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busterkeatonfanfic · 2 years

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Chapter 39

“Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I

am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I

would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard

heart; for, truly, I love none.”

Nelly smirked at the curly-haired Benedick who looked so confident of himself. She knew how Ruthie would tell her to deliver her next lines: Pretend it’s Buster.

No matter how hard she had tried, she couldn’t resent him as Ruthie did, though. Beatrice was more complicated besides. She scorned love, but Nelly felt she hadn’t ruled it out yet. She enjoyed sparring with Benedick and trying to outwit him, even if he annoyed her. It was in that spirit that she replied:

“A dear happiness to women: they would else have

been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God

and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I

had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man

swear he loves me.”

She delivered the lines with a light, amused confidence and a touch of conviviality. Her investment was a strange thing, because not two minutes before she scarcely cared about the audition at all.

“Gerald’s cousin is in the theater in the city,” Ruthie had said the day before. “Mabel. She says there’s an audition tomorrow afternoon for a Shakespeare play. You should go. He mentioned it especially because of you.”

“I know you’re trying to get rid of me,” she’d teased back, “but no. I can’t think of anything I want to do less right now.”

“I know, I know,” Ruthie had said, rolling her eyes. “You’re scared it’s going to turn out like your career in pictures. Well, if they turn you down you’ll be no worse off than you are now, right? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Sitting in Gerald’s car that morning as he motored into the city, she’d reflected on what a clever rhetorical strategy it had been. She could almost hear Ruthie at seven taunting “Chicken!” and her shouting back “Uh-uh!” and Ruthie saying “Yuh-huh!” After Gerald had driven her down Michigan Boulevard, turned right on Balbo Drive, and dropped her in front of the theater, hours early, she walked east to Grant Park, found a bench, and pulled Warwick Deeping’s Kitty from the bag she had brought with her. There was the faintest autumn nip to the air and the leaves on the trees, though still green, were beginning to look distinctly sallow. She read until noon, walked west again, and had lunch at the Blackstone Hotel dining room. She was still living on what she had saved in California and could afford to treat herself to the rich consommé royale, filet of English sole, and buttered petite peas.

She didn’t even know which play she was auditioning for, so she couldn’t set her sights on a particular part. More to the point, she simply did not care whether she got a part or not. Lately she’d found herself partial the utter aimlessness of her existence. The children were her chief delight and Ruthie was now her friend. Even things with her mother had been less fraught. It was easy to let family dictate the course of her life, and with no ambitions there could be no disappointments. It was enough that she wasn’t the sad, ruined girl she’d been when she’d come back from Hollywood. She wished Ruthie could appreciate that.

“God keep your ladyship still in that mind!” said the curly-haired Benedick. “So some gentleman or other shall ‘scape a predestinate scratched face.”

With those lines lobbed at her, all at once she wasn’t Nelly anymore. She was a young, feminine boy in wig and dress on the stage of the Globe in Elizabethan times. She was Helana Faucit in her swan song as Beatrice, all tumbled brown ringlets and corset-pinched waist. She was Ellen Terry in her cut-velvet dress with the glass beads, looking wry and regal. She was, in other words, Beatrice through and through.

“Scratching could not make it worse, an ‘twere such a face as yours were,” she said, smirking.

Benedick looked momentarily taken aback, but his face quickly spread into a smile. “Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher,” he said.

“A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours,” she quipped. She folded her arms in front of her stomach, daring him to say more.

“I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i’ God’s name; I have done,” said Benedick lightly.

She shook her head. “You always end with a jade’s trick: I know you of old.”

It was so easy, she didn’t believe it when she received a call at Ruthie’s the next day from Fred Hofelich, the director, who congratulated her and said that rehearsals began September 28th.

It had been a long time since she had imagined herself on a stage as prestigious as that of the Blackstone Theatre. Those dreams had evaporated with the hullabaloo about talkies and fantasies of starring opposite John Barrymore. Yet there she was on a Friday in late September, gazing out onto a sea of empty red-velvet seats of the main floor and two entire balconies, which would be filled in two months with audience members in pearls and tuxedos.

The curly-haired Benedick was Eugene, a homosexual who, more than the others she’d ever known, didn’t care who knew it. He was affable, enthusiastic, and knew which clubs served fine liquor and stayed open until two in the morning. Fred (playing Claudio) and Hattie (playing Hero) were from New York and newly married. Hattie had been a latter-day Ziegfeld girl and Fred was in the premiere of The Play’s The Thing. John, in his fifties and playing Leonato, was from London and a former member of the Stratford-Upon-Avon Players. The other principal cast members—Harry (Don Pedro), Leo (Don John), and Faye (Ursula)—had been in productions at the Palace and Auditorium.

Before Hollywood, Nelly would have felt like a perfect imposter in their midst. Now, she found that when they invited her out to a corner restaurant after the first rehearsal in late September, she could speak airily of John Barrymore and Charlie Chaplin and all the star-related gossip she’d gathered from the canteen. They didn’t need to know how ordinary being a bit player really was. Though Buster was the reason for her decidedly extraordinary time, she didn’t speak about him beyond the lie that she had encountered him only in passing on the set of Steamboat.

Rehearsals were Thursday through Sunday. She rented a suite on the fourteenth floor of the Blackstone Hotel overlooking the inland sea of Lake Michigan. Although she could have doubtless scrounged a better deal if she had looked for one, it was convenient and she wasn’t doing anything with her savings, anyway. The sudden commitment meant that Ruthie had to find a replacement governess sooner than either of them had anticipated, but she wouldn’t hear of her refusing the role. Gerald (though he did drone on about plaintiffs and motions and default judgments on car rides) did his brotherly part and drove her in on Thursday mornings. He was kind enough to pick her up again at six on Sunday evenings so she could spend Monday through Wednesday with Ruthie and the children.

Whenever she stood on the stage sparring with Eugene as Benedick, she felt that she had come back to life. It was as though Beatrice herself was filling her with all of the confidence and charisma that she wished she’d had in Hollywood. She had purpose again. Everything had fallen into place so nicely, in fact, that she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

In the second week of October after the Saturday rehearsal, she and the other cast members piled into a single taxi, sitting atop one another in the backseat, and went to a jazz club on Randolph. The city was the city, trams, cars, people, lights, signs, and tall majestic buildings in styles she couldn’t name. The air was rent with car exhaust. The night was cold. At the club they ordered flank steak, cauliflower, and baked potato. The meal came with gin cocktails. There were more gin cocktails. There were stories of plays and adventures in New York and London from Fred, Hattie, and John. The orchestra started up and there was barely silence in between songs for conversation, so they rose and moved to the dance floor. She was wearing her silk peach dress again and her best silk stockings. Over dinner, she had noticed how pleasant Harry was to look at. He was classically handsome with a face that might have belonged to Augustus Caesar or Caligula. When he made no move to excuse himself after their first dance, she didn’t mind. The band played “Ida, Sweet as Apple Cider,” “Paree,” “Singin’ the Blues,” “At Sundown,” and “Valencia.” They danced to all of them together and Eugene made sure they did not neglect the gin cocktails that replenished themselves on their table like magic.

When she stumbled into the street holding onto Harry’s arm, she could see her breath. The moon felt bewitching. Harry put his arm around her waist and she thrilled with it. She fancied herself like Beatrice at the masquerade ball, except her disguise wasn’t a mask but the mien of a confident, carefree, worldly Hollywood actress. She was in the first suit, Shakespeare’s hot and hasty Scotch jig, and exciting. Her heart beat fast. John and Fred insisted that she and Faye take the first taxis that showed up, since it was impolite to leave them potentially unguarded on the streets. At this, she leaned up and whispered something into Harry’s ear. When he slipped into the taxi with her, hooting and laughter erupted from their fellow players.

“It’s only for a nightcap,” she called before shutting the door, laughing just as hard as them.

She and Harry were so bold as to neck in the backseat as the taxi took them to the Blackstone, and to her surprise no one in the lobby batted an eye that there was a man going up to her room with her. The pretense of a nightcap was abandoned immediately. His lips were sour and delicious with gin. It was all so hot and hasty, she found it no trouble at all to tumble into bed with him. Notes: Sorry you had to wait so long for that chapter! There are about six to seven chapters remaining. I’m hoping to get back to an every-other-week schedule, but no promises: I have a lot of work to do on other things until at least spring.

#Buster Keaton #Fan fiction #RPF #Actor RPF #Golden Age Hollywood #Silent film

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actuallylorelaigilmore · 6 years

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Jean and Lucien #33 Prove it

This was really fun! :) I love them during the early years…and now I kinda want to write a proper Much Ado About Nothing AU, with Mattie as Hero.

2,000 words of Lucien x Jean “acting,” emotional fluff, set after 2x05. Also on AO3.

Her slow grin was a warning, but of what, he couldn’t say until she replied. “Alright, Lucien. I’ll read Beatrice for you…but you have to play Benedick.”

Lucien left his office to join Jean in the living room before dinner, and found her studying a book on the couch.

“What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Much Ado About Nothing.” She turned the cover his way before re-opening it. “The church dramatic society is feeling Shakespearean.”

“And you’re auditioning for?”

“Beatrice.”

“Ah.” Was there a polite way to ask if she stood a chance? Lucien wondered. Probably not.

“Yes, I know,” she said, as though she’d heard him thinking. “But it’s going to be different this time.”

Lucien tucked his tongue firmly in his cheek and joined her on the couch. “Oh? How so?”

“This year is my year,” Jean declared with a determined nod. “I don’t care that Patrick Tyneman is funding the production, as usual–I’m going to give them a flawless audition. They’ll have to cast me as something better than a manservant.”

“So, you hope to overcome the influence of the Tynemans through the power of your performance?”

“Not just hope–I plan to. Beatrice would be the perfect role for me…I’ve always liked her, you know.”

“She’s an excellent heroine,” he agreed. “Lots of fire, with an underlying sadness.” Lucien nodded. “You would be perfect at it.”

Jean blinked. “Thank you. I think.”

“I promise you, I meant it as a compliment. She’s one of Shakespeare’s best leading ladies.”

“Yes, well. I agree.”

“So, when is the audition?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And you’re ready.”

She smiled. “Oh, I’m more than ready. I’m eager, to see Susan Tyneman’s face when she ends up playing the apothecary.”

Her glittering eyes made him smile in return–for a kind soul, she could be awfully fierce when she felt like it. “Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

She shifted away a little. “I’m sorry?”

“Show me your Beatrice. Consider it a dress rehearsal,” he challenged her with a grin.

Oh, he knew her too well, Jean thought. She couldn’t back down, or she’d start to worry that maybe she wasn’t as prepared as she believed…even though it was silly, Lucien asking her to put on a special performance just for him. Well, two could play at that, she decided.

Her slow grin was a warning, but of what, he couldn’t say until she replied. “Alright, Lucien. I’ll read Beatrice for you…but you have to play Benedick.”

He tapped his fingers on his leg, the only outward sign of his discomfort at the tables being so quickly turned. “Well, I suppose if you insist.”

“Oh, I do. I can’t very well act out both parts, now can I? Somebody has to read him–and Maddie’s not here.”

Things felt a little delicate between them yet, after Richard. Jean might have laughed and agreed when he promised not to give her his blessing ever again…yet Lucien still wasn’t sure how he’d made such a mess of what was meant to be a supportive gesture. He was a terrible actor, he knew it, but maybe a bit of lighthearted fun would set things right.

“Okay, then. I’m game.” He held out his hand for the script. “You have your end memorized, I assume?”

“Of course.” She handed the book over, fingers holding it open to her audition scene. “Here, where we’re the only two left.”

“Let’s see…” Lucien scanned the page until he found the spot. He stood up, projecting his best theater voice. “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”

Jean stayed seated, looking up at him as her eyes began to fill with tears. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”

He had to set aside his own fascination to stay in character; Jean was a vision. “I will not desire that,” he replied, inwardly marveling at the way she was able to hold herself on the verge of crying without spilling over.

“You have no reason; I do it freely.”

Lucien sat, knees touching hers as he aimed his most sympathetic face her way. “Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.”

Jean’s eyes flashed. “Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her!”

“Is there any way to show such friendship?”

She sighed. “A very even way, but no such friend.”

“May a man do it?”

Shaking her head, Jean looked away, the first tear falling. “It is a man’s office, but not yours.“

The sense of wounded pride came more easily to him than perhaps it should. Glancing at his next line, Lucien took her hand. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?”

She sniffled, staring at their joined hands. “As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you: but believe me not; and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing.” She removed her hand from his. “I am sorry for my cousin.”

Lucien gripped her forearm. “By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.”

“Do not swear, and eat it.”

He smiled. “I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.”

Jean’s eyes widened. “Will you not eat your word?”

“With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.”

“Why, then, God forgive me!”

“What offence, sweet Beatrice?”

She laid her fingers lightly against his cheek. “You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you.”

“And do it with all thy heart.” Lucien’s smile was joyful sunlight.

“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.”

He took her hands again. “Come, bid me do any thing for thee.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Kill Claudio.”

Standing, Lucien shook his head vehemently. “Ha! not for the wide world.”

“You kill me to deny it.” Jean dropped his hands. “Farewell.”

“Tarry, sweet Beatrice.”

She looked beyond him, shaking her head. “I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.” Her whole body was trembling, Lucien realized.

“Beatrice–”

Jean stood up, stepping back from him. “In faith, I will go.”

He reached out to stop her. “We’ll be friends first.”

Her curls caught the light as she tossed her head back. “You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.”

“Is Claudio thine enemy?”

“Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman?”

Jean shoved Lucien back when he reached for her again. “O that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands; and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour, –O God, that I were a man!” She clenched her fists against her skirt, vibrating with fury. “I would eat his heart in the market-place.”

Her blazing eyes had bewitched him. Lucien forgot to read his next line until Jean broke character, her arched brow signaling for him to catch up.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Hear me, Beatrice,–”

“Talk with a man out at a window!” She exclaimed, sliding back into the role without pause. “A proper saying!”

“Nay, but, Beatrice,–”

“Sweet Hero!” Jean returned to her seat on the couch. “She is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.”

He followed her, standing back rather than sitting. “Beat–”

“Princes and counties!” She cut him off. “Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake!”

Tears slipped down her cheeks without restraint now.

“But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.”

Lucien clutched her hand with his, feeling Benedick’s desperation to be believed as though it were his own. “Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.”

She frowned. “Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.”

“Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?”

“Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.”

“Enough, I am engaged; I will challenge him,” Lucien declared, dropping down to sit next to her. “I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you.”

Feeling suddenly nervous, he lifted her hand, trying not to dwell on the way it felt–callouses from years of hard work contrasting with the smoothness of her skin.

Lucien pressed his lips to the back of her hand, his gaze meeting hers.

Her eyes were wide once again, this time sincerely, as his mouth touched her skin. When was the last time a man had kissed her in such an old-fashioned, even romantic, way? Had anyone?

“By this hand,” Lucien said quietly, eyes still locked on hers, “Claudio shall render me a dear account.” His voice was rough, no longer his best attempt at a dramatic accent.

There was no reason to continue holding her hand, and yet he was. He couldn’t bear to stop, not while she was watching him with those soft, warm eyes, Beatrice’s anger and grief forgotten.

“As you hear of me, so think of me.” He stroked his fingers over hers, attempting to soothe even as he held her in place.

When Jean broke eye contact, he released her, realizing how foolish he must seem. He looked down at the script. “Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.”

“Right.” Jean smoothed a hand over her hair, fingers shaking a little. “So, what did you think?”

“You’re brilliant,” he told her, sincerely. “Bravo.”

“Better than Susan Tyneman?”

“Miles beyond her.” Grinning, Lucien hoped to shift them back onto familiar ground. “What about me?”

“You were fine,” Jean said with a solemn face. Then she giggled, unable to hold it. “Though…why were you Scottish?”

“I was English,” he argued. “Like Shakespeare.”

He hadn’t sounded very English to her, but Jean pressed on. “You studied Shakespeare in school, didn’t you? You do know he didn’t set every play in Britain.”

“Of course.” He smiled. “Artistic license.”

"If you say so.”

“You know, Jean,” he said, happy to deflect further critique of his performance, “you really make an excellent Beatrice.”

“Thank you, Lucien. Now, hopefully the director will agree with you.”

Lucien had a sudden memory of Jean standing with a rather dejected man, and was irrationally glad that one of the women of the church had taken over running the plays. He had no right to feel territorial, and yet…

“Jean?”

“Yes, Lucien?”

“If you need to rehearse…when you get the part, that is…I could play Benedick again.”

Jean flushed a little. Of course it would be a terrible idea, she told herself. Playing with fire.

That was what her connection to Lucien was, and she knew it. He was still hurting over the loss of his wife, and she was still Christopher’s widow…no matter where her mind might wander late at night, remembering the casual way he rested his hand on her back or shoulder, the way he was always, always touching her. The way he didn’t even know he was driving her crazy, just by being friendly.

She had gotten so used to a life without affection over the last few years that the tactile doctor was a permanent shock to her system; like the zap of feet scuffing carpet, a buzzing tingle running over her skin. But where static electricity only mussed her hair, Lucien’s cheerful brushes set her nerve endings alight.

They reminded her that she was alive.

“You know,” she told him, ignoring the nagging warning in her head, “I’d like that. How about tomorrow night?”

#lucien x jean #tdbm #the doctor blake mysteries #lucien x jean fic #tdbm fic #the doctor blake mysteries fic #lucien x jean fanfic #the doctor blake mysteries fanfic #tdbm fanfic #lucien x jean fanfiction #tdbm fanfiction #the doctor blake mysteries fanfiction #my fic

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