Work Text:
London, England 1906
She was absolutely radiant, swept up in the dance, her eyes on her current partner, her cheeks flushed with gin and the heat of the room, her red hair bright beneath electric lights. All evening, Jean had been flitting from one man to the next, leaving one pair of arms to be taken by another. And all the while, Emma had watched, assessing.
A husband. Jean was here to find a husband. It was a man’s world, and so they had to find one. Someone who would be the perfect fit for them. Someone who would understand and be more than sympathetic to their situation. Someone whose goals and hopes and desires aligned with theirs, and who was worthy to be the public consort of a woman such as Jean.
If such a man existed.
Emma was starting to doubt. Jean glanced her way again, but Emma just shook her head. Jean frowned but pulled away from her partner as the music ended. Excusing herself with a hurried curtsey, she made her way across the floor to Emma’s corner of the ballroom.
‘Well, what was wrong with him?’ Jean said in a rather loud whisper.
Emma looked over at the abandoned Lord Anthony Edward Stark, the host of this night’s ball.
‘Nothing,’ she said dryly. ‘Other than him being a scoundrel and a rake.’
‘Well, isn’t that rather a good thing?’ Jean countered. ‘He can – and I can – ’
Jean cut herself off, blushing, but in those glittering grey eyes, Emma could read the words Jean had left out: he can have his affairs, and I can have mine. I can have you.
Emma took a sidestep closer to Jean, pressed her lips to the other girl’s ear. ‘Do you believe yourself so resistible? Do you think he could have a wife like you and not desire to become more acquainted?’
Jean’s blush deepened and spread up to her ears. ‘You shouldn’t speak so to a gentleman’s daughter.’
Emma smirked a little at this, for she had become acquainted herself with this gentlemen’s daughter, many a night, but she quickly grew grave again.
‘He’s not suitable.’
‘Well, who then?’ Jean said, unable to hide her exasperation. ‘All this dancing all season long, and you find fault with every partner. It’s making me anxious. I wish you’d just pick someone!’
Emma shook her head. ‘It’s not that simple.’
She was still watching Stark, who had already moved on to another partner. Miss Harriet Osborn, a young American heiress, gazed up at Stark in wide-eyed wonderment, as he led her smoothly across the floor and dazzled with his usual charms.
Emma thought of her own mother, who had also been from the States. Her fortune and her body had bought her family the right to say they had an earl in the family. Emma knew that Harriet’s robber baron father was desperate for a similar opportunity, but Emma doubted money alone would tempt Stark from his philandering ways. She should warn this girl, Harriet, tell her not to give up her ‘virtue’ until she had stood before a priest. A ring simply was not enough.
Emma had learned a lot in her twenty years of life. How courtship was a kind of war, and every decision in it could lead to victory or catastrophe. Though indecision was worst of all, as Jean was reminding her yet again.
‘Papa is saying that he will make the choice for me,’ Jean said quietly, ‘if I cannot decide.’
‘The rogue,’ Emma said.
Jean sighed and took Emma’s hand, pulled her into the refreshment room. She waited while Emma filled a glass with ice and punch and handed it to her, before making her own argument.
‘He just wants to make sure I’m looked after,’ Jean said quietly. ‘That I will be taken care of. Mother’s death was so sudden. If something should happen to him…’
Emma was going to say that Jean would be fine, but that was not true. She would, of course, be devastated about losing her father – something that Emma understood but couldn’t fully grasp. If her own father ‘kicked the bucket,’ her main feeling would be relief about never having to see or speak to him again. If Emma’s mother died, well, there would hardly be a relationship to mourn, but not everyone hated their parents, and Jean had already seen more than her fair share of death for someone so young.
When Emma had first moved in with the Greys, Jean had been a quiet, withdrawn wisp of a girl. She’d lost her mother at seven to a bad case of consumption, and then at the age of ten, she’d seen her closest friend crushed beneath the wheels of a carriage. Jean’s father had done his best to be both father and mother to his daughter, but there were certain duties that were deemed more appropriate for a woman, and so – once Jean had outgrown her governess – Lord John Grey had sought a female companion for his daughter. Someone who could teach her to be a proper young lady and who would play chaperone at parties.
Lord Grey had been looking for someone a far bit older than Emma, but Emma had convinced him that Jean could do with having someone closer to her age around, to cheer and open her up.
It was almost entirely for selfish reasons. Emma had secured the role to get out of her own ‘home.’ She had applied before to be a governess to try to escape, but no genteel family would accept her. It would be considered an insult to her father for her to accept such a ‘lowly’ position. When Winston Frost found out about her schemes, he had screamed at Emma. But he was always screaming and shouting. She had learned to block him out. Her brother wasn’t as lucky. Christian never could seem to shield himself from the sting of their father’s words.
The plan, in the beginning, was to live off her new ‘family’s’ room and board and save her pittance of an allowance – save as much as she could anyway. She would still need to create an eye-catching wardrobe. She wanted to be seen, to be known, to appear powerful. She would help Jean marry well, and be rewarded for it. Then she would find herself a man as well, either to marry or to align with. As long as she could keep her independence, it didn’t really matter. She would have her own home, her own life, her own livelihood. That had been the plan. She would become a regular Becky Sharp, shooting her way up higher and higher in society, until no one and nothing could touch her.
That had all been shot to death though, when Jean’s glance had pierced her heart, when they’d fallen in love.
‘We should return,’ Jean said, once she’d finished her punch, and Emma still hadn’t found the words to answer her.
So, back to the ballroom they went, and Jean was immediately pulled onto the dancefloor. Emma watched as Jean started a cotillion with Sergei Kravinoff, the visiting Russian nobleman. The man was barrel chested with thick black hair and bright black eyes. He was a beautiful man. Emma could admit that – but he had a certain intensity that made her uneasy. When he grasped both of Jean’s hands in his, the squeeze was tight. And when his eyes locked on Jean, it was as a hunter staring at its prey.
Emma could understand it to an extent, the desire to possess Jean’s beauty. Those great, grey eyes; that milky skin; the flame of her hair and lips. But Sergei had an energy to him that spoke to a presently hidden brutality.
In any case, Emma had doubts about the good name of his family. She had seen Sergei’s valet without the mask he usually hid behind, and while there were certainly differences between the two men, there was enough resemblance to make Emma question whether Smerdyakov might not be some bastard relation.
Jean seemed to have the same doubts, or maybe she just hated the idea of moving to cold, far Russia – either way she was quick to say her dance card was full when Sergei asked for a second dance. She was swept next into the arms of a handsome young blond Army captain, and then a short, gruff son of a country squire. Round and round and round, Jean went, with one man after another. She smiled at each of them. Her eyes bright. Her cheeks glowing with warmth. She was so beautiful, so terribly beautiful, and Emma could see that the men thought so too, as they led her round the floor. This wallflower turned society darling. It gave Emma a sense of pride, and a deep pit in her stomach.
She still didn’t know what to tell Jean. What could she say? All her thoughts were dark and reckless. Could she really confess that she wanted Jean all to herself. That the idea that she could never claim Jean outwardly as hers filled Emma with poisonous jealousy - made her want to destroy the whole world.
She was so, so afraid of losing Jean - scared whatever ruse relationship they tried to make would end up becoming a real one. And that in time Jean would come to see what she had with Emma as nothing, a passé part of her life – an embarrassing, childish mistake.
But all she said when Jean returned to her was: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.’ And hoped that was the truth.