my time in Bombay.”

She stares at you in silence for a while, sitting perfectly upright on the sofa, hands and feet primly together. You wet your lips briefly. In the last year, you’ve had to lie constantly; the creativity gets easier but holding your nerve never does.

When she speaks again, she moves her hand to stroke a finger gently across the arm of the damask sofa.

“Do you have children, Mrs Hargreeves.”

“Yes Ma’am. One daughter.”

Lady Danforth nodded contemplatively, “I have a daughter too. Married just over a year ago to a Baronet in England.”

You nod, smiling unsurely, “All the servants speak fondly of Miss Catherine.”

“Hm,” she said, tilting her head in order to look down her nose at you, “my daughter had a housekeeper. A widow, Mrs Fredericks. Or not a widow, as it turned out. She was dismissed recently. It was discovered that she was, in fact, still Miss Fredericks, although she had a grown son. Not only this, she had been stealing from her employer.”

“Oh.” you say, dumbly.

“Can you produce a marriage certificate, Mrs Hargreeves?”

Shit.

“No ma’am. My husband had it about him when he went missing.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Hargreeves. How inconvenient for a woman in your position.”

“Yes,” you all but whisper.

“But surely church records are available?”

“Um…no.”

She tilts her head in mock confusion and you gabble out the latest twist in a long and convoluted series of lies.

“The church we were married in burned down. The marriage records were lost with it.”

“Another inconvenience,” she says, raising her eyebrows, enjoying the seconds she leaves you hanging, “very well, you may go.”

You waver for a second, “ma’am?”

“You may go.” she repeats.

It’s almost second nature to curtsey now as you leave the room.

You don’t fall asleep for a long time that night. Your family seems closer than ever tonight, just tantalizingly out of reach. Your complex, intelligent and determined little girl and your Russian nesting-doll of a husband. The adult with a septuagenarian within and, at the deepest level of his precious heart, a scared, neglected little boy.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88, @nevillescomslut

On to Chapter 6 >> Masterpost

15 notes · View notes