#fic: cf & dd | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rosewaterandivy · 13 days

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Summary: it’s always the best laid plans of mice and men, isn’t it?

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 5.4K

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | m.list

I. Coup de foudre

It’s a dreary December evening in Manhattan. The streets are damp and slick accompanied by the cacophony of hooves, equipages and carriages trundling down the way. Somber topcoats and fur-trimmed capes hide the tailored waistcoats of the men and ornate skirts of the ladies, as is to be expected with the current onslaught of weather.

Small white flurries of snow that are sure to bring a swift end to laborious dinners and engagements at the club. And the man in the sleek black equipage himself is all too relieved about it— at least he would be released from the obligation of hearing his father’s friends complain about these upstart robber barons descending like a horde of locusts on Fifth Avenue.

A quiet night in his study would be a welcome distraction.

That is, if they can ever get home in this weather.

He can hear the whinny of the horses from up front and the soothing tones of the driver. The streets are probably close to icing over at this hour, making it difficult to find traction.

Suddenly, the equipage swings quickly to the side and careens into something with a loud thud, sending its sole occupant straight into the door with a smack. He hisses lowly at the twinge in his forehead as the driver descends with a flurry of apologies.

He opens the door himself and steps outside before the driver can assist him. The white puffs of his breath speak to how quickly the weather had turned. He draws his coat closer and approaches the two drivers as they attempt to settle the horses.

“Gentlemen,” He greets, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Noting to worry about Mr. Harrington,” His man, Andrew, assures him, “The ice just snuck up on us is all.”

He nods taking in the damage, dents and scuffs on both vehicles but the horses appear to be fine. Reaching into his coat pocket, he brings out a small notebook and a pencil to scribble his information down for the other driver. Is about to tell the man to bill him directly when someone steps out from the carriage opposite.

The footsteps themselves are delicate and tentative. He tears his gaze from the driver’s, glancing back only to find a young woman emerging from the carriage. She’s holding her skirts in one gloved hand, shivering in the cold.

“Is everything all right Jesse?”

Her voice is like music to his ears, melodic almost. And she looks like something stolen from a painting— bright and alluring.

The winter light is quickly fading, and the lamplighters were sure taking their time this evening. Her cape is dark, like his coat, but the split at the front reveals a purple skirt trimmed in demure black lace, signifying an exit from her period of mourning.

Her man, Jesse, shepherds her back toward the coach, “Let’s get you back inside Miss, don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Of course,” She says with a shake of her head, “How silly of me.”

And before Steve can embarrass himself in an attempt to introduce himself, she’s safely ensconced back in the carriage. Her driver returns and takes the paper from Steve, tucking it into his coat.

“Apologies gentlemen, but I must be on my way.” He pulls himself back onto the driver’s box, “Have to get the young Miss home to her brother’s, you understand.”

He tips his hat, and with a tug of the reins he’s gone.

Steve finds himself standing right where she left him, feet riveted to the very spot where she once stood. He must have taken a step toward her at some point, like an utter madman, probably startled the poor girl half to death.

Despite their disastrous non-meeting, he can’t seem to shake her from his mind. As if everything had been in black and white until she stepped down from the carriage and breathed color into his world, spring bursting forth at the sound of her voice. It sounds positively insane, even to himself, but if Robin were here, she’d understand.

Hell, she’d probably have a word for it too.

Something French, inevitably.

“Mr. Harrington,” Andrew says, a hand tentatively resting on his shoulder, “Is something wrong?”

Steve blinks; a feeble attempt to clear his mind from thoughts of the mystery woman.

Andrew refrains from rolling his eyes, “Right sir, let’s get you home then.”

The journey back to the Harrington family manse was uneventful. The familiar brownstone facade came into view as Andrew swung the equipage onto the street outside the house. Luckily, the home was large enough that his late arrival wouldn’t be noticed.

He thanks Andrew and watches as he takes off with the horses for the carriage house a few blocks away. Stepping into the house, he makes quickly for his study slipping through the door just as one of the maids turns down the corridor.

Steve shucks his coat onto a nearby chair and tugs off his cravat with one hand, the other pouring a healthy portion of bourbon into a highball glass. He downs the amber liquid too quickly, the burn welcome against his throat.

After pouring another glass to sip from, he settles into a heap on a club chair by the window. Resting his jaw on a hand, he faces the glass panes, eyes trailing the flurries of snow outside, unsettled by the quiet of the street. His mind won’t stop racing, vacillating between kicking himself for not getting her name and hoping he’d run into her again, albeit this time under better circumstances.

Little did he know, that several blocks away a man was questioning poor Jesse about his whereabouts when a slip of paper was placed into his hand. He scans it quickly, face paling at the name scrawled there: Steven Harrington.

“How could you let this happen Jesse, really? The accident, I understand, but allowing my sister out of the carriage unaccompanied?”

“Sir, I had no—”

“I’ll not hear your excuses.” Christopher Fairchild balls his hand into a fist, the paper crumpling in his grasp. “You said he saw her, Harrington, that is?”

“Unfortunately,” Jesse admits, “I intervened as best I could and got her back into the coach. He seemed rather transfixed by her.”

His employer grunts, “Yes well, that is unfortunate. What if someone had seen her with that man, no chaperone in sight?” He turns to the sideboard and pours himself a drink, says with a scoff, “Not even out to society and potentially scandal-ridden.”

At this point, his wife, Marian, chooses to enter, having seen the young lady to her rooms and getting her settled for the evening. She places a tentative hand on his shoulder while Jesse trains his gaze to the floor.

“Darling,” She soothes, “Your sister is asleep as is the baby, don’t get yourself into a fit at this hour.”

He sighs as her palm moves in slow circles against his back and takes deep breaths. “Of course dear,” He sips from his drink and turns to her. “I just worry about her. All the work you’ve put into her debut and planning the ball.” Christopher places a kiss on the back of her hand, causing her to blush. “I don’t want it to be all for naught.”

She sighs prettily.

“It won’t be,” Marian advises, “You’ll write to the Harringtons tomorrow and we’ll get this matter settled. And there won’t be a speck on your dear sister’s reputation, I’ll see to that.”

But, oh dear reader, where would be the fun in that?

As we all know, the New York winter season is winding down rapidly, and do we not deserve something to keep us warm over the holiday? I would say so!

So, in honor of her long-awaited arrival, let us give a hearty New York welcome to Miss Eleanor Fairchild! Fresh from the society of Paris and a graduate of Vassar along with Miss Nancy Wheeler, her debut this week is the talk of the town.

Despite her indecorous brush with Mr. Steven Harrington, I am sure she will not have a shortage of suitors after the ball this weekend.

But the question remains, my loyal readers, of who will take a shine to Miss Fairchild and step out from the long shadow cast by the Harrington name?

Only time, and this weekly missive, will tell.

Morning in New York was startling and nothing like waking in Paris.

House maids, lady’s maids, and valets moving up and down the stairs, knocking on doors to air out the linens and draw the curtains aside to let the murky winter sun stream through. There was, of course, the soft babbling from the nursery as Gus woke from his repose, the nursemaid and his mother close at hand.

A sharp knock sounded from the door just as you drew the bedclothes closer to you, content to roll over and sleep through the gray morning.

“Bonjour mademoiselle, vous permettez?”

“Oui!” You say, curious at the chipper voice now opening the door, “Sorry, yes, you may enter.”

“Merci, mademoiselle.”

The girl, your new lady’s maid, softly shuts the door and turns to regard the room.

It’s certainly larger than what you’d grown accustomed to in France. But then again, most everything was in New York, especially so since you hadn’t returned to the city in well nigh on a year or more.

The room itself is well-appointed and elegant, Marian saw to that; soft colors and fabrics, diaphanous and frothy, a subtle nod to Versailles no doubt. You hadn’t had much time or energy to give it a glance last night, more inclined to have a late dinner, divest yourself of traveling clothes, and pass out as soon as possible.

The lady’s maid continues her silent assessment as another knock sounds from the door. She steps to open it and let in the housemaid.

“Good morning Miss,” She greets with a smile, her voice rounded with a warm Irish lilt. “I ‘spect you’ll be needin’ a fire this morning.”

You nod just now noticing the chill in the air. She busies herself with the kindling and sweeping ashes from the fireplace. The maids exchange a few soft words before she steps out to get the firewood from the Useful Man down the hall.

“Apologies,” You say by way of greeting, “But I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Oh, pardonne-moi,” the lady’s maid curtsies briefly, “Je m’appelle Marie.”

“Marie,” You repeat, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Moi aussi, mademoiselle.”

And from there, the ritual of dressing began. The house maid, Louisa, lit the fire and spirited you out of bed to air out the linens. At Marie’s suggestion, she also tackled unpacking the various trunks placed near the dresser and closet.

“These are fine frills Miss,” She smiled, her fingers delicately folding chemises and hanging skirts or dresses. “The Missus said your debut gown came all the way from Mr. Worth’s shop in Paris, is that true?”

A soft sigh escaped you at the memory, ivory chiffon and silk revealing the décolleté and arms, gauze and tulle providing a tempting illusion of bared skin. A full skirt with bustle that would skim the floor accompanied by a small train. With gloves and a fan to match, of course.

“Indeed, it is,” You allowed with a cheeky wink, “But I think Marie would have my head if I touched it before Friday.”

Marie, for her part, merely smirked and continued her preparations for your bath.

Across a few city blocks, a footman knocks on the imposing doors of the Harrington manse. The family butler, Campbell, just happens to be descending the stairs and takes it upon himself to open the door.

“Good morning sir,” The footman says with a bow, “Mr. Fairchild bid me to deliver this.” He hands over an envelope addressed to Mr. Samuel Harrington.

“Yes, well,” Campbell sighs, opening the door to let the footman in. “I’ll get this to him. If you hurry, Cook can scrounge up some coffee and a pastry for you. Just take the servant’s hall to the right.”

“Much obliged,” The footman says with a bow as Campbell starts up the stairs.

The handwriting on the envelope is neat, if a bit cramped. Must be the young Mr. Fairchild then, rather than his wife sending the correspondence.

Mr. Harrington’s study door is cracked open, the sound of papers shuffling to and fro on his desk as the butler enters. He briefly glances up to find Campbell, “Happen to know where I put those contracts, Campbell?”

“Perhaps the drawer on the left, sir.”

Mr. Harrington pulls the drawer open, “Right you are, good man.” And thereby loses himself to perusing the documents and thus ignoring Campbell.

“A letter has arrived for you sir,” He says stepping closer to the desk, “From Mr. Fairchild, it seems rather urgent. I have his footman waiting for your reply.”

“Hmm, well let’s have it then.”

He takes the letter from the butler’s hand and slips the blade of the letter opener under the paper. Retrieving the missive, he scans through it quickly, lips pulling down in distaste.

“See to it that Mrs. Harrington gets this,” He instructs, pulling out a new sheaf of paper and beginning his correspondence. “If she wishes to see my reply, she best be quick about it.”

The letter itself detailed the unfortunate meeting between Mr. Fairchild’s sister and Mr. Harrington’s only son. The man was understandably concerned about how it would seem should someone have happened upon them sans chaperone, as the young lady had yet to make her debut into society.

Mr. Harrington’s reply was cordial in an attempt to smooth things over— the Fairchilds, like the Harrington’s were of good stock, two families of the New York Four Hundred deemed to be unblemished and acceptable company by none other than the Grande Dame herself, Mrs. Astor. It wouldn’t be fitting for reputations to be sullied as the result of a simple misunderstanding.

As expected, Samuel’s wife, Amelia, swanned into the study seemingly in the midst of her morning toilette. Her hair was up, but she still wore her housecoat as her day dress had yet to be put on by her lady’s maid. Mr. Fairchild’s letter waved about in one hand, while the other pressed upon her chest as if to stop her racing heart.

“That boy of yours is going to give me heart failure.”

Samuel signs the letter with a flourish and lays his pen to the side.

“Oh, so he’s only my boy when he acts indiscreetly with the fairer sex, but he’s your son when he’s winning accolades at Harvard and breaking hearts abroad, is that it?”

She tuts and sits demurely on the divan, “Well, yes. Precisely that Sam.” She fans herself with the letter as her husband leans against his desk. “The social set have already written him off as a lost cause and we can ill afford a whisper of a scandal, especially now.”

Sam passes the reply to his wife and pauses, as if to choose his words carefully.

“Still moving forward with your plans to find Steven a wife then?”

“Of course, dear,” She answers brusquely, “There are many suitable ladies this season of decent breeding and passable looks.” She glances up and passes the letter back to him. “Your response is sufficient, send it off with the footman.”

Amelia rises from the divan and turns to leave. “Wake Steven and have a talk with him will you? I’ll send Maude out to the florist, he should write a note of apology for her to send along.”

“As you wish, dear.”

Amelia leaves just as abruptly as she appeared. Samuel sighs and furrows his brow, the inklings of a headache coming on. He taps his fingers against the desk and checks the time.

“Campbell,” He calls into the hall, “Have Calvin wake Steven and tell him to see my in the study.”

“Of course, sir.”

He takes a seat and settles himself behind the desk once more.

“And have Cook send something up? Coffee and breakfast for two.”

Awaiting the arrival of his son, Samuel Harrington turns and faces the bay of windows that look out onto the street below. He watches as Fairchild’s footman hops on the back of the coach and slides from his view. He contemplates his son’s options, admittedly there are few.

Such are the advantages and disadvantages in marrying a woman who’s as sly as a fox. It’s just a matter of out-maneuvering her; an entertaining and seemingly endless chess match that’s lasted even longer than their marriage.

But the silver lining in all this, he supposes, is that Steven Harrington, their sole child and heir, just so happens to take after his father in this respect, in that he’s crazy like a fox.

Funny how things work out, isn’t it?

As for the young Mr. Harrington, well, suffice it to say he had quite the morning. The newly arrived Miss Fairchild, however, had a luxurious start to her day (that is, if one discounts the pulling and pinning of hair, the tugging on of stockings and tightening of corset laces).

You joined your brother and sister-in-law in the dining room while another maid fixed a plate of breakfast for you; Pierce, the butler, stepped in to pour the coffee. You thanked them both and broke your fast, listening as Christopher and Marian discussed the events of the day.

“I’ll need to see to the accounts today,” Your brother said, turning his newspaper with a shake. “Everything should be in order before the ball this weekend.”

Marian nodded and sipped from her coffee cup. “I have some calls to make today, and thought Nell could accompany me.”

Christopher slowly lowers his newspaper and glances your way— don't feel obligated to do this, you haven’t been properly introduced into society yet.

Buying time, you take a bite from the flaky croissant on your plate and ruminate. In a way, both Chris and Marian are correct; you aren’t obligated to escort Mrs. Fairchild, nor would it be wise to turn down an informal introduction to those in Marian’s circle. She would, after all, be serving as your chaperone, and, along with your brother, introducing you to Manhattan high society on Friday at the ball.

Your debutante ball, to be precise.

At the time, Vassar was a welcome distraction and reprieve for being paraded around like a prize calf at auction. But then came the unfortunate illness and demise of your parents, followed by a year of mourning.

It would seem that your time of delay had finally come to its end.

After all, no one wanted a spinster for a bride.

Dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin, you clear your throat and brace yourself.

“That sounds lovely, Marian. I’d be happy to escort you today.”

She smiles and makes to reply, but before she can open her mouth to do so, a knock sounds from the front door. Puzzled, the three of you glance at one another, clearly not expecting a caller at such an early hour.

Pierce nods to someone by the door, bidding him to open it. He quickly returns with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, only to set them to your right and hand you a card. Baffled, you take in the spray of purple orchids, white tulips, lemon geraniums, the sprigs of rosemary, and tucked away behind the hearty green stalks, the shy blooms of forget-me-nots.

Respect, sincerity, an unexpected meeting, remembrance, and affection.

“Well,” Marian prompts from across the table, “Who are they from?”

It’s only then that you recall the card in your outstretched hand. Slipping from your reverie, you thumb open the small envelope.

Miss Fairchild—

Please accept my sincere apologies for our run-in yesterday evening. I hope it did not startle you. I’ve liaised with your brother about the repairs, and in the meantime will give you use of my equipage and pray it will suffice. I also hope that you’ll enjoy the flowers and please know that they relay my deepest and most sincere sentiments.

Cordially yours,

Steven Harrington

P.S. Je vous prie d’accepter mes sincères regrets et ma sympathie à l’occasion du décès de votre proches.

For the remainder of the week, Steve was a bundle of nerves. He’d written the note as his mother asked and even went so far as to accompany her to the florist, managing to slip in a few blooms that complemented the arrangement nicely. And if his mother didn’t happen to notice the errant sprigs of blue or the lingering scent of rosemary, then so much the better.

What he didn’t anticipate was the lack of a response.

“It isn’t done,” Miss Robin Buckley reminded him on their promenade in Central Park. “Until she is out to society, her brother is no doubt keeping her under lock and key.”

“You could provide the introduction,” He points out petulantly. “You’re choosing not to in order to entertain yourself with my suffering.”

“You cad,” She swats at him with her fan. “And no, I cannot. There’s a reason I fled to France after my disastrous debut, as you well know.”

And thus, Steve resigned himself to pining for a woman who barely knew of his existence, while the eligible bachelors of New York bided their time until her debut at the ball.

“For what it’s worth,” Robin says carefully as they round a bend, “There have been many deliveries to the Fairchild House, but yours was the first.”

He warms at the thought.

“That has to count for something, I suppose.”

She grins, “It will.”

They continue to walk, grateful for the brief break in the weather and discuss the evening’s festivities: who will wear what, how many dances until Robin steps on someone’s toes, how ostentatious the new money Vanderbilts will be.

They exit the park, parting ways as their carriages await. Robin catches a curious expression on her friend’s face, both dreamy and apprehensive. She lays a gloved hand on his arm.

“À cœur vaillant rien d'impossible.”

Steve glances down and says with a playful smirk, “Qui vivra verra.”

On Friday afternoon, Marian and Marie carefully assess your gown while Louisa dashes to and fro with the pearls, no the diamonds.

“Sapphires? No, that would ruin the effect.” Marian muses and Marie agrees.

You, by the by, are seated on the bed in a chemise and loosened corset, bored stiff, as the two hem and haw over how to best display you for the ball.

Because that’s all this is really, an overblown dog and pony show in which you’ll be paraded around and shown off to great effect all to attract suitors. It was enough to make one queasy. God forbid a woman do anything on her own or without the approval of a man.

As if men ever did anything worth doing that a woman didn’t have to make right.

Having quite enough of their chatter, you shrug into a robe and pull its sash tight, toe on some slippers and make your way down the hall. At the end of the corridor, you spy the cracked door to Christopher’s study. He’s shuffling papers and muttering to himself as you slip inside.

“I think the accounts can handle themselves for the evening,” you say with a smirk, settling yourself on a chair by the window.

He chuckles, “I suppose you’re right, clever girl.” Sorting the papers into a single file, he looks up at you with a quirked brow. “Had enough of Marian’s prodding, I take it?”

You sigh and dramatically cast your head back, “That’s the worst of it— they haven’t even begun!” Warming at his familiar laughter, you continue: “If I’d known that this is what I’d be subjected to, I would’ve stayed in France.”

Chris studies you at that; your weary sigh, crossed arms, and face a mask. Can’t make heads or tails of if you’re serious or not. Is it too soon? Did you still need time to mourn Maman and Papa? But then your debut had been delayed so much already…

“Is that what you want?”

It’s a question you hadn’t expected from him. But suddenly you’re reminded that he’s your brother, the only family you have left in the world. The man who dropped everything and took the first ship bound for France to be with you at your parents’ deathbed. He had insisted you stay at the house in Paris until you’d recovered your own strength and sent Marian and Gus to keep you company while he saw to business at home.

And knowing him as well as you do, Chris wouldn’t ask something idly.

So you choose your next words carefully.

“I no longer trouble myself with wants.”

The lightest dusting of snow begins to gather on the windowpane. Soon enough, all of the city would look like a snow globe. A perfect winter wonderland for the evening’s festivities, and your favorite kind of weather— snow makes everything look softer somehow, muffles the sound, and blankets the world in swaths of pure white. Your mother adored snow, had somehow convinced you and Chris that she could smell when it was about to begin. And maybe that’s why you’ve taken a shine to it now.

Turning from the window with a small smile, you rise to exit the study and get ready for the night. Leaving your elder brother puzzling over your parting phrase.

Steve could hardly forget your first meeting, but seeing you that evening nearly eclipsed the recollection. Without a cape and no longer in the purples and grays of half-mourning, you were quite a sight to behold.

And he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Several men from the club, Hargrove, Hagan, and Byers, were scattered around the room sizing up the competition just as he was. Somehow, Edward Munson had been granted an invitation— with his railroad money and lack of pedigree. Regardless of social standing, each eligible bachelor in the room was jockeying for position; who would be the first introduction, the first dance, did her eyes fall on him or the man to his left?

Steve was well-versed in this routine, he’d been to enough debutante balls to last a veritable lifetime. Usually, he’d enter and make the necessary greetings before grabbing a refreshment and picking a wall to lean on because god help him if he was going to actually dance more than the bare minimum required.

But in this instance, things were different.

Namely, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since that fateful night. Despite the lack of interest from you (which was to be expected, really), he couldn’t help but think of you fondly. Descending from your coach to check on your driver and the horses, shivering in the evening chill, voice soft and sleep-worn.

There was also the fact that his mother was hovering somewhere behind him. She’d oh so fortunately seen Mrs. Fairchild as she was making her social calls earlier in the week and had received an informal introduction to you. She’d said as much at dinner that day and ever since then, she’d been subtly laying the groundwork for a possible courtship.

And as much as Steve did not want to bow to his mother’s machinations, he also desperately wanted an introduction with you. So he sips his drink and observes the goings on around him his attention turning to the grand staircase as someone announces:

“Presenting Miss Eleanor Joséphine Fairchild, escorted by her brother Mr. Christopher Fairchild.”

The symphony starts up as you descend the stairs to polite applause on the arm of your brother, eyes demure and downcast, your subtly rouged lips pulling into a soft smile. And Steve can hardly breathe— it’s as if the world slowed and went fuzzy at the edges, everything and everyone falling by the wayside save for you.

Because you are positively incandescent; beautifully angelic in your finery and reminiscent of Venus emerging from her shell. He feels as if he’s been struck, a warmth radiating in his chest, and wouldn’t be surprised to find one of Cupid’s golden arrows lodged there. And Steve knows a little of desire, of wanton lust; he is, after all, a man of privilege in a world that caters to his whims. But while this feels reminiscent of that— the heat, the wanting— there is also, oddly, restraint.

All eyes are on you as your brother leads you across the floor, smiling politely at those assembled, eyes never staying on one person for too long. You’re playing nice, presenting an unimpeachable image of the demure lady, it wouldn’t be done to favor one gentleman this evening. In fact, it would send the wrong message entirely.

Everyone present knows this; it is a game often played in polite society, even if its ramifications are— how shall we say it?— best left behind closed doors.

“A lamb and her shepherd,” His mother says, voice pitched low for only him to hear. “Bo-Peep will soon abandon his charge, and that, Steven, is when you will make your introduction.”

It’s all he can do to school his features and recede into himself; eyes glassy and blank, face a mask. Polite and charming, affable even. And while his mother thinks she is being helpful, it’s hard not to believe she isn’t pouring poison in his ear. Half expects her to say something akin to, “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”

She doesn’t, and for that he is grateful. Instead, she melts away into the background and loops her arm through his father’s. And, sure enough, your brother does eventually leave your side only to be replaced by Mrs. Fairchild, who slips your wrist through a dainty loop of cream ribbon with a dance card and a small pencil attached.

The room stills, a pack of wolves lying in wait. Drinks are set aside, conversations cease; Amelia gives her son an unceremonious push forward, her gloved hand on his shoulder tipping him toward the inevitable. Steve nearly stumbles from the shock of it all.

Because in one moment he’s just another man in the crowd, an eligible bachelor at yet another ball prepared to drink the night away. And in the next, his eyes lock with yours, and he feels himself falling. It’s hopeless to fight it, this gravitational pull you seem to have over him; haven’t exchanged even two words, and he’s already in your thrall.

He can see your chest rise with your sharp intake of breath, eyes widening at his approach. Steve’s trying not to spook you, really he is. He thinks back to his favored horse, Balius, the clomping hooves and fierce breaths, tries to calm you in the same manner— a slow approach, a small smile, and soft words.

And while he would never bow to the stubborn dappled stallion, Steve does bow to you and says, “Steven Harrington, a pleasure to meet you officially Miss Fairchild.”

Your eyes light in recognition, of his name or him he cannot tell. But you curtsy all the same and offer him your hand, as etiquette dictates. He takes it gladly, marvelling at the fine fabric of gloves adorning it. His finger finds the racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, running along it slowly.

Another sharp intake of breath at the sensation, a heat skittering underneath your skin as his fingers loop around your wrist, your pulse thudding in their wake.

He opens the booklet and takes his time writing his name, well aware at the gathering of eligible suitors at his back. He’s loathe to release your hand and leave you to all of this, the wolves at the gate, but as much as he wants to whisk you away from what is sure to be an uncomfortable and tiring evening, Steve is required, as is everyone else, to play the game.

And Steven Harrington is playing to win.

Mr. Harrington—

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this past Friday, and thank you for your presence. I do hope the evening passed pleasantly for you and my apologies for not seeing to you more frequently, but other obligations, as you well know, prohibited me from seeking your company. Furthermore, I must apologize for being remiss in not offering my sincerest gratitude for the lovely flowers and the gracious use of your equipage. You are truly a generous man, and I am grateful for your friendship.

Cordially yours,

Miss Fairchild

P.S. Merci pour le sauvetage de Monsieur C—. Je n'avais aucune idée sur sa relation avec Mademoiselle C—. J’espère que vote intercession ne reflétera pas mal sur vous. Je vous suis redevable.

Steve’s postscript: Please accept my sincerest and deepest condolences on the passing of your parents.

Nell’s postscript: Thank you for the rescue from Mr. C—. I had no idea about his relationship with Miss C—. I hope your intercession will not reflect poorly on you. I am in your debt.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #fic: cf & dd

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rosewaterandivy · 6 days

Text

Summary: ease your armor where you stand, the flashing helmet and plate of bronze, take the spear and return the lyre.

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 5.3k

Warnings: 19th century etiquette and decorum, Jason Carver jumpscare, god forbid a woman do anything 🙄

m.list | playlist

II. Traîner quelqu’un dans le boue

The debut of Miss Eleanor Fairchild was wildly successful in that it certainly gave the blue bloods of New York something to talk about over the Christmas holidays. In fact, the Fairchild manse was positively filled to the brim with floral arrangements and the silver dish in the foyer is overflowing with calling cards.

Marian radiates in pride, her first major ball thrown with ample aplomb. Her husband, Christopher, is more wary of it all.

“Aren’t things supposed to calm down over the holidays?” He grouses from behind his newspaper once morning at the end of December.

“Really darling, to hear you tell it one would think the entire endeavor was an abysmal failure,” His wife admonishes from her spot by the fireplace.

She catches Pierce’s eye as he steps into the room with a crisp envelope and is about to hand it over to Christopher until Marian daintily plucks it from his grasp. Thumbing it open, she reads it quickly before a gasp falls from her lips.

“Oh my.”

This gets her husband’s attention as he finally extricates himself from the morning paper. He stands behind his wife, one hand curling at her waist as he reads over her shoulder.

“The Astors,” He says after a moment. “Well, I’ll be.”

Marian, coming to her senses, calls to Pierce, “Have Miss Eleanor come down, please. We should get her to the dressmaker before they close for the day.”

She turns in Christopher’s grasp, color high in her cheeks. “She’s done better than we could have possibly hoped,” Her voice is soft, as if she’s afraid to break the spell the unexpected invitation has cast.

Chris drops a chaste kiss to her brow. “Well, she is rather clever, darling.”

“Yes, of course,” She says with a laugh, “But I wasn’t sure with all that business between Mr. Harrington and—”

“You called for me?”

Marian turns and steps from her husband at your entrance. She crosses the room with quick stride and take your hand in hers, giving it a loving squeeze. Her eyes are glassy as she gives a ladylike sniff to clear her sinuses.

“Yes, my dove.” She hands you a pristine card, watching as you read though it. “As you can see, we’ve been invited to Mrs. Astor’s January ball.”

Briefly, you grapple for what this could possibly mean. You thought the winter season was over, but less than a month later here’s another ball held by the Grand Dame herself. Refusal is clearly not an option, not if Marian’s emotional display was anything to go by.

“H-how wonderful,” You say, trying to weave in a note of cheer to your voice.

“Quite the feather in your cap,” Your brother pipes up from his chair as he settles down with the morning paper once more. “Marian says it’s all due to your debut.”

At this, Marian excuses herself to have Pierce ready the Harrington equipage and get the maids to gather the capes and hats. You assume that you’re soon to be whisked off to the dressmaker though you can hardly imagine how to yet another gown would fit into your already cramped wardrobe.

Settled in on the seat of the coach with Marian sitting across from you, your head spins. To be invited by the Grand Dame herself was an honor. And Marian was positively giddy over your good fortune, it would only secure your pristine reputation, according to her.

“Who knows, you may well be in the running to win the season.”

“I’m sorry, win?” A scoff escapes from your lips, “I was unaware entering into society was a competition.”

She laughs, “Oh no dear, not merely entering society,” She leans forward, as if to share a secret. “But catching the attention of Mrs. Astor and a few gentlemen of good breeding is.”

The thought makes your stomach roil.

“And what does winning the season look like?”

Marian leans back to her side of the coach, “Well a respectable marriage, of course.”

Your heart leaps to your throat.

“Right, of course.”

How could you have forgotten that?! If you continued to “succeed” as Marian was clearly hoping you would, by this time next year you’d be some man’s wife with a grand house of your own to run and fill with children.

Before your thoughts can run away with you, the driver slows to a stop in front of the dressmaker’s shop and you’re whisked away to be poked and prodded for a few hours while Marian and the seamstress held up various swaths of fabric to determine which one suited your coloring best.

And by the time you return home later that evening, two more letters are waiting in the foyer. One is an invitation from the newly minted Mrs. Vanderbilt to attend her masquerade ball, while the other is in the younger Mr. Harrington’s familiar hand.

Unfortunately, it is not addressed to you, but to Christopher.

But a new arrangement of flowers does greet you as you open your bedroom door—white carnations, pink peonies, and sprigs of lavender— faithfulness, bashfulness, and devotion. Accompanied by the Harrington stationary, and signed with a flourish, Cordially yours, S. Harrington.

Amelia Harrington all but hustles her son out of the door, “You are to return their repaired carriage and not linger like a lovelorn youth beneath Miss Fairchild’s window.”

For someone who was angling for her son to make an advantageous match, Amelia was sure going about it in a curious way.

Steve’s valet helps him into his coat before passing him his gloves and hat.

“Of course, mother.”

She flicks the imperceptible dust from his shoulders as she says, “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.” She steps back and raises her brow, “A fresh cutting of flowers weekly, I mean really Steven.”

He smiles to himself, mindful of his mother’s quiet admonishment.

“Who said I was trying to be subtle about it?”

His mother huffs indignantly. “Right, my mistake. It seems you truly are your father’s son.”

Steve leans over to brush a kiss to her powdered cheek and says teasingly, “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He leaves quickly before she can swat at him, and steps into the newly repaired Fairchild carriage.

Per his message to Christopher, Steve plans to deliver the repaired coach and leave with his equipage— the whole matter settled and put behind them. But if the Mrs. Fairchild just so happens to extend an invitation for tea, or if your brother wants to discuss business in his study… Well, how could he possibly refuse?

Steve is dismayed to learn that you’re dining with Miss Buckley and Miss Wheeler this evening and are subsequently absent upon his arrival. But, as luck may have it, Marian does extend an invitation for dinner and Christopher would, in fact, be keen to discuss some business over brandy.

And that is how Steve Harrington finds himself in a dimly lit corridor, about to make his way downstairs and out to his coach when he collides with someone in the hall. His hands dart out to steady them, this person shrouded in shadow, his fingers finding purchase on soft skin and beginnings of silk opera gloves.

There’s a crackle of heat between you, his hands lighting up your skin, your pulse quickening in his grasp.

You should step back, step away and make your apologies. Marie said she would only be a moment downstairs, where could that blasted girl be now? You can’t be alone with him, not like this, maybe not ever. And it’s not because Steven Harrington is bad news, because how could he be with the way Robin goes on about him?

His fingers skate down your arms following the seam of your gloves, and your mind goes fuzzy because he does that thing again. That seemingly simple thing that is enough to make your knees quiver and chest heave; he drags an elegant finger along the underside of your wrist and pauses right on your pulse. Almost as if he’s trying to keep time with it.

“Apologies,” He manages to get out, voice raspy from the liquor and cigars.

The scent of him is comforting, like wood smoke from the study and tobacco from the cigars your brother and late father favored. But there’s something else there, something distinctly him— sweet like amber, or maybe that’s just the brandy on his breath. Hopefully, he can’t smell the port on yours…

And, oh god, neither of you should be close enough to determine that.

You make to step back, but stumble as your heel catches the hem of your dress. But before you can fall to heap on the floor, Steve pulls you up and steadies you, one hand hovering at your waist, while the other remains resting on at the pulse on the underside of your wrist. His thumb rubs at the delicate bones there, and it would be soothing if you weren’t so embarrassed.

“I–I need to go,” You say, instead of thanks because, clearly, all the laws etiquette have flown right out of your head. “My lady’s maid isn’t—”

Steve tenses at that, his brow furrows as his fingers slip from your wrist. He nods and takes a step back, as a gentleman would. As he probably should have in the first place if he hadn’t been so concerned for you, so caught off guard at your sudden appearance in the dark corridor.

And if he was loathe to leave you at the ball, he’s even more so now. The easy smile you had entered with is gone, replaced with a tight one, eyes downcast and looking anywhere but him. It’s his fault, surely, he shouldn’t have taken such liberties with you and he definitely shouldn’t have had that last glass of brandy.

There’s a fussing noise from a few doors down that breaks the silence. You turn toward it and make your excuse:

“That’ll be my nephew, I should see where the nursemaid is at.”

He expects you to scamper back down the stairs to find the aforementioned woman, but instead you gather your skirt in one hand and walk off toward the wailing babe. The door, partially open, gives way easily under your hand. As you enter the nursery, your nephew’s squalling falls to simple fussing, seemingly delighted at your arrival.

The stairs just so happen to take Steve past the nursery door as he descends, the split second floor providing a gallery to peer down on the main level. Through the balustrade sees you coo at the babbling boy, heaving him up into your arms, and watches as the babe settles on your chest.

And in the back of his mind, Steve knows that he shouldn’t be seeing this moment, it’s far to intimate and familiar. But he really can’t bring himself to look away.

You nuzzle your nose against the downy hairs on the boy’s head, relishing in his sweet scent and warmth. You sway slowly, rocking him with a soft tune as you skate your fingers up and down his back. Steve’s never seen anything quite like it, and in that moment, something blooms in his chest and he finds himself smiling as he quietly slips out the door.

The Astor ball came and went like a dream, a wisp of something unexpectedly wonderful.

Marian was pleased at the good showing you’d made, the gentlemen's names that littered your dance card. And Christopher was more than happy to entertain the fathers of prominent families who asked after you.

Everything was coming up roses for the Fairchilds, or so it would seem.

While the men you’d shared dances with were nothing but respectful and kind, your heart plummeted once you noticed Mr. Harrington’s absence. And yes, it wasn’t a requirement, per se, for men to attend each ball or charity function, but it pained you all the same when the night drew to a close and your pulse lacked the familiar thrum that came from his attentive grasp.

The affable Mr. Byers offered up an explanation for Mr. Harrington’s absence:

“I believe the family is in Boston on business.”

Whereas, Mr. Munson was adamant:

“Checking up on that horse of his, I’d wager. The racing season soon will be upon us.”

Mr. Hargrove was less than helpful:

“I don’t make it a habit to keep up with the comings and goings of one Steven Harrington.”

But, Mr. Hagan luckily, was more than happy to report:

“Oh, Harrington? He’s checking in on the country house upstate.”

Well, at least that settled it. If only you didn’t have to endure four turns around the floor with four different men to get your answers. That being said, they had all also been warned by Mr. Harrington to not let you fall into the hands of—

“Jason Carver,” The blond man says with a bow as he takes your hand.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Carver,” You reply automatically, the years of etiquette lessons doing their work as you drop into a curtsy.

The four gentlemen to your left look, understandably, concerned at this turn of events.

Mr. Carver goes to write his name in the final slot on your dance card, when someone careens into him, spilling a flute of champagne down the side of his lapel. Mr. Munson stumbles and attempts to right himself by swinging an arm around Mr. Carver’s shoulders.

“Apologies, my good man.” He says patting Mr. Carver’s chest and giving you a subtle wink. Then, when discovering the growing dampness on Mr. Carver’s tailcoat, he bemoans that fact that: “We can’t have you dancing with the belle of the ball looking like you’ve come in from the docks!” And finally, drags Mr. Carver out of the ballroom and into the smoking room to remedy the problem.

But before Mr. Hagan or Mr. Byers can secure your attention, another man has stepped forth to lay claim to your final dance.

He’s older and polished, yet somehow familiar as he brushes away the beginnings of Carver’s name to replace it with his own: Harrington.

You glance up, flummoxed, because the only Harrington you know is painfully absent this evening.

He gives you a comforting and paternal smile as he takes your hand in his for the final waltz. And after a few measures says, “It would appear that my son is rather taken with you, Miss Fairchild.”

The elder Mr. Harrington leads you with ease across the floor, his wife looking on with approval as she bends Marian’s ear. Christopher had retreated to the smoking room after Mr. Munson and Mr. Carver with a look of disapproval and had yet to return.

“That’s nice of you to say, Mr. Harrington.”

He turns you delicately, waiting until you're facing him again to ask, “And you? Are you fond of him Miss Fairchild?”

Suddenly, you feel quite dizzy and it’s not due to the turns of the waltz.

And in that moment, you realize you are being studied and scrutinized; it’s just as Marian had said, to win the season was to make an advantageous marriage. But, to your mind, it seemed all too quick for this to be unfolding.

“Your son has been…” You trail off, searching for the appropriate words. The ones that will keep you and your reputation safe. “He’s been exceedingly kind to me, Mr. Harrington.”

He nods, approvingly. “I would hope so, he well ought to be.”

The dance is quickly coming to a close, but there are few more turns around the floor to be had and more than a few tricks up Mr. Harrington’s sleeve. He asks after your education, your parents, and upbringing; inquires about your travels, your interests, and what you’re currently doing to pass the bitter New York winter.

“I’m re-reading the Greeks,” You supply, for that is how you’ve been prattling away the hours at present. “The Iliad as of today.”

He smiles and you can see vestiges of his son in his expression; there’s comfort in that.

“Ah yes, Achilles and his rage. A fascinating tale.”

You nod in agreement. “While Homer paints Achilles as a classic tragic hero, I find the story of the Trojans to evoke more pathos.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, of course,” You smile, luxuriating in a conversation about one of your favorite stories. “To see the dynasty and power of Troy fall in such a tragic way… I, for one, find it all the more compelling because they were deaf to the warnings of their doom.”

“Cassandra,” Mr. Harrington supplies.

“Yes, the women are quite something, that cannot be discounted.” He turns you again and you catch sight of Christopher joining his wife and Mrs. Harrington across the room. Facing your partner, you continue: “I realize that everyone favors Achilles because the gods favored him, but I find myself more fixated on his Trojan counterpart.”

The music hits its crescendo and begins to wind down, drawing the evening to a close.

“And why do you think that is, Miss Fairchild?”

“Oh well, it seems rather obvious to me.” Your feet follow his in the final steps of the waltz, you meet his gaze before taking a step back to curtsey and say: “Because Hector, above being a son of Troy and a leader of men, is an unfailingly good and brave man.”

The song ends, and polite applause is issued. You curtsy and the elder Harrington bows.

“Hmm, right you are Miss Fairchild.” And there’s that familiar smile again, “Right you are.”

He gingerly takes your arm in his and leads you off the floor toward your chaperones. Giving you a secret smile, he leans down to say, “I hope to hear more of your insights one day, my dear.”

And the night ends just as it began, as if you were waking from a dream.

Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt requests the honor of your company at her masquerade ball this Spring at La Petite Château. One must arrive wearing the costume supplied on the enclosed cards. Eligible bachelors are to don masks and their assigned partners are to unmask them. Dancing will begin at Eleven o’clock.

The icy winter gave way into a brisk spring, New York positively bustling with anticipation of the Vanderbilt ball. Invitations had been hand delivered by servants in livery, and young socialites had been practicing quadrilles for weeks on end. Dressmakers and cobblers were booked months ago, services secured soon after the invitations had arrived.

The costumes, by Marian’s own account, were to be as historically accurate as possible. And she thanked her good fortune for not having the stress of dressing as a fallen matriarch of France or a Russian tsarina.

The Fairchilds had lucked into the roles from Greek myth. Marian was to be the famed Helen of Troy, while Christopher was cast as the dashing Paris. You, meanwhile, were to dress as the lovelorn Andromache, with Gus as your son Astyanax.

Although it was rather an odd choice to have Marian and Chris playing one of literature’s infamous pairs star-crossed lovers, it was not for you to question Mrs. Vanderbilt’s judgement. Especially when it afforded you a rather needed respite from a gown with excessive ornamentation. Besides, you were rather fond of Andromache despite her tragic circumstances.

And because your brother was married, it only made sense that he be paired with his wife. While you, an unmarried woman in society, would be paired with an eligible bachelor. It’s a thought you choose not to linger on, content to let the dressmaker alter and shape the costume to her liking while Marian fusses with your hair and jewels.

“I hadn’t anticipated a need for gold this season, at least not until we were in Newport.”

Keeping to the historically accurate theme and to compliment the gown, Marian was on a mission to simpler gold and silver pieces rather than more readily available paste jewels or the more precious gems from your mother’s estate.

The costume itself was lovely, a simple gown resembling a pelpos in a lovely blue. The skirt only partially bustled so as to create a cascading drape of fabric. Fortunately, you would be able to get away with a looser more comfortable corset since the bodice differed from the fashionable bateau cut and would be secured with brooches at each shoulder.

Since you’d be carting around Gus all evening, you considered it a fair trade.

Your hair, Marian and Marie decided, would be braided at the crown with the rest pinned up, a few pieces left loose to frame your face and topped off with a simple gold coronet. Gold bangles would adorn one wrist with a matching cuff on the other. For footwear, handmade leather sandals with small heel would suffice. And you’d have a simple white stole to serve as a himation or cloak if you caught a chill.

The shop bell rings as the door opens.

“If only I cold find something for your coronet,” Marian fusses, thoroughly put out because she couldn’t seem to acquire the final piece for your costume.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine if I go without one,” You say, turning as the seamstress tells you to. “Really, Marian, the costume itself is lovely.”

She pouts, “But she was royalty, you should have a—”

At the sound of approaching footsteps, the seamstress hastily bundles you off to the back of the store, as Marian turns to see none other than Mrs. Harrington walk into the shop.

“Apologies,” She says, “It would seem I’m rather early for my appointment.” Her eyes trail two figures at the back of the store before one is hidden behind a dressing screen. “How do you do Mrs. Fairchild?”

“Oh very well, Mrs. Harrington. Just ticking off our list for the ball. And you?”

“Ah, I’m doing the very same.” She settles on the settee next to Marian. “The Misters Harrington are all set, but I have one final fitting for my costume.” Her lips pull in a jovial smile, “Oh to be a man without a care in the world.”

Marian can’t help but laugh along with the older woman. And that’s precisely what they’re doing when you emerge from the backroom.

“What a lovely surprise,” Mrs. Harrington greets, rising to take your hand. “I didn’t mean to snoop on your appointment dear, truly.”

You curtsy, “Of course not Mrs. Harrington, and we certainly didn’t mean to take so much of Elizabeth’s time today.”

“Think nothing of it,” She says with a smile, “But if I may be so bold, the sliver I saw of your costume was utterly enchanting.”

You thank her profusely, and say your goodbyes. Her eyes trailing after you as you step into the carriage. For some reason, your heart won’t stop racing.

Later that evening, Marie is called downstairs during dinner to take a delivery up to your room. She brushes down her skirt and apron, excusing herself from the servants' table. Pierce waits in his solemn way at the door with a finely crafted wooden box in his gloved hands.

Placing it into her hands he says, “This came for Miss Fairchild, she is to add it to her costume for the ball.”

Puzzled, she glances up. “No note?”

Pierce shakes his head, “None whatsoever.”

Slowly and carefully, Marie takes the stairs to deposit the jewelry box on your bureau for tomorrow. As she slides the box into its place of honor amongst the golden bracelets and brooches, her curiosity gets the better of her.

A soft gasp falls from her mouth as she quietly opens the box. For nestled among its indigo velvet lining rests a beautifully elegant and refined golden coronet.

Steve, it is clear once he’s arrived at the Vanderbilt manse, La Petite Château, has never been more nervous in his life. Not only is he attending a ball for which he must arrived masked only for his assigned partner to unmask him (what madness is that?!), but he is wearing leather sandals and a kilt with leather tassels in March.

He has never longed for trousers more than in this moment.

He exits the coach first and offers his hand to assist his mother as she descends. He’s carrying a bronze and horsehair helmet, currently propped against his hip. In lieu of a coat, he’s wearing a blood red cape, and armbands along with a breastplate of bronze. There’s also the matter of the sword at his other hip that keeps getting in his way, but that is neither here nor there.

His mother is a resplendent Hecuba to his father’s stoic King Priam.

Yes, they seem to have made a mighty fine showing for such a tragic tale.

Amelia brushes a few errant locks of hair from her son’s face before he can don the bronze helmet. A clever way around the masquerade requirement of the evening; and all the more dramatic for whomever was to unmask him.

“Now,” She says, voice soft and maternal, “Regardless of who unmasks you tonight…” Her fingers fuss with the red fabric at his shoulder. “You should find Miss Fairchild as soon you are able.”

Steve nods, finding his voice lodged somewhere in his throat at present.

“We’ll be summering in Newport soon, and I know you’d rather not wait until the end of the season to make your intentions known. The sooner we can secure the courtship, the better— your father are in agreement on that.”

“She’s a fine girl, son,” His father chimes in as Steve puts the helmet on. “A rare find.”

More carriages are arriving by the minute, so with that, the Harringtons make their way into the Vanderbilt ballroom.

The Fairchilds arrive not long after, and refreshments are served before the dancing can begin around eleven o’clock.

With Gus babbling at your hip, you don’t have much time to search for Mr. Harrington. In fact, you’re not even sure he would attend given his absence at the last ball. His parents, of course, would be there, his mother’s presence at the dressmakers guaranteed it.

Seated with your brother and Marian for dinner, you pass Gus off to his nursemaid who accompanied the family. She’s dressed as the milk mother to Astyanax, comely in her cream colored pelpos. He parts from you with a small fuss, and a part of you is already mourning his absence.

“You’re good with him,” Marian smiles conspiratorially, “He’s grown quite attached to you.”

You smile back serenely, “And I him.”

After the fanfare of dinner and drinks, Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt, who had quite stolen the evening with her costume of ‘electric light’ with a lit and battery-powered skirt, announced that the unmasking was to take place before the dancing would begin.

Everyone is ushered into the ballroom as the help begins to clear the table and refresh the drinks. The symphony begins to play softly in the background, the growing sound of voices rising over the music.

Gus, sated from his nap during dinner, grabs for you as the nursemaid passes him over. His chubby hands rest on the brooch at your shoulder, his little fingers skating along the golden disc. You will yourself to take deep breaths to alleviate the rising panic in your chest.

Logically, one would assume that the eligible gentlemen and ladies would be paired along a similar, if not the same theme. Unfortunately for you, there was no shortage of Greco-Roman costumes for the evening. Already you had surmised the presence of Cupid and Psyche, Echo and Narcissus; Janus with his two faces and Pandora with her box.

And nowhere had you caught sight of one Steven Harrington.

A few of the braver ladies step out from the crowd, inviting the gentlemen to do the same, and the games begin. Juliet finds her Romeo, Guinevere her Lancelot, and Isolde her Tristan. The numbers on the dancefloor keep dwindling, but you play your cards close to the vest as you entertain Gus at your hip.

The lone centurion that approaches is an immediate no go, as a jubilant Cleopatra eagerly reveals her Anthony.

But another soldier in regalia remains, as do a few other men, and you could’ve sworn that you’d spied a lone Oberon awaiting his Titania.

Cautiously, you step forward, ankle flashing briefly as your skirt moves with you. Gus is less sure of this turn of events, preferring to nuzzle against you as the stranger approaches, and you assess one another warily.

The helmet hides his face from view, but you take in the cocked angle of his head, how it allows his eyes to travel the length of you— from the hem of your dress to the coronet on your head. He’s slowly taking you in, as you are him, and it’d be almost a luxury if not for the pairs of eyes trained on you.

From across the way, you catch sight of Robin and Nancy, their cheeks flushed from the champagne and excitement of the evening. They’re whispering to each other behind Nancy’s fan, their eyes bright with mischief.

As if they are privy to something you are not.

A wail from Gus steals your attention, frightened by the helmet the stranger is sporting, and you know your time is up.

Surely, there must be some sign that this is Alva’s match for you? Some inkling or hint on his costume, maybe?

Shushing Gus with nonsense words and a low, soft voice, your eyes travel the length and breadth of this man before you. And there, on his breastplate of bronze, is the etching of a warhorse.

A smile breaks across your face as you take a step closer and raise your voice to say, “Well, if it isn’t Hector, breaker of horses.”

And it’s like a scene from a painting, or The Iliad itself, when the man goes to remove his horsehair helm. Gus, dressed as Hector’s son Scamandrius, stops his cries when the face of the man beneath is finally revealed.

It’s a sight that nearly steals your breath, because your match was clearly versed in the classics as well, and does just as Hector did— taking the infant from your grasp and holding him against his breastplate. Gus is thrilled by the change of venue; if your gold brooches were amusing than the breastplate, polished to a high sheen is fascinating. The baby laughs at his own reflection, eyes wide and curious.

A hush had fallen over the crowd as the scene unfolded before them. Amelia Harrington’s eyes fell to a familiar gold coronet, Samuel Harrington caught Christopher’s attention and nodded toward the smoking room for discussion, Marian’s eyes welled with happy tears, while Nancy and Robin took note of the pleasant and calm expression on your face.

No one was the wiser as your Hector, oh so discreetly, held your bangle-adorned wrist and skated a finger across your palm to rest against your thrumming pulse. He passed off Gus to the nursemaid and toed his helmet to the side.

“Andromache,” He says with a playful smile, “The honor is all mine.”

And with that, he pulls you into his arms as the first dance of the evening begins. You could swear that your feet never once touched the ground that evening as Steven Harrington spun you across the floor.

Miss Fairchild,

I must avail myself upon your good nature and express my deepest regrets for my behavior at the ball last night. It was not my intention to engage you so readily after your debut knowing, as I do, the feelings you harbor about the season, et al. If it is amenable, I would like to apologize to you personally— it is my most ardent hope that my recklessness not endanger our friendship. If that is agreeable to you, you can expect my call Sunday afternoon.

Very sincerely,

S. Harrington

Dearest reader,

It would seem that Mrs. Vanderbilt’s masquerade was quite the fête of the spring season. I even heard tell that our newly minted debutante was less than generous with her dancecard, more preoccupied with the city’s favorite bachelor and his furious pursuit.

Will there be an announcement before we decamp to Newport? Or will this infatuation prove to be just another passing fancy?

Keep your eyes and ears pealed, loyal readers, until then.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #fic: cf & dd

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