T H E A G E O F D I S S O N A N C E (8/9)dan, blair, serena, others.
4468 words. a re-working of edith wharton's the age of innocence.
summary: He is still young; he still has the freedom to shatter his life and make something new out of the pieces.Dan Humphrey does not enjoy the opera. He never has.
He has always been of the opinion that the opera is merely a new setting for the same old gossip, and he'd much rather be at home with his books than done up in his stiffest suit listening to everyone snipe about each other in lowered tones. Like now: Dan stands outside the curtains of the Vanderbilt box, preparing to do the customary drop in during intermission, when he hears William Vanderbilt's low grumbling voice say, "It's no surprise the Rhodes tried it on."
"That family is always trying
one thing or another," answers his wife, tsking. "Of course, it was all going just fine until
she returned."
"It would be her influence," the husband agrees. "Imagine, for Mrs. Humphrey to dare! To have her carriage seen in front of the Bass home, even knowing how her grandmother feels!"
Dan slips between the folds of the heavy curtain but remains lingering at the back of the box, unseen.
"I heard it said that woman was accompanying Mrs. Humphrey," the wife continues. "Doesn't that explain it all?"
"I think you forget my wife has always had a charitable spirit," Dan interjects, silently triumphant at the look of mortified surprise on the faces of the gathered Vanderbilts. "And I for one am proud of her."
"Well…yes," Mrs. Tripp Vanderbilt says finally, exchanging a worried look with her own husband. "Of course."
Nate is evidently not present, and Dan's gaze travels across the cavernous theatre to find his missing friend dropping in on
his box, leaning over to chat to Serena and Mrs. van der Woodsen, all of them with pleasant, shining smiles. Looking at them all together, they seem so well suited; perhaps Nate should have been her husband after all.
Dan shakes the thought loose, but it is succeeded by another just as painful: the very first night he saw Blair. He had been in much the same spot then as he is now, peering across the busy heads and gleaming fixtures filling the opera house, his gaze drawn to a woman other than the one he purported to love. A cad even then, it seems.
Serena sits now as she sat then, resplendent in white, but there are differences between the maiden and the wife. Her hair is woven up and out of her face, which is a little thinner. She has no flowers in her hands. And, Dan realizes abruptly, she is wearing her wedding gown.
It's the custom for brides to appear in this costly garment during the first year or two of marriage, but it is the first time Serena has donned the dress since she was married in it. Dan feels a curious, wistful affection for her in the moment, a longing for the time when she was all he had ever wanted. She
has always had a charitable spirit, his Serena; perhaps, just perhaps, she could be counted on for her understanding? She had offered him his freedom once, after all. She is so good, so much better than he is. Perhaps he could confess; perhaps she could be counted on for mercy.
Having made the Vanderbilts miserable enough, Dan excuses himself to return to his box. Once there he and Nate chat for a few minutes, but then Dan leans down to speak quietly in Serena's ear. "My dear, I have an awful headache; would you mind terribly missing the next act?"
"No, of course not," she says easily, ever-present worry bubbling up in her gaze again. Dan averts his attention from it.
Tomorrow he is meant to meet with Blair, so tonight is as good a night as ever to reveal the truth to his wife. As they sit side by side in the carriage home, it seems so obvious that he decides immediately and finally: he cannot keep this from her. He could not remain married to her after the breaking of vows.
They stop outside the house and Dan gets down first, holding his hand up for Serena. "I would like –" he starts, faltering at her quizzically furrowed brow. "That is, if you aren't too tired – could you come up to the study? We must talk over something very important."
Dan couldn't bear to let them both go on in this way any longer. She is owed her happiness, and so is he, even if such future happiness comes at the expense of the present.
"Oh," she murmurs. "Alright. Of course."
She takes a step down, hand trembling in his, and suddenly misses a step or gets caught in her skirt – either way, she ends up slipping and falling into his arms, the action accompanied by a sharp gasp and an even sharper tearing sound. Serena twists to look, letting out a disappointed little huff when she sees there is an awful rip in the fabric, and the white is stained gray from the slushy street.
"I ruined it," she says softly.
Uncomfortable, Dan says, "I'm sure it can be mended," but the allusions are rather too much for him, so he urges her along to the house.
In the study, they sit silently on either side of the fire, warming themselves or steeling themselves – or both. Dan thinks he loves her more now than he ever has, now in this minute right before he ends everything for good. Before it's over.
He wants to go about it honestly, without cruelty or cowardice. "I'm sure," Dan begins gently, "that you are not insensitive to what has been going on for so many months. You must have sensed my distance, and for that I apologize. I have been deeply conflicted. You see, it started when Blair –"
"There's no reason to talk of Blair now," Serena interrupts. Her voice is surprisingly firm, her jaw set as she looks up at him. She touches a nervous hand to her throat and firelight glints off her wedding rings, but then her hands fold in her lap, still. "Not now that she's returning home."
Dan stares at her. "Home?"
"Europe," Serena specifies. "Paris. Hadn't you heard? Granny has agreed to make Blair financially independent of the Count, so now she feels she can finally go back." Her eyes meet his directly and she wets her lips. "We've all been so unfair to her and she's been so unhappy here; it will be better for her to be among those who understand her. I know you did, and I'm glad for that. I'm glad she had some kindness here. But New York simply isn't her home any more and it hasn't been for a long time now."
"I don't… I'm not sure I understand," Dan says uncertainly. "I just spoke with her. She said nothing of it."
There is the faintest, most imperceptible flinch that dances along the fine bones of Serena's shoulders, revealed by her prettily ruffled white gown. "She sent me a note this afternoon. Would you like to see it?" At his half-hearted nod, mind reeling, Serena rises to go retrieve it. She returns moments later and sets it in his waiting hand. "I thought you knew."
His unseeing gaze drops down to the little square of paper, where Blair's fluttering penmanship has marked out the words Serena had just relayed to him with apparently little embellishment. New York is not her home anymore and she will be leaving it presently. She is so grateful for all that has been done for her, and all that continues to be done. Blair finishes with:
If any of my friends wish to change my mind, please tell them it would be utterly useless.
Dan reads it through more than once and then starts laughing, a quiet little chuckle low in his throat. It reminds him of another letter that once sealed his fate, the one that bore the date of his marriage. His fate in the hands of everyone but him, and Dan always getting the news of it last minute.
"I hope you aren't too upset, darling," Serena tells him. She bends to kiss his cheek. "I know she had become a dear friend to you."
* * *
The following morning, Dan passes by his office and keeps going until he has been carried all the way to Wallack's Theatre, which has the honor of putting up Mr. Rufus Humphrey's latest musical endeavor. No one stops Dan on his way into the theatre, but they don't recognize him either; perhaps they think him an understudy or a new stagehand. He had filled both roles growing up on the boards, but never in quite so finely made a suit as the one he wears now.
His father is in the pit conferring with the musicians, going over sheet music and gesturing emphatically. Rufus Humphrey is in his element as he dictates melodies and lyrics, more at home here than he ever was anywhere else. He has been on an extended tour in Europe for the past six months, but new endeavors have brought him home at last. This will be the first Dan is seeing of him since his return.
Even if it is no longer Dan's second home, and he has no experience with this particular theatre, there is still a nostalgia that grounds him to the stage and the seats, the burning lamps and the bustling people. He and Jenny had been fond of playing pretend as little ones, weaving in and out of painted sets in borrowed costumes – unsurprisingly, she favored the gold foil crown and Dan the wooden sword. The passage of time has rendered Dan's childhood idyllic, and though his rational mind knows they wanted for much – heat, food, new clothes, books, a hundred necessities and simple luxuries – he cannot help but feel that it was the happiest time of all their lives. Now Dan wants for nothing and he's never been more discontent.
Dan's father turns to give instructions to a passing seamstress and notices Dan almost immediately. His face clears, smile quick and eyes crinkling. "Son!" he exclaims. "I didn't know I'd be seeing you today."
"I didn't know it either," Dan tells him. "I was on my way to work but I simply couldn't bear it."
"I'm not surprised," Rufus says. "I do wish you'd never gotten it into your head that you needed a job like that. You –" He trails off upon seeing Dan's expression and gives a short laugh. "I'm sorry, son, I won't go resurrecting old arguments now. I'm glad to see you. Please, sit – tell me all that's going on in your life."
Dan laughs, humorless and more than a little mad; how could he sum up what his life has become? They take their seats in the creaking audience chairs, threadbare velvet under Dan's fingers.
"I am married and I am in love," he says, not offering clarification beyond that. "Yet I am unhappy. Do you have the answer for that?"
Rufus could take it as a challenge considering the home he shares with his own wife is less than warm these days. But instead he studies Dan thoughtfully. "Did I ever tell you the story of my first marriage?"
"You know very well you haven't. I never knew there was a woman other than my mother."
Rufus smiles wryly, though his eyes are distant and melancholy with memory. "We were married for days only before it was annulled; most days I don't think to count it."
"But today you do," Dan notes.
"Today I do," Rufus agrees. "There are similarities in our situations, I think. The girl I loved was far above me in every way. She had run away from home to be an actress but she hadn't run far enough; her family came and found her, but it was only after she and I had fallen in love. I was desperate to marry, and she agreed, so we eloped – and again she was retrieved, the marriage dissolved, and both of us returned to our separate spheres. Me, a penniless musician; her, a wealthy debutante."
Dan recognizes more than a few of his father's songs in the story. "Not so penniless for long."
"Ah." Rufus waves that off. "By the time I'd made good on my promises, both she and I were married with our own families."
"But you loved her still," Dan guesses.
Love her still, he should say, reading his father's face too easily. It is an oddly gutting sensation to reveal one more layer of Dan's life tinged with deceit, one more facet made fraudulent by the truth. Perhaps it is merely in his blood to be dissatisfied and cowardly.
"Oh, no, it was young love," Rufus says. "Puppyish, immature."
"You're lying." The words slip from Dan's mouth without a second thought but he is convinced of their veracity. Even if his father denied it again, he would still be convinced. "You loved her and you lost her, but that didn't make the love disappear."
Rufus observes him steadily. "You married your debutante, Dan."
Dan returns the look. "Did I?"
Rufus releases a slow breath, leaning back in his chair. "Is this about that governess? Because if it is, I feel bound to state again that her conduct was most inappropriate –"
"No," Dan sighs. "No, it's not about the damned governess. It never is, no matter what everyone seems to think."
"Then what is it?"
Dan slumps, biting his tongue to keep the confession back. He can't speak it, not even to his own father. "I know that you chose to be just a little unhappy for all of your days because it was easier than fighting for what you truly wanted. And you kept my mother in the dark of that lie and raised your children in that lie and now that lie is the defining feature of my entire life."
Flabbergasted, Rufus says, "You can't possibly blame me for whatever it is that you have deemed wrong in your own life –"
"I don't blame you, I blame everyone, I blame it all," Dan says. "I blame the constructions of society that have made us all this way and I blame myself for not being able to challenge it either."
Dan knows then exactly what he is going to do. He will leave his job, leave his marriage, leave his life – he will leave it all behind and follow Blair wherever she chooses to go. He is still young; he still has the freedom to shatter his life and make something new out of the pieces.
* * *
Though two years of marriage have led to any number of small get-togethers and friendly little parties, the Daniel Humphreys have yet to have the kind of dinner that requires the services of a chef, additional hired help, and all sorts of ornamental frippery that Dan personally finds rather ridiculous. If it were up to him, there would be little in the way of entertaining; thanks to his reticent nature, which has only grown more reserved over the years, he has no interest in making his home the center of attention. Serena, however, is another story, for she leans almost too far in the opposite direction – her soirées have quite outdone Mrs. Ivy Dickens' in their regularity and frivolity. But for all the drinks spilled on their sitting room carpet, Dan and Serena have never hosted a proper party, and tonight's is to be their very first.
It is a bon voyage to the Countess Blair Grimaldi.
Preparations leading up to the party have been a comedy of errors, with Mrs. Lily van der Woodsen's ostentatious taste clashing with Mrs. Allison Humphrey's more homespun attempts as both try to tutor Serena in how best to host such an event. Thanks to Serena's mother, there will be roses from Henderson's on every table and thanks to Dan's there will be personally written place cards and menus at every table setting. Serena is a whirlwind, trying to oblige every request and honor every offer.
Dan goes along without complaint because as far as he's concerned, it is his last act as Serena's husband.
He has not heard a word from Blair, written or spoken. The only thing approaching a missive that he has received was a sealed envelope sent to his office, which contained a key wrapped in tissue paper – the tool with which their affair was to be conducted. Dan has not responded to her in any way either; he is of the opinion that her rapid return to Europe might prove beneficial for Dan's own proposed flight. They will both be removed from the whispers and rumors sure to follow the scandal, and Serena will be given a wide berth in which to recover. Dan will give her New York, he'll give her all of the United States – he only wants his freedom.
The guests arrive all in a great busy cloud: Nate and his wife Penelope, Mr. Cyrus Rose and his son Aaron, Serena's assorted family members (minus the still-shunned Basses and ever more fragile Mrs. Celia Rhodes), and some married socialites whom Dan can't remember ever sparing a kind word Blair's way. The brightly lit rooms are soon full of swishing skirts and happy chatter, everyone with a glass in hand and good spirits in surplus. Dan offers meaningless smiles and pointless repartee as his gaze regularly leaps to the door, awaiting the lady of honor.
Blair arrives last, as is her habit – too many years spent learning how to make an entrance. Always a little pale, tonight finds her nearly ashen, with her dark hair piled atop her head in a densely woven bun that seems to overwhelm her delicate features, looking too heavy to be held up by her slender neck. Her bright red dress sets off her complexion to disadvantage, lending her a lusterless quality that makes more than one politely spiteful debutante remark that she looks too ill for travel. Next to Serena, gleaming faintly in a satiny white frock, she looks positively consumptive.
But if asked to comment upon Blair's dull eyes or distinct pallor, Dan could only offer superlatives instead. It is like a drumming in the back of his skull that drowns out rational thought or even basic compassion, so that he can look at her standing beside his wife in his marital home (which Blair has never visited before) and think only: I love her, I love her, I love her.
She offers him the briefest of greetings, just an ungloved hand trailing over his arm.
"I am sorry my arrival was delayed," she says, looking past him. "It was Granny, you understand – she's feeling utterly deserted, the poor dear."
"Yes," Dan says, unhearing. "Yes, of course; no matter."
Once they sit down to dinner, the conversation turns almost entirely to Blair's future plans, everyone posing questions to her with a buzzing interest that belies the years they spent denouncing her very presence. Dan's jaw clenches as he listens to the insincere fawning, the silent dismissal of all past renunciations, the complete acceptance of Blair now that her passage out of the country is booked. It's with complete astonishment that he hears Penelope say, "Oh, dear Blair, it's a pity you couldn't stay longer!"
Dan feels untethered to the entire scene, as incautious and cavalier as though he was drunk, though he has had hardly any sips of wine. He feels as he did when he was a young man new to prosperity, ghosting along the edges of sumptuous ballrooms, observing everything but remaining somehow unseen. It's then that the realization strikes him; just as he can see every crack in each pleasant façade, he can suddenly see the truth that lurks behind every benign smile. They all believe him and Madame Grimaldi to be lovers. They endeavor to maintain the illusion that Dan himself has gone out of his way to set up, that he is simply defender of his chosen family and anyone in it, but the language of New York society is a language of lies that no one really believes, not deep down, not in whispers.
With detached curiosity, he wonders how long he has been the subject of idle gossip and observing eyes. Months definitely, but more likely
years, everyone keeping tabs on how often he might have spoken Blair's name or been caught in her company. It is as though every personal feeling Dan has ever had has in reality been performed upon a stage with a bright light bearing every ugly mark and storied imperfection to an unkind audience. They have probably all passed suspicions and inquiries between them, but now that Blair will safely soon be gone, the entire tribe can once again rally around the tacit assumption that nobody knew anything, or had ever imagined anything, and that tonight was nothing more than the friendliest of farewells.
The entire thing makes Dan inappropriately amused.
"Countess," he says, in a voice no different and perhaps surprising for that, "are you looking forward to your travels?"
Blair turns to him with a resigned look in her eyes but a slight smile about her lips. "Yes," she answers. "It has been too long since I have ventured farther than this coast, and I do relish the opportunity. Though of course all travel has its hardships."
"There is something blessed about getting away." Dan meets her eyes steadily and watches color rise in those colorless cheeks, knowing now that someone else – or maybe even everyone else – is noticing it too. "I mean to do a lot of traveling myself before long."
The night winds on through several courses, brandies and cigars, and finally civilized though rather dispassionate goodbyes. Serena is flush with the success of the evening and she is the only one to wrap Blair up in both arms and kiss her on both cheeks, a show of such expressive emotion that Blair seems overwhelmed, crushed beneath it.
"Certainly our hostess is much the prettier of the two," says Jonathan Whitney to Eric. It's only a teasing compliment to a friend, but it reminds Dan of the unseemly way Bass had once remarked upon Serena's
perfection.
A moment later Dan is called upon to help Blair into her cloak and he does so like a stranger, perfunctory and brisk. What could he say to her then except goodbye?
Her hand is gloved once more as it slips into his. "I shall see you soon in Paris," he promises, voice low, unwilling to project for the audience just then.
"Oh," Blair says, "If you and Serena could come!"
Hands fall away and Blair turns, fingers alighting on Cyrus Rose's arm as he leads her out the door towards her waiting carriage. A footman helps her up but she pauses there, held aloft in the pressing darkness of the evening, a hint of red skirt and the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily as she looks back at Dan, seeming to stare right into the depths of him – and then she is gone.
Dan stands there in the doorway with the cool breeze playing about his face. Inside of himself he has nothing; his heart has booked passage to Paris.
Serena comes to stand beside him and lean her cheek upon his shoulder, fingers twining with his unresponsive ones. "It did go off beautifully, didn't it?"
"Mm," he murmurs noncommittally. "You must be very pleased."
"Very tired too," Serena says before she presses a kiss to his cheek. "Come, everyone is gone; let's you and I sit together."
Dan had been hoping to go straight to bed, or at least that she would so that he could lurk sullenly around the library, where she now leads him, but he does not resist. Tonight or tomorrow, it makes no difference; he is going to finish the conversation he has tried so hard to start.
"I thought Penelope might dance a little jig of joy to be rid of Blair," Serena laughs, giving a twirl before she drops into the coziest armchair, her feet going up on the nearby stool. "I think she was happier tonight than she was at her own wedding."
Dan offers up no response, allowing the silence to stretch between them for many long minutes before he finally speaks, his words unconnected to her easy party gossip. "You say you're tired," he begins. "Well, I am too. Exhausted. I think – no, I
know– I have decided that I must take a break."
Serena's eyes have sharpened as they focus on him. "From the law? You know I am in full support; I pity anyone who has to go to work with my father all day, and we both know writing is your true passion."
He blinks at her, taken aback, but says, "No – well. Perhaps. But I meant something different. I would like to go on a trip – very far, and for an indeterminate amount of time. You see –"
"Oh," Serena interrupts. "But I'm afraid you can't – at least, not without me, and I'm certain the doctors won't let me go."
"Doctors?" Dan repeats, but the sinking in his stomach proves he already knows what she will say.
"I've been sure since this morning," she says quietly, watching him. "I had been longing and hoping and, well – now I'm certain."
Dan finds himself rising and going to her, sinking to his knees next to her chair. "Oh, Serena."
He puts his head in her lap and feels her fingers card through his hair, his chest suddenly tight and breathing shallow and difficult.
"You didn't guess?"
"No, I hadn't the faintest, I –" His lifts his head to look at her, brow creasing somewhat. "Have you told anyone else?"
"Only my mother and yours. I was sure you'd know after that, because your dear mother couldn't keep from crying." Serena bites her lip, then adds, "And Blair, of course. I told you of that long talk we had? It is an old habit, perhaps – I could never keep a thing like that from Blair."
Dan's heart seems to skip and skid in his chest, slipping on ice. "Ah."
She has, of course, kept many things from Blair over the years.
"You don't mind my telling her first, do you?"
"Mind? Why should I mind?" But something cold seems to slither through him. "Though that was a week ago, wasn't it? You said you weren't sure until today."
Serena goes slightly pink, and the hand that is still curved against Dan's throat seems to flinch. "No, I wasn't sure then – but I told her I was. And you see I was right!"
Dan knows then that there will be no trips to Paris.
epilogue
lookinglassgirl for that, because when I was whining about not having time for everything she was like ‘errr just move it to January’ and let me tell you it was a REVELATION for me.) These prompts are one of my favorite things to do because I always get really cool prompts and end up writing really fun stuff, but it takes A LOT of my brain power, so I wanted to have enough time to devote to them. Plus it extends the holiday vibes! This is also the last year I’m doing these, so let’s make it count!
ms_mmelissa. jessica jones + jessica & trish + no one saves us but ourselves
