the age of dissonance (1/?)
Dan, Blair, Serena. Appearances by everyone.
2082 words. PG.
A re-working of Wharton's The Age of Innocence.
Summary: The Countess Grimaldi has not been seen in New York since she was still Blair Waldorf, society belle.
Note: The first of the holiday fics! For![]()
thmaymuc, I hope you like it, girl! I borrowed some dialogue here or there from the original novel, and obviously the plot is totally stolen from there. Writing old timey stuff is weird? It's weird. I have no idea how long this might end up, or with what regularity I'll update it, but I'm pretty excited about it, so I hope it goes well.
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The theatre is stifling, noisy with chatter and gossip. This is where he sees her again. Again, though it feels like a first.
Dan Humphrey does not enjoy the opera – or chatter and gossip, for that matter. Any enjoyment he takes from this excursion is purely aesthetic, the nominal pleasure one takes from pretty architecture and nice decorations; he admires the deep red carpeting and golden fixtures, but with a distant sort of interest that he feels hardly ought to be taken into account. When Dan Humphrey thinks of the aesthetics of nights at the opera, he thinks not of rugs and costumes but of one particular lady, sitting now ensconced amongst her mother and grandmother in the box directly opposite.
Framed between the older ladies in their dark brocade is his Serena – not his yet, he supposes, but after today he is assured that it shall be soon enough. The theatre is dim but Serena van der Woodsen is a light all her own, nearly glowing amongst the dark suits and demure dresses. Her blonde hair tumbles loose from its pinning, fighting the confinement, tendrils dropping to caress her throat and brush the shoulders of her gown, which shines crisply white. She keeps shooting playful smiles at him that Dan can't help returning. In her arms she holds a bouquet of lilies, sent to her by him daily, and the absent way her fingers play over the petals pleases him inexpressibly. She is the only saving grace in this sea of the mundane. Dan's fingers itch hopelessly for a pen and a cigarette.
It had been just that very afternoon that the attraction between himself and Serena had finally blossomed into an understanding, the iron-willed matriarch of the family, the widowed Mrs Rhodes, granting her permission at last for their engagement. Her consent had been hard-won and Dan was glad to have it, though he had found the negotiations distasteful. He wishes things could be simpler, that he and Serena could be allowed to decide their own fate, but it is rather unfortunately certain that such a thing could never happen here amongst the New York gentility. They wouldn't know what to do with their lives if control was placed squarely in their hands instead of left to the invisible interwoven web of traditions and rules.
No one chatters to Dan, only chatters around him. He wonders if this is because he's standoffish, which Serena often chides him for, or because they still feel he does not belong.
It had amused Dan once he'd outgrown his youthful resentment; he'd grown up in this world but had never truly been allowed to take part in it. He is not modest about his accomplishments and considers himself better read and better educated than most of those in his set, certainly more introspective and possessing of more life experience. But Dan came up in the world much later than they did, his family money earned and not inherited, and it sets him apart in nearly every way. His experiences are alien to them, making him alien to them, and therefore his peers have little interest in his company. Up until recently, out of spite, Dan had behaved much the same, ignoring them as they ignored him, but his engagement to Serena will change things. It will bring him to the forefront in a way he has never been, and they will be forced to accept him or end up shunning their most prized social butterfly, which is an outcome so unlikely as to be laughable.
Just then the curtains part behind Serena and another joins her party, a slight young woman in a dark dress. Serena turns with a sunny grin to greet this visitor, both hands reaching for those of the other young woman, who offers Serena only a half-smile in return. The girl is a shadow to Serena's glare, small and slim in her navy gown, skin pale and polished as pearl. Her lips are noticeably red even from a distance, which rather shocks Dan, for he can only assume they're painted such a color. Her movements are self-consciously controlled as she takes her seat, hands clutching her fan a moment before lifting to smooth over her dark hair, making sure every curl is where it ought to be.
Dan realizes with a start that he knows her. At the very same moment, he realizes that the chatter around him has a focus and that focus is her– hundreds of heads and eyes and binoculars have turned as one towards that shadow with her tensely-set shoulders.
The attention is to be expected; the Countess Grimaldi has not been seen in New York since she was still Blair Waldorf, society belle.
"Well – my word," says Howard Archibald, a kind of subdued bemusement in his voice. He sits forward slightly even as he peers through his opera-glass and then, after a moment's perusal, hands the glass over to his father-in-law, William Vanderbilt, who is sitting beside him.
William Vanderbilt looks too, very briefly, and makes a thoughtful sound before exchanging curious glances with Archibald. William Vanderbilt is the sort of man who knows everything about everyone without giving off the appearance of prying in the slightest, as though he is entitled to the information thanks to his position or wealth, or just because he has always possessed an authority over matters of decorum and no one can imagine it differently. But he seems genuinely incredulous now, passing the glass back to his son in law.
Casting another disapproving look at the box opposite, William Vanderbilt says, "I didn't think the Rhodes would have tried it on."
Dan stills, his eyes downcast so as not to seem as though he is observing their exchange, but his ears are pricked nonetheless. He would hate to appear intrusive, especially considering he only shares this box on the goodwill of the Vanderbilt-Archibald family, which in turn is only because of his friendship with Nate Archibald, luckily not present tonight thanks to his honey-moon travels abroad.
The astonishment of the older men is no surprise to Dan, who, though he considers himself rather innovative, is privately just as taken aback. The Rhodes are as old a family as any other and deserving of just as much respect, but the misadventures of the Widow Rhodes' daughters (the younger, Lily, his dear Serena's mother) has lent the family an almost comical air, an affectionate teasing now that all bad behavior has been left firmly in the past. It did tarnish them somewhat in the eyes of the gentility, which is probably what allowed them to lower their standards enough to marry their prize girl off to a nouveau riche Humphrey, and to welcome the Countess back into the fold in the first place; however, all that said, it was quite another thing to parade her around in the public sphere.
Indeed, who would have thought they'd have tried it on!
Dan can barely remain still for the duration of the first act – more so than usual, even – but once they reach intermission he feels oddly rooted to his seat. Serena has turned her lovely head to speak to her cousin the Countess, who tilts her own to listen without taking her eyes off the empty curtained stage. She must be aware of whispers, feel the eyes upon her, but she shows no sign of it.
There are murmurs behind him, and one of the other young men – Dan believes it to be Marcus Beaton – says, "Well, does anyone know exactly what happened?"
"She left him," someone answers, "There's no denying that."
Sounding troubled, Beaton says, "He was an awful brute, I've heard?"
William Vanderbilt gives a slight nod, allows, "Indeed; I knew him at Nice. The sort to spend his money on gambling and women, running up quite a tab with both."
A soft laugh amongst the men, and then Beaton presses, "And –?"
"And she bolted," Vanderbilt says, an edge of distaste entering his voice for the first time, "with the secretary."
Disappointment replaces the eagerness in Beaton's voice: "Oh. I see."
"Which didn't last long, from all accounts," William Vanderbilt continues. "She was apparently desperately unhappy, and the younger van der Woodsen boy sent to retrieve her from Venice, where she had been living alone. Which is all well and good –" He sounds very much as though he'd rather she had been left in Italy. "But bringing her here? Planting her in the very center of their box at the opera?" He tsks.
Intermission is nearly ended but Dan gets to his feet, resolve strengthened by the very men giving him odd looks now. He moves out through the theatre, carpet silencing his steps, and finds the place feels very deserted without its usual crowd to wade through.
Serena beams at him as soon as he enters the box, though her mother can barely summon a smile to complement her condescendingly raised eyebrow.
"Daniel," she says in mild greeting.
Serena's grandmother, the Widow Rhodes, is much more welcoming, to Dan's eternal confusion. Mrs Rhodes has obviously decided to like him, and Dan is grateful though unclear as to the reason; perhaps being contrary to her daughter is enough.
The Countess spares him one look over her shoulder, fan open wide to hide her face from the audience. She doesn't speak.
"You remember my dear cousin Blair," Serena says unquestioningly as she lifts her pretty eyes to meet his. He can read her easily, her silent appeal to be kind and welcoming.
"Of course," Dan says, though his memories of Blair Grimaldi are greatly faded with time. She'd had little time or interest in Dan back then and he had eyes only for Serena. He had risen as Blair fell, seventeen and already at the height of her scandal (so it seemed then, anyway). She'd ruined one carefully planned lifelong engagement – to Dan's friend Nate, his only friend, though they had been less acquainted then – in favor of another, seemingly brighter foreign match. One that turned sour quickly, it seems.
He shifts closer to Serena, offers quietly, "I hope you've told Madame Grimaldi of our engagement. I want everyone to know – we ought to announce it tonight, at the ball."
Their engagement announcement is not due for a few more weeks at best, but Dan can see Serena understands him as easily as he does her. His family holds little significance to those of any means, but the support will not go unremarked upon. "If you can persuade Mother," she says, "but why should we change what is already settled?" The reluctance is a front, merely what she is supposed to do, and a moment later she adds, "Tell my cousin yourself."
With reluctance of his own, Dan turns towards the Countess, who lets out a little sigh at being addressed and settles her somber eyes on him. He doesn't expect her to speak first but she does, her voice low, "Mr. Humphrey and I never got along very well."
Serena laughs, a soft pretty sound, and teases, "Well you were never very kind."
"No," she agrees, a touch too serious. "I never had much use for kindness or compassion." She looks at Dan again, her eyes very dark in her pale face. "I hope you won't hold it against me, Mr. Humphrey."
He meets her gaze directly, surprised by her words. "Of course not, Countess." He studies her face, unsmiling but not unkind, which is how he recalls it. "You have been away a very long time."
"Oh, centuries and centuries," she answers, somewhat flatly, her gaze straying from him as the lights flash, intermission coming to its end, "So long that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven."
Dan frowns at the back of her dark head, finding her words odd and impossible to comprehend; too open for a girl he can only remember as being tightly closed, distant and untouchable as a fairytale queen. It had seemed awfully fitting, even to Dan as young as he was, for her to ride off with her Count to his home across the water; but here she is again, returned to the city she had left without so much as a backwards glance, and Dan finds himself uncharitably displeased to see her again, as though still sixteen and bitter at the world.
If she's looking for heaven, he knows better than any that she won't find it here.
Dan, Blair, Serena. Appearances by everyone.
2082 words. PG.
A re-working of Wharton's The Age of Innocence.
Summary: The Countess Grimaldi has not been seen in New York since she was still Blair Waldorf, society belle.
Note: The first of the holiday fics! For
thmaymuc, I hope you like it, girl! I borrowed some dialogue here or there from the original novel, and obviously the plot is totally stolen from there. Writing old timey stuff is weird? It's weird. I have no idea how long this might end up, or with what regularity I'll update it, but I'm pretty excited about it, so I hope it goes well. 
The theatre is stifling, noisy with chatter and gossip. This is where he sees her again. Again, though it feels like a first.
Dan Humphrey does not enjoy the opera – or chatter and gossip, for that matter. Any enjoyment he takes from this excursion is purely aesthetic, the nominal pleasure one takes from pretty architecture and nice decorations; he admires the deep red carpeting and golden fixtures, but with a distant sort of interest that he feels hardly ought to be taken into account. When Dan Humphrey thinks of the aesthetics of nights at the opera, he thinks not of rugs and costumes but of one particular lady, sitting now ensconced amongst her mother and grandmother in the box directly opposite.
Framed between the older ladies in their dark brocade is his Serena – not his yet, he supposes, but after today he is assured that it shall be soon enough. The theatre is dim but Serena van der Woodsen is a light all her own, nearly glowing amongst the dark suits and demure dresses. Her blonde hair tumbles loose from its pinning, fighting the confinement, tendrils dropping to caress her throat and brush the shoulders of her gown, which shines crisply white. She keeps shooting playful smiles at him that Dan can't help returning. In her arms she holds a bouquet of lilies, sent to her by him daily, and the absent way her fingers play over the petals pleases him inexpressibly. She is the only saving grace in this sea of the mundane. Dan's fingers itch hopelessly for a pen and a cigarette.
It had been just that very afternoon that the attraction between himself and Serena had finally blossomed into an understanding, the iron-willed matriarch of the family, the widowed Mrs Rhodes, granting her permission at last for their engagement. Her consent had been hard-won and Dan was glad to have it, though he had found the negotiations distasteful. He wishes things could be simpler, that he and Serena could be allowed to decide their own fate, but it is rather unfortunately certain that such a thing could never happen here amongst the New York gentility. They wouldn't know what to do with their lives if control was placed squarely in their hands instead of left to the invisible interwoven web of traditions and rules.
No one chatters to Dan, only chatters around him. He wonders if this is because he's standoffish, which Serena often chides him for, or because they still feel he does not belong.
It had amused Dan once he'd outgrown his youthful resentment; he'd grown up in this world but had never truly been allowed to take part in it. He is not modest about his accomplishments and considers himself better read and better educated than most of those in his set, certainly more introspective and possessing of more life experience. But Dan came up in the world much later than they did, his family money earned and not inherited, and it sets him apart in nearly every way. His experiences are alien to them, making him alien to them, and therefore his peers have little interest in his company. Up until recently, out of spite, Dan had behaved much the same, ignoring them as they ignored him, but his engagement to Serena will change things. It will bring him to the forefront in a way he has never been, and they will be forced to accept him or end up shunning their most prized social butterfly, which is an outcome so unlikely as to be laughable.
Just then the curtains part behind Serena and another joins her party, a slight young woman in a dark dress. Serena turns with a sunny grin to greet this visitor, both hands reaching for those of the other young woman, who offers Serena only a half-smile in return. The girl is a shadow to Serena's glare, small and slim in her navy gown, skin pale and polished as pearl. Her lips are noticeably red even from a distance, which rather shocks Dan, for he can only assume they're painted such a color. Her movements are self-consciously controlled as she takes her seat, hands clutching her fan a moment before lifting to smooth over her dark hair, making sure every curl is where it ought to be.
Dan realizes with a start that he knows her. At the very same moment, he realizes that the chatter around him has a focus and that focus is her– hundreds of heads and eyes and binoculars have turned as one towards that shadow with her tensely-set shoulders.
The attention is to be expected; the Countess Grimaldi has not been seen in New York since she was still Blair Waldorf, society belle.
"Well – my word," says Howard Archibald, a kind of subdued bemusement in his voice. He sits forward slightly even as he peers through his opera-glass and then, after a moment's perusal, hands the glass over to his father-in-law, William Vanderbilt, who is sitting beside him.
William Vanderbilt looks too, very briefly, and makes a thoughtful sound before exchanging curious glances with Archibald. William Vanderbilt is the sort of man who knows everything about everyone without giving off the appearance of prying in the slightest, as though he is entitled to the information thanks to his position or wealth, or just because he has always possessed an authority over matters of decorum and no one can imagine it differently. But he seems genuinely incredulous now, passing the glass back to his son in law.
Casting another disapproving look at the box opposite, William Vanderbilt says, "I didn't think the Rhodes would have tried it on."
Dan stills, his eyes downcast so as not to seem as though he is observing their exchange, but his ears are pricked nonetheless. He would hate to appear intrusive, especially considering he only shares this box on the goodwill of the Vanderbilt-Archibald family, which in turn is only because of his friendship with Nate Archibald, luckily not present tonight thanks to his honey-moon travels abroad.
The astonishment of the older men is no surprise to Dan, who, though he considers himself rather innovative, is privately just as taken aback. The Rhodes are as old a family as any other and deserving of just as much respect, but the misadventures of the Widow Rhodes' daughters (the younger, Lily, his dear Serena's mother) has lent the family an almost comical air, an affectionate teasing now that all bad behavior has been left firmly in the past. It did tarnish them somewhat in the eyes of the gentility, which is probably what allowed them to lower their standards enough to marry their prize girl off to a nouveau riche Humphrey, and to welcome the Countess back into the fold in the first place; however, all that said, it was quite another thing to parade her around in the public sphere.
Indeed, who would have thought they'd have tried it on!
Dan can barely remain still for the duration of the first act – more so than usual, even – but once they reach intermission he feels oddly rooted to his seat. Serena has turned her lovely head to speak to her cousin the Countess, who tilts her own to listen without taking her eyes off the empty curtained stage. She must be aware of whispers, feel the eyes upon her, but she shows no sign of it.
There are murmurs behind him, and one of the other young men – Dan believes it to be Marcus Beaton – says, "Well, does anyone know exactly what happened?"
"She left him," someone answers, "There's no denying that."
Sounding troubled, Beaton says, "He was an awful brute, I've heard?"
William Vanderbilt gives a slight nod, allows, "Indeed; I knew him at Nice. The sort to spend his money on gambling and women, running up quite a tab with both."
A soft laugh amongst the men, and then Beaton presses, "And –?"
"And she bolted," Vanderbilt says, an edge of distaste entering his voice for the first time, "with the secretary."
Disappointment replaces the eagerness in Beaton's voice: "Oh. I see."
"Which didn't last long, from all accounts," William Vanderbilt continues. "She was apparently desperately unhappy, and the younger van der Woodsen boy sent to retrieve her from Venice, where she had been living alone. Which is all well and good –" He sounds very much as though he'd rather she had been left in Italy. "But bringing her here? Planting her in the very center of their box at the opera?" He tsks.
Intermission is nearly ended but Dan gets to his feet, resolve strengthened by the very men giving him odd looks now. He moves out through the theatre, carpet silencing his steps, and finds the place feels very deserted without its usual crowd to wade through.
Serena beams at him as soon as he enters the box, though her mother can barely summon a smile to complement her condescendingly raised eyebrow.
"Daniel," she says in mild greeting.
Serena's grandmother, the Widow Rhodes, is much more welcoming, to Dan's eternal confusion. Mrs Rhodes has obviously decided to like him, and Dan is grateful though unclear as to the reason; perhaps being contrary to her daughter is enough.
The Countess spares him one look over her shoulder, fan open wide to hide her face from the audience. She doesn't speak.
"You remember my dear cousin Blair," Serena says unquestioningly as she lifts her pretty eyes to meet his. He can read her easily, her silent appeal to be kind and welcoming.
"Of course," Dan says, though his memories of Blair Grimaldi are greatly faded with time. She'd had little time or interest in Dan back then and he had eyes only for Serena. He had risen as Blair fell, seventeen and already at the height of her scandal (so it seemed then, anyway). She'd ruined one carefully planned lifelong engagement – to Dan's friend Nate, his only friend, though they had been less acquainted then – in favor of another, seemingly brighter foreign match. One that turned sour quickly, it seems.
He shifts closer to Serena, offers quietly, "I hope you've told Madame Grimaldi of our engagement. I want everyone to know – we ought to announce it tonight, at the ball."
Their engagement announcement is not due for a few more weeks at best, but Dan can see Serena understands him as easily as he does her. His family holds little significance to those of any means, but the support will not go unremarked upon. "If you can persuade Mother," she says, "but why should we change what is already settled?" The reluctance is a front, merely what she is supposed to do, and a moment later she adds, "Tell my cousin yourself."
With reluctance of his own, Dan turns towards the Countess, who lets out a little sigh at being addressed and settles her somber eyes on him. He doesn't expect her to speak first but she does, her voice low, "Mr. Humphrey and I never got along very well."
Serena laughs, a soft pretty sound, and teases, "Well you were never very kind."
"No," she agrees, a touch too serious. "I never had much use for kindness or compassion." She looks at Dan again, her eyes very dark in her pale face. "I hope you won't hold it against me, Mr. Humphrey."
He meets her gaze directly, surprised by her words. "Of course not, Countess." He studies her face, unsmiling but not unkind, which is how he recalls it. "You have been away a very long time."
"Oh, centuries and centuries," she answers, somewhat flatly, her gaze straying from him as the lights flash, intermission coming to its end, "So long that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven."
Dan frowns at the back of her dark head, finding her words odd and impossible to comprehend; too open for a girl he can only remember as being tightly closed, distant and untouchable as a fairytale queen. It had seemed awfully fitting, even to Dan as young as he was, for her to ride off with her Count to his home across the water; but here she is again, returned to the city she had left without so much as a backwards glance, and Dan finds himself uncharitably displeased to see her again, as though still sixteen and bitter at the world.
If she's looking for heaven, he knows better than any that she won't find it here.