fic: the age of dissonance (4/9)

the age of dissonance (4/9)
Dan, Blair, Serena. Appearances by everyone.
10911 words. PG.
A re-working of Wharton's The Age of Innocence.


Summary: If she still needed him, she was determined not to let him see it.


Note: I know I'm a spotty updater, but as these chapters are quite long, I hope that makes up for it. A lot goes down in this one and I deviate from Wharton a bit in places, but as per usual there is some direct plagiarism with dialogue and occasional lines of prose. I am going to try and update this every two months or so because I don't want to stress myself out, so let's expect the next chapter some time in early July. Hopefully. I don't like to make promises but I would like to update more regularly.











The Vanderbilt estate on the Hudson is called Bellomont. It belongs, as do all the other estates in the Vanderbilt name, to Nate’s grandfather, though this particular manor has been doled out to cousin Tripp and his wife. They are happy hosts, always eager to have guests fill the many rooms and spill out onto the wide lawns. In winter the place has a literary feel, rising from the snow-covered grounds into the gray sky like a castle from a fairy tale.

Dan spends half the weekend playing in the snow with the littlest Vanderbilt cousins, sporting with Nate, and uncomfortably evading the flirtations of Penelope’s friend Miss Williams. He finds himself envious of Nate and Penelope's new marriage; he's happy for his friend but he also wishes he could be as happy himself. Dan's smiles are neither false nor forced, but he can’t deny the part of himself that is counting the minutes until his departure.

Midday on Sunday he takes his leave of Bellomont in a borrowed cutter so he can travel the distance to Skuytercliff.

Though Dan isn't sure he'll ever really be accustomed to the grand manor houses of the New York elite, he's over the twinge of envy he used to feel upon seeing them. During his youth, which coincided with the early years of his family's wealth, Dan had been struck embarrassingly dumb by each new show of splendor. Now he is able to suppress such feelings admirably. It is a help that Cyrus Rose's Skuytercliff is less imposing than most, a cheerful yellow-and-white house that looks best in summer, sitting as it does on a wide green lawn and between two massive leafy trees. Now it is a little lonely, the immense trees twisted and dark, bare branches poking into the white sky like witches' fingers. Still, it is not a bad place to visit and Dan feels little trepidation as he climbs the steps to ring the bell.

The butler informs Dan that the Countess is out attending an afternoon service with other guests, though Mr. Rose is in if Dan would like to speak to him. With thanks, Dan declines, thinking that instead he will head back up the road on foot in hopes of meeting the carriage on its return. But after a few minutes' walk he is rewarded with something much better: a small, distinctive figure coming down the road toward him in bright green, her hands tucked in a white fur muff. A smile crosses her face as soon as she is near enough to make him out.

"You've come!" Countess Grimaldi says with something of a laugh in her voice.

"I have," Dan answers. "I came to see what you are running from."

Her good humor vanishes briefly, eyes rolling heavenward in petulant dismay. "It's no matter. Come, I've such a chill; let's walk on."

With some concern at her evasiveness, Dan's brow furrows and he says, "Blair, what is it? You must tell me."

"I will, I will," she says with a touch of insistence, though her gaze strays across the snowy expanse ahead of them. "Look – do you see that little house there? It was opened so I might have a look at it; let's see if it is still unlocked!"

Confused, Dan also turns his attention to the small house in the distance – and quite without warning or expectation, he finds his ankles kicked out from under him, and he crashes to his back in the snow. It startles him so much he can only laugh, struggling to a half-seated position as he reaches for his knocked-off hat.

Blair picks it up and sets it on his head. "Now I shall take advantage of your being indisposed to run away and win the race."

Indeed she does just that, darting ahead with hardly a pause as Dan calls after her, "I wasn't aware we were racing!"

Her green cloak is a streak of life against the tundra, the only living thing in all this white. He takes off after her a moment later and they meet again at the door of the cottage, both a little breathless with exertion and laughter. She looks like Snow White, the dark ringlets of her hair against her pale cheeks, now flushed from her run, and she looks happy and young; it reminds Dan that he too is capable of being happy and young, though so often now he feels bogged down by the responsibilities of proving himself a respectable kind of man.

"I knew you'd come," the Countess says, looking up at him with dark eyes fringed by dark lashes. Her lips, too, are like blood on snow; he'd like to see if the color would come off with a touch or if the deep blush of her mouth is natural and unpainted.

"That shows you wanted me to," he says, voice softer than he intends.

Her eyes are focused intently on his own as her lips part for a response, but all she asks is, "Where did you come from?"

Dan feels a moment's hesitation, as he does any time he must speak Blair or Nate's name to the other. "Bellomont," he says. "Nate invited me, but truly I only came because of your note."

She straightens, eyes narrowing warily. "Serena asked you to take care of me."

"Be kind to you, yes," Dan corrects. "But I didn't need any asking. Serena didn't send me along; I came here myself, if you will believe it or not."

"Because I am very evidently helpless?" she says. "You must all think me such a poor thing!"

"I think of you as a friend," Dan says gently. "I only seek to help, as you asked me. What happened?"

"Does anything ever happen in heaven?" Blair murmurs with the barest hint of bitterness, but then she says, "I will tell you. But inside, out of this cold, where we can be alone. Mr. Rose is ever so kind to me but I can never find a moment to myself in his home, and I do long for the peace of being alone with one's thoughts." She takes her slim white hand from the muff so she can twist the door handle and let them in. A fire still blazes cheerfully from her earlier visit and it is a charming, warm little cottage. "Once I craved such constant attention but now it only makes me feel as though I am on a stage before a dreadfully polite audience that never applauds."

Dan wonders sometimes if the amusement she oft inspires in him is an inappropriate reaction to have. "Ah, you don't like us!" he says, inanely pleased by the thought.

She glances at him over her shoulder as she moved further into the room. "Don't be so quick to count yourself amongst their number."

It is a phrase that, taken on his own, might cut him to the quick considering his efforts to become a member of society, but the compliment in her voice is obvious. She takes a seat, unhooking the clasp of her cloak as she does so, and Dan moves past her to stand by the heat of the fire. "You're laughing now, but when you wrote me, you were unhappy."

"Yes," she allows. "But I can't feel unhappy when you're here."

Dan does not turn to look at her. "I won't be here long."

"I know," Blair says quietly. "But I have grown so used to my unhappiness that I must seize each moment of respite."

The words make him ache. He wishes there was anything he could do for her, anything at all. He swallows a handful of replies that would be too cloying, too familiar, or too cliché; he fears the depth of his concern for her, which has grown so much in such a short time. He thinks they should not have come to this private little house together, not when the very purpose was confession.

Dan clears his throat and drifts over to the window, which overlooks the grounds all the way up to Skuytercliff and the road they had met on. "Tell me, Blair, if I'm really to be a help to you – what is it you're running from?"

Had she been running from him?

He is abruptly very grateful that the length of the entire room is between them; the distance seems very necessary. He hears her rise but still does not turn to look, hears her soft tread on the carpet but pays no mind – and he imagines, just for a moment, that she steps closer and slips her arms around him. Something in him almost seems to wait for it.

But just as he feels the companionable brush of her fingers against his, Dan sees a man coming up the path of the house and it startles an ugly laugh from him. Chuck Bass has come chasing after the Countess too, stomping his way through the snow to this very doorstep, and Bass is whom she is undoubtedly running from.

Dan pulls away from her, hand slipping free of her grip. "Is that it then?" he asks with a gesture outside.

Blair blinks, some of the color fading from her cheeks. "I didn't know he was here."

But Dan barely waits, instead crossing to throw the door open and push his way out, saying as he does, "Hello, Bass – this way! The Countess was expecting you."

Dan's intention is to sulkily remove himself from the premises, take the cutter back to Bellomont and be done with the whole damned day, but Blair and Bass end up joining him on the walk back to the house, where Mr. Rose cheerfully demands they remain for lunch.

The Countess' emotions are unreadable as they sometimes are, though Dan had begun to think he wasn't so awful at turning her pages. Bass' ill temper, however, is poorly concealed, and his sometimes-biting comments toward Dan reveal him to be at least part of its cause. When Bass is not being snide in Dan's general direction, he is speechifying at great length about the small house he found for Madame Grimaldi on a fashionable street at a reasonable price.

"And without even a hint as to your destination, I had to come hunting after you," Bass says. "Marching through the snow when I could be warm at home."

Madame Grimaldi only smiles slightly and sends a glance toward Dan that he does not return. Dan excuses himself shortly after lunch.

It seems clear that Bass is undeniably in pursuit of the Countess Grimaldi. Bass is a man of base pleasures and few morals, with attentions as freely given as they are snatched away. He had grown weary of his pretty wife after little more than a year and then began to make sport of conquering the other young wives in their set, to varying degrees of success. It was not unfathomable to Dan that Bass would turn his efforts to someone as lovely and lonely as the Countess.

Madame Grimaldi had quite obviously been running from Bass, but the real question was: had she wanted him to follow? She had not left word with Bass, true, and she had seemed both genuinely surprised and ever so slightly vexed by his appearance. But these were not definitive signs; after all, it could be that she was bothered by her feelings for him and seeking to escape them lest she give in – Bass showing up would certainly be vexing in such a scenario. There was also the possibility that it had been the kind of game of which Bass was indisputably fond, where she ran to entice him to chase. Such a plot would not have been above the Blair Waldorf of old.

Still, Dan doubts. It is a miserable, insidious thing to suspect so much of Blair without real proof outside of his own fears. Had she been pursued by any other man, Dan is not certain his reaction would be so volatile; he might even wish her happiness, inappropriate as it would be. Bass is too vulgar, too impertinent, too cruel to the women whose lives he passes through. Yet he is also well-traveled, culturally connected, fashionable, and deems most of the rules of New York society ridiculous. He is on the outside in the same way Dan is, but his greater wealth means he can have open contempt where Dan must bend and acquiesce. Dan can understand too how someone in Madame Grimaldi's position could be drawn to a person like Bass. He is probably not unlike her husband; she was attracted to such a man once, and what had attracted her once might do so again, even if it were against her wishes.

All this passes through Dan's mind on his journey south to St. Augustine. Held privately between two pages of the book on his lap is the note he received that morning from the Countess, which read Come tomorrow and I shall explain all to you.

He had made the decision to visit the van der Woodsens impulsively, which was quite unlike Dan. But the past few days had found him unable to concentrate even on the simplest or most pleasant of tasks and the note from the Countess had compounded his discomfort acutely. The only clear option seemed to be escape.

As Dan walks up the path leading to the van der Woodsens' picturesque white house with its black shutters, Serena emerges through the garden gate as though she had been called to him. Her hair is windswept and golden with sunlight, spilling over her shoulders and across her sun-browned face. Her skirt has dirt along the hem and her arms are full of flowers, blossoms of bright rosy pink and shining bluish lilac. There are daisies in her hair. Looking at her, Dan feels suddenly so full, almost overwhelmed by the warmth she exudes so effortlessly. He wonders that he did not come sooner.

When he calls her name, Serena is caught by such surprise that she drops all the flowers – but then she smiles happily and comes darting across the multicolored heap to throw her arms around him. No one is around to chide her for such open affection and Dan is glad of it, returning her embrace almost too forcefully.

"I can hardly breathe," she murmurs, but presses a furtive kiss to his cheek before pulling back entirely. "You're here!" Worry crosses her face briefly. "Has anything happened?"

"Yes," he tells her with mock seriousness, "I found I had to see you."

"Lucky Daddy is your boss, or I'd imagine you'd be in some trouble," she teases, and though she does not mean it as a reproach in the slightest, Dan does prickle slightly at the reminder. He shakes it off as she pulls him toward the house by the hand, thinking: this is where he is supposed to be. This is his life, the life he chose for himself.

His appearance at the breakfast table is evidently unexpected, but the van der Woodsens recover admirably well. Mrs van der Woodsen is primly cordial in her usual way and Serena's brother Eric amiable as always; Mr van der Woodsen levels Dan with an amused look and says, "I suppose the firm is left in the lurch without either of us ¬– but no matter! After all the help you've given this family, you deserve a holiday, eh, my boy?"

He is so plainly referring to Dan's involvement in Madame Grimaldi's divorce, or rather lack thereof, that a rush of exasperation suffuses Dan and he cannot enjoy the rest of the meal.

Afterwards, Serena and her father go on a drive that they had planned the day before – Dan urging her to go along despite her offer to remain behind now that he's here – and Eric goes off with his friend Jonathan Whitney. Dan remains behind with the ever-disapproving Lily, and privately he's glad of the occasion to beg her once more to hasten the wedding.

"The entire family owes you thanks once more for intervening with dear Blair," Mrs van der Woodsen says. It is impossible to tell if this is meant sarcastically or not. "I can't imagine what was going through her mind."

"I imagine she thought her family would support her," Dan says, regretting the statement instantaneously. Her narrowed eyes find him over the lip of her teacup.

"Whatever my family has done, Daniel – or, rather, suffered – we do not countenance divorce."

"Of course," he says apologetically. "I never meant to imply."

The history of the Rhodes family is one better belonging to the kind of silly novels Jenny likes to read. First there was the abandonment of Mrs Celia Rhodes by her husband before their children were even out of the cradle, though she had never crumbled, nor shown anything but the most noble and personal sorrow. She had kept her place in society by sheer strength of will if nothing else and did not supplement the sordid truth of her life with even a single additional rumor. His death, distant as it had been, brought her innumerable wealth with which she spoiled her ill-behaved daughters; the spotlessness of Mrs Celia Rhodes' reputation always made it seem as though the troubles in her life were mere flies buzzing around her, and nothing she had any hand in herself. Both Lily and Carol had married young to tragic ends: Carol suffered the death of her young husband in an accident, and Lily absconded with a man far below her station, the resulting elopement ending in annulment. Lily remarried twice more: to a second husband much older, who passed away, and finally to Serena's father. It is a wonder they are so conservative with Madame Grimaldi, who is only a footnote in a decades-spanning story, but the Rhodes clawed their way back to respectability with too much fervor to relinquish it completely. And of course, a countess has more cache than a spinster.

But Serena's mother is still speaking. "I only bring it up because it really is due entirely to you; her grandmother could do nothing with her, and neither could my husband. And you know Serena with her ridiculous ideas was there supporting it all the while." Dan blinks, for Serena had said nothing of the sort to him and he had merely assumed she backed her family on the matter. "In fact Blair said so herself: the changing of her mind was all your influence." Mrs van der Woodsen's gaze passes over Dan in such a way to make him acutely aware of all of his flaws and she adds, perhaps with disbelief, "It seems she has some admiration for you. Well. Anything to set her back on course… If only she had married Nate Archibald all those years ago, as had been planned."

"I believe he and his new wife are very happy," Dan says.

"Of course." Lily waves a dismissive hand. "Once I had thought if he were not to take Blair as a wife, perhaps…" She shrugs. "But no matter."

Dan's mother and sister are great believers in fate but he sees now that fate is only a word for the determinations parents make for children. They arrange and suggest and outright demand; sometimes the outcome is to their liking and sometimes it isn't, but the fault for any wrongdoing is somehow never theirs. They wanted Blair to marry well and she did, and now their plan cannot be deviated from even if it means she might end up Bass' mistress instead of some decent man's wife.

Though it is not entirely their doing, as Mrs van der Woodsen said. Blair's fate was shaped by him as well, because he did not act from his own heart and mind.

He wonders what Mrs van der Woodsen would do if were to say all that. The woman rarely reveals any shock or offense, no matter what she feels privately. He studies her in the wan afternoon light: the wrinkles just beginning at the corners of her pursed lips, the blonde hair threaded through with gray, and he realizes for the first time that she was probably very much like Serena, once. She might've picked flowers to put in her hair. She ran away to get married against her family's wishes. She might've had ridiculous ideas, too. But now here she is, pinched and stately, pretending all of those actions belonged to another girl entirely. Perhaps in a way they did.

He wonders if Serena will grow tired and humorless one day too.

"Moreover it shows you were thinking of this family," Mrs van der Woodsen says. "Of Serena."

"I'm always thinking of Serena," Dan says, and rises, effectively ending the conversation. There will be no use in talking to Mrs van der Woodsen of the wedding; he can see that now.





***





His week in St. Augustine is drawing to a close.

The week has been slow and languorous, the Florida warmth pleasantly stifling after chill, snow-covered New York. Dan had attempted to take solace in such tranquil surroundings, but he found little.

He and Serena spent their days together, Dan occupied with reading while she swam or sailed. She had not read any of the poems in the book he'd sent prior to his arrival, but she was learning by heart a poem of his own making, a gesture that both surprised Dan and filled him with tender affection. It was a short, silly poem he gave her early in their courtship – in fact, it was the first thing he had ever read to her. Sometimes when her family was being particularly irksome, Serena would tilt closer and recite a few words of it softly in his ear.

The day before he is to depart, Serena proposes that they walk out to an old orange-garden just beyond the town. The sky is a cool, unblemished blue just grazing the emerald treetops, which bear their brightly-colored fruit like weighty Christmas baubles. It is a stunning background for Serena to stand against with her sunny curls and deep blue eyes, a lively figure beside his more dour silhouette. He wants Serena as much as he wants to be like Serena, to be free as she is and not bound by his own dark thoughts.

They take a seat on the grass, trees almost seeming to cocoon them on all sides. Serena releases herself from her hat, hair spilling loose again; though her mother often chides her for wearing her hair in such a way, Dan thinks it suits her best of all. She is like a nymph in a painting and her sylvan charm has never been so at home as in their current setting. Here is where she belongs, nestled in nature.

Being so truly alone is a rarity for them and they turn towards each other almost at once, Dan putting his arm about her as they meet in a kiss. It is the first kiss they've shared since Serena's abortive attempt in the Bass conservatory on the night of their engagement announcement and perhaps that is what leads to their becoming so ardent – or perhaps that is only how it will always go between them.

He knows Serena to be bold but had not suspected she would allow him such liberties, or that she would return his attentions so very eagerly. It would certainly be deemed indecent were they caught kissing as they are in the open air of the orange-garden but that's hardly an indictment to cease. His hands sink into all her lustrous hair as they press closer to one another and he feels Serena's gloved hands curl against his chest a moment before she pushes him back.

She seems almost shaken, which Dan supposes is not unsurprising for a girl who is new to things such as this. "I'm sorry," he begins, "I didn't intend to make you unco–"

"No," Serena says. "No, it isn't that."

His arm slides about her waist once more. "It's only all this waiting that is driving us both so mad," he says, seizing upon the opportunity to plead his case once more. "Don't you understand how I want you for my wife?"

Serena makes a sound of frustration and stands, her arms crossing to wrap around herself. "I'm not sure if I do understand," she says. "Is it – Could it be that you're not certain of continuing to care for me?"

Dan stares at her with astonishment writ upon his features. "How could you ask such a question? I only find it foolish to dream away another year when we could be happy in mere weeks."

Serena's conflicted expression does not change. But then her back straightens and her arms drop to her side; she seems to grow in dignity and determination. "I know the affections of men are not always so honest," she says, rushed and low. "Is it only desire binding you to me?"

Dan is so startled to hear her speak in such a way that he can only stutter, "I – I don't know."

She seems so steady and still, standing there tall with her shoulders thrown back. "If that is so – is there someone else?"

"Someone else?" he repeats, now truly lost. "Someone else between you and me?"

Uncertainty must audibly tinge his voice, for Serena goes on, "Let us speak frankly, as we have not before. Lately I have felt a difference in you, particularly since our engagement has been announced." When Dan starts to protest, she cuts him off with a simple raised hand. "It won't hurt us to talk about it. In fact, I believe we must."

Finally Dan finds his voice. "If any of this were true, would I be imploring you to hasten our marriage? Would I drop all to come and see you?"

For a passive, silent moment she observes him. "You might," she says. "It is one way to settle the question, after all."

As Dan very nearly gapes at her, truly at a loss as to how they came to this during what was otherwise a very nice afternoon, he begins to notice the small fissures in her resolute façade. Perhaps her cheek is a little paler than usual, or her fingers tremble slightly; it is clear she is in some distress, and all he could hope to do is allay her fears.

"You can't think me insensible to my surroundings," Serena says. "Long before you told me that you cared for me, I'd known there was someone else; everyone was talking about it at the time. I remember how sad I felt for her when she was sent away, how sad I felt for you both to think you'd lost a chance at happiness."

Relief courses through him so as to make him dizzy. To think she was afraid because of his old affair with Rachel Carr –

He rises to join her, reaching tentatively for her hands. "Was that it? My dear, that – it was only a mistake of youth, that's all. It was a mistake."

"Mistakes are easy to make," she murmurs. She does not appear comforted. "You are certain? For I couldn't have my happiness made out of a wrong – an unfairness – to somebody else. I want to believe it would be the same for you."

"Of course," Dan says gently, daring to take her fingers more firmly in his. "What sort of life could we build on such foundations?"

Something in the words lets loose a fresh round of agitation and Serena pulls away once more, almost seeming to crumble with emotion. "Dan, I – There is something I have wanted to say for a very long time, though I have been counseled against it. The last thing I would want is to deceive you, or breed secrecy between us as I see between my mother and my father. I fear after I speak you will be finished with me, but I cannot marry you unless you know all."

It is now Dan's turn to feel ill-at-ease. "I promise nothing you could say would result in anything of the sort."

Serena looks at him with doubt. "You know that – that years ago Blair was engaged to Nate Archibald when it broke off very suddenly, and she married the Count. I know the common story is that it was Blair who broke it for that reason, but – but it isn't so. Their engagement broke off because of me."

"Because of you?" Dan echoes slowly.

"Because I allowed…" She clears her throat. "Because Nate and I engaged in…intimacies that were meant to wait for marriage." Before he can react to this, she continues swiftly, "It was nothing I set out to do, it only – it felt as though – as though it were a kind of natural extension of our friendship, though I realize with what poor judgment I acted. Blair's heart was broken. She did not forgive me for many years and in a way I fear she never will entirely –"

"It appears," Dan starts, though he takes a stagnant pause, so truly caught off guard that he doesn't have the faintest idea what to say, "that I ought to be asking you if there is someone else."

"There isn't," Serena says insistently, hands now reaching for his numb ones. "I could never – My mother, when she discovered the truth, wanted us to marry but I couldn't, I had already hurt Blair so much, I couldn't take that from her also."

"Years have passed," Dan says. "A divorce would go against public opinion, surely, but if you feel yourself in any way pledged to Nate, don't give him up on my account."

The words visibly wound her and she flinches. "There is no pledge," she says. "No obligation – Such cases don't always present themselves so simply. It was –" Her voice seems to catch. "It was lust. It was only that. Besides, it was not –" And now her face is growing redder, her eyes shining wetly. "It was not only Nate. In the intervening years, my time abroad…" She trails off but when no response from Dan is forthcoming, she goes on. "My mother told me no good man would ever want me after all I've done but you're so truly good, Dan, and you do – or I hope you still do."

Even in the fog of this revelation, Dan feels a thread of revulsion for Lily van der Woodsen. To condemn a girl as genuine and sweet as Serena, especially having lived as Lily herself had –

It occurs to Dan that this is most likely why it took so long for Serena to marry and why he was even considered for her at all, if her family thinks as she says. But Dan had never heard an unkind word against her and, though there were sometimes comments on her supposed flirtatiousness, such claims as she is making certainly never circulated amongst the gossipers. Serena is much beloved, so if there was any hint of disreputable behavior, New York would have feasted upon it.

At the thought, the seed of revulsion takes root: how do any of them have any right, really, to cast aspersions? To some degree or other, they are all guilty of behavior that violates a set of rules put in place by – well, by who? By God? By all those ancient families? Dan doesn't know the source of their implicit code, only that he has found it contemptible his entire life and that ought not to change now; if anything, it should be cemented. Serena's virtues are not diminished for having behaved like any of the young men of Dan's set – for having behaved as Dan himself had.

He only wonders that Nate never revealed a hint of this. If any trust is to suffer after today, it may well be Dan's trust in Nate.

"Please, Dan," she says. "Tell me if you're finished with me."

"I am not finished with you," he says quietly. "As I told you I would not be."

Hope swells in her eyes. "You forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," Dan says. "I cannot pretend I am not shocked, however…the injury is not mine. I hope not to be a hypocrite by castigating you when I have long expressed belief in each woman's right to her liberty. You know I have no great love for conventionalities." Though he bows to them again and again.

Serena flushes now with joy but still hesitates beside him, so Dan bends to kiss her once more in consolation. On her lips he tastes her silently-shed tears and it takes a moment for her to relax in his arms. This embrace does not possess the passion of the first and Serena ends up pressing her face to his neck as she releases a small, relieved sob. He runs a hand lightly over her hair.

"There," he says. "If there's no one and nothing between us, let us no longer delay; marry me, Serena, marry me quickly."

But conversation has been effectively exhausted for the afternoon, so her only reply is a tightening of her arms around him.





***





Upon arriving home, Dan scarcely has time to remove his coat before Jenny is bounding up to announce, "The Countess called on us while you were away!"

Dan sets his hat down. "Oh?"

Jenny nods with restrained excitement. Having any gossip to relay simply thrills her. "She had on a black velvet basque with jet buttons and a green muff and green feathers in her hat." Dan notes that today Jenny is wearing her green velvet dress and she has tucked a cluster of black feathers into the sweep of her hair. "She came alone on Sunday; even Dad was home, and of course we weren't expecting anyone – it was pure luck the fire was even lit in the drawing-room! Somehow she had the idea you were ill, though we all told her you were away."

Jenny watches him expectantly for some reaction or explanation but Dan only asks, "Is that the reason she called?"

He doesn't wait for her to answer before he goes into the sitting-room, where their Mother is alone at her reading. Jenny follows doggedly.

"No, she said she wanted to know us because you'd been so kind to her," Jenny says. "Do you know she even remembered the dress I wore to the masque she hosted all those years ago –"

Dan takes a seat beside his mother, interrupting Jenny's chatter to ask, "What did you think of her?"

His mother is not one for quick judgments, which sets her apart from the rest of the family, and she takes a long moment to make a pronouncement now. "I found her a little cold," she admits. "But I suppose I was expecting someone more in the mold of dear Serena."

"Ah," he says, "they're not alike."

For a moment he considers waiting until Jenny has gone to sleep and telling his mother what Serena spoke of to him in the orange-grove – for though it was the truth when he spoke of his belief in her liberty, the admission is still weighing on him. He doesn't fear recrimination from his mother but all the same, the idea of breaking Serena's confidence is abhorrent to him. So he only smiles and bids goodnight to both women, citing his own exhaustion as reason enough to disappear into his study.

The following night finds him passing by the club on his way home from work instead of going inside, afraid or just unwilling of meeting Nate inside.

He knows Nate would have married Serena had she been willing. Perhaps that is what bothers him most of all: how altered the outcome of his life might be had things progressed differently.

Almost a week into Dan's return, he finally brings himself to visit Mrs Celia Rhodes. He has been entrusted with several familial messages to relay to her but found himself faltering when it came time to call, unable to do so without tasting hypocrisy like something sour in the back of his throat. How to look her in the eyes now, this iron-willed matriarch with her charming dishonesty? How to be funny and pleasant when he is more aware than ever before of the duplicity of everyone in his life?

But the visit is something he simply has to do, and Dan is quickly becoming an expert at the things one must do regardless of one's personal wishes. In the end it is not altogether difficult, for Mrs Rhodes is entertaining and personable, and seems to like him for no reason Dan will ever understand. His sympathy is also sparked by how much frailer the old woman appears each time he sees her: she is a mere wisp of a woman lost in a swath of expensive skirts and luxurious jewels – though her eyes are sharp as ever, observing all with supreme amusement.

"I pleaded my case once more but feel I made no progress," Dan admits to her. "Serena's mother still doesn't wish us to be married in April, and I still don't see the use of wasting another year."

Mrs Rhodes purses her lips in something resembling a tiny smile. "My Lily is ruled by decades-old pettiness," she says, "Though I shan't elaborate for fear of spilling all our secrets… They want so badly to pretend they were never young and in a hurry – all my children are terribly impetuous and they all try to deny it. I used to think not one of them took after me but my dear Blair, though she's proven herself susceptible to the old family ways in the end." She doesn't seem particularly critical, though, and it seems clear she still favors Blair for the girl she used to be, the one who was almost as good at playing the game as Celia Rhodes herself. But then, with a malicious little twinkle in her eye, the old lady asks irrelevantly, "Now, why in the world didn't you marry my little Blair?"

Dan laughs. "For one thing, she wasn't there to be married."

"No, to be sure; more's the pity. And now it's too late – her life is finished." And that was pure dismissal, pure carelessness; he has seen how far affection stretches when reputation is on the line.

Grown suddenly uncomfortable, Dan clears his throat and presses, "Can't I persuade you to use your influence with the van der Woodsens, Mrs Rhodes? I wasn't made for long engagements."

She gives him another wry smile but before she can reply, there is a rustle at the doorway and Madame Grimaldi enters, removing her hat as she does. Something about the way she looks sets loose a wave of nostalgia in Dan. Perhaps it is the playfulness of her outfit, which is more in line with the fashions of her youth than she has dressed of late. She wears a white polonaise patterned with deep yellow polka dots over the torso and stripes at the sleeves and collar. A matching velvet bow curls festively at her throat, and the same yellow ochre is echoed in her underskirt. It's a color that sets her off wonderfully, drawing out the warmth in her brown eyes and hair. There is something about that color on her.

"My dear, you look just like springtime," Mrs Rhodes exclaims with pleasure. "Does she not, Mr Humphrey?"

"Indeed," Dan agrees with a nod, accepting Madame Grimaldi's hand as she passes him to kiss her grandmother's cheek. She looks pretty and gay, utterly unfettered.

"Do you know what I was just saying to Mr. Humphrey, my darling?" Mrs Rhodes continues, "I said to him: 'Now why didn't you marry my little Blair?'"

Blair is smiling when she looks at Dan, but there is something vacuous about it, a smile that telegraphs nothing more than politeness. "And what did he answer?"

"I leave you to find that out!" the old woman laughs. "He's been down to Florida to see his sweetheart."

Madame Grimaldi nods. "Yes; I called on your mother to ask where you'd gone. I sent a note that you didn't answer and I was afraid you were ill."

There is nothing to glean from her tone except civility. Dan apologizes, explaining that he left in quite a rush and intended to write from St. Augustine. This makes her laugh.

"And of course once you were there you never thought of me again!"

No, Dan realizes, it is not civility – it is indifference, cool and calculated. If she still needed him, she was determined not to let him see it. For some reason the thought stings and he loses his words, no confirmation or denial of her statement leaving his lips. He had not thought of her, and he had thought of her all the while.

"Someone thought of you, my dear," Mrs Rhodes interjects, that same malicious twinkle back in her eyes. "Do look at the card attached to the flowers there."

Madame Grimaldi turns, seeming to notice for the first time an impressively large bouquet of crimson roses and purple pansies beaming from the sideboard. At once her demeanor changes, though it is difficult to pinpoint how, exactly: she seems to become taller, her limbs tight with tension and resolve.

"This is not my home," she says carefully, but there is danger lurking in her tone, "Why would flowers be sent to me here?"

"Perhaps someone did not know where to find you," Mrs Rhodes remarks blithely. "Or thought they might have more luck this way!"

Blair gravitates towards the roses, picks up the card, and scans it absently before tearing it to pieces. "Who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet?" she snaps. "I am not going to a ball; I am not engaged to be married. I suppose some people are always ridiculous."

She grips the vase and exits in a great hurry, calling for the maid impatiently. Dan watches the incident with bemusement, but before he can inquire as to the source of her displeasure, Mrs Rhodes says, "We do owe you do much for your part in deterring Blair from her ridiculous divorce."

Dan wishes people would stop thanking him for that. "I simply gave her a legal opinion, as she asked me to," he says stiffly.

She smiles again; it appears less pleasant each time. "Little did you know that at that very moment I was being appealed to from the other side of the Atlantic! The Count himself asks me to speak on his behalf; he wants to take her back, though of course only on her own terms."

Dan can only stare at her with horror, though she greets it with her typical humor.

"Don't look so scandalized, Mr. Humphrey! I don't defend poor Louis; he doesn't defend himself. He casts himself at her feet. He has been writing me these last weeks, utterly desolate."

"Writing you?" Dan repeats blankly. "I – Has the Countess seen the letters?"

She shakes her head. "It will take time. You know my Blair as well as I – she can be haughty, intractable, unforgiving."

Appalled, Dan says flatly, "To forgive is one thing, but to return to that hell –"

"Ah, yes, so she describes it, the sensitive girl," Mrs Rhodes says, gaze drifting towards the door Blair had left through. "But in my description of her I neglected something important, wouldn't you agree, Daniel? Since her youth, she has been a great connoisseur of beautiful things, a devotee to luxury; do you know what she is giving up? Those roses are mere trifles – the Count has acres of them in his terraced gardens at Nice! Jewels – historic pearls, the Sobieski emeralds – sables, gowns. She was simply surrounded by art and beauty – pictures, priceless furniture, music, conversation. I myself have seen the opulence in which she lived and there's no equal to it here, no comparison! She tells me she is not thought handsome in New York – her portrait has been painted nine times; the greatest artists in Europe have begged for the privilege. Are these things nothing? Not to mention the remorse of an adoring husband."

Again Dan seems to taste something sour, though perhaps the word for it now is akin to resentment. Things, things, things, always things; always he is reminded of things and their cost, things that he himself could never afford, signs of status that only count when purchased with money older than death. Dan had grown up wanting only some books, and comfort for his family; now acquired, his wealth will still never be equal to that which came long before it.

Blair did once crave all of those things. He sees that her family assumes she will be easily tempted again.

"She knows nothing yet of all of this?" he asks.

Mrs Rhodes touches a finger to her lips. "Nothing directly – but does she suspect? I bring it to you because we all know Blair admires you, listens to your opinions. You ask for my support with Serena, and I hope that in return it would be possible to count on your support here, with Blair, once more."

"To convince her to go back?" he says, and hears in his own voice the dangerous tension there was in Blair's.

"Marriage is still marriage," Mrs Rhodes answers lightly. "My granddaughter is still a wife."

"I would never advise her to do such a thing," he says tersely and then takes his leave, though he runs into a returning Madame Grimaldi in the entrance hall. Anger has lent color to her face, but she appears otherwise calmed.

"What do you think of me in a temper?" she muses, then, "Are you going?"

He wants to say that in a temper she is so reminiscent of her old self that it could be no time has passed; somehow the thought comforts him. Instead he asks, "When can I see you?"

She gives him a studied, inscrutable look. "Whenever you like," she says finally. "But it must be soon if you want to see the little house again. I'm moving next week."

A pang shoots through Dan. He has grown inexpressibly fond of the little house, seeing it as something of a bridge from his past to his present. He had spent only a few brief hours there but they felt so important, so distinct. "Tomorrow evening, then?"

"Tomorrow evening," she agrees. "But early; I'm going out."

The picture of her in her yellow-and-white dress is fixed in his mind's eye as he makes his way home. It stirs something in him (her temper, her anger-flushed cheeks, the golden ochre of her gown), a fleeting memory of older days.

A ball. He had been fifteen, perhaps; it was hard to recall. The Humphreys' newfound wealth had made Dan into something of a novelty, but his tongue-tied uncertainty took the varnish right off and most everybody tired of his conversation quickly. The only person who had danced with him was Serena, but she danced with everyone.

Serena was the belle of the night, as she usually was, in a glittering golden dress dripping tinsel. She looked like a fairy queen, like she had been touched by Midas; every light she passed beneath caught in all that gold, illuminating her impossible beauty. She smiled at Dan as they danced but her gaze pulled elsewhere. The warmth of her hand in his burned him. He loved her then. With one touch, he loved her.

After their dance, Dan lingered at the edges of the room. He was a spectator, as always, and it was only as a spectator that he could enjoy these people and their world. He could enjoy them as he did one of his father's shows: as artificial and costumed performers merely imitating real life. None of them understood a thing about reality, Dan felt certain. But still, there amongst them, included and excluded at once, he felt a kind of yearning. He would not recognize it at envy for many years, so it only made him angry, and impotent in his anger.

Blair had been Serena's pale echo. Ochre had been the color of her gown, deep dull yellow embroidered with gold thread, and though it warmed her fair skin, it didn't set her aflame like Serena. Blair was mere candlelight, appropriate and pretty but not set apart. She did not wear Nate Archibald's ring, not yet.

A boy their age asked her to dance and Blair laughed at him, said something cutting with cruelty glittering in her eyes. Nearby, Dan's jaw had tensed. It was a genuine surprise that she noticed.

"Do you disapprove?" Blair called. "I thought it my right to refuse whoever I wanted."

"I don't dispute your freedom, Miss Waldorf," Dan said. "Only your tone."

"Ah," she said. "Then I don't argue your judgment, just your choice of tie."

His frown deepened. "Does your expensive education not include etiquette?"

She laughed, but he thought, as he always thought in her presence, that there was something very mean about it. That was her most definitive quality in his eyes: she was far from kind. "How scathing, Mr. –" She paused. "My apologies, I have absolutely no idea who you are."

"Humphrey," he said shortly. "Scathing – what a paradoxical comment coming from you."

She rolled her eyes. "Mr. Humphrey, if you insist upon being so sour at every dance, perhaps you ought not to come at all. It seems to me that you spend a good deal of your time at events you disapprove of."

"It's not the place I take issue with," Dan muttered. "It's the treatment."

"What does that mean?"

"Surely you're intelligent enough to figure it out."

She smiled, again rather meanly. "Ah, don't ask me. I don't speak your language."





***





As it had the last time, the Countess' neighborhood fills Dan with an unreachable nostalgia. It is not the place where he grew up but it is close enough to both the age-tinted memory and the future he once thought he might have that it pains him a little to walk the streets. It seems sweeter to him than the home he knows he will have, chosen for him and Serena by her parents and paid for by them too. Here he can taste a certain kind of freedom – one of choice – and he understands why the Countess might've decided to come her, antithetical as it might seem to her former tastes.

Wisteria hangs prettily over her doorway and Dan reaches up spontaneously to break off a little sprig and tuck it into his pocket. Tonight he feels odd and restless. It occurs to him that it is not only tonight; he has felt this way for a very long time.

As before, Dorota ushers him in to an empty sitting room. "Dressing," she explains, waving towards the upper floors before excusing herself. Dan is rather glad for the moment alone to familiarize himself with the little room, which he has grown so fond of and will not see again after tonight.

"Dan?"

At her voice, Dan turns, finding Blair standing in the doorway with the very slightest of smiles. "Mr. Humphrey," she amends, stepping into the room and holding out a hand for his. For the second time that week, he is reminded of the long-ago ball; even now she is reminiscent of it in a dress that glimmers gently like the flickering candles decorating the room. Her hair is a little softer than she usually wears it and the whole image altogether is both subdued and mature. She is a woman, no longer the arrogant girl she once was, though that girl is there too if one looks to see her, there in the way Blair carries herself: shoulders set and head high, the way she used to challenge rooms full of rivals.

"Countess," he says in answer. The atmosphere feels very hushed suddenly.

They sit and share cigarettes, making pointless small talk for a few minutes until Dan says, "May I ask you a question?"

"If it's a good one," she says.

Dan is not in a particularly humorous mood, though he likes to see it on her. "Your grandmother…" but then he falters.

"Ah, I knew she'd said something about me," Blair says. "Well?"

"It's only…" Again, he hesitates. "I only wondered if she is always truthful."

Blair considers this. "In almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue," she says, and half-smiles again. "I believe I learned that from her. Why do you ask?"

It is difficult for him to be so blunt about this particular topic, but he is very conscious of how short their evening is; any minute her carriage will arrive to carry her away. Dan wonders where she is going tonight. He hadn't asked, and now the time is too short for such trivial questions. He often wonders how she occupies her time. "The other day, she said – she intimated that Count Grimaldi has asked her to – well, to persuade you to return to him."

Her lips purse, but aside from that she does not react.

"You knew, then?"

Still silent, she takes a long, slow drag and then taps some ash onto a little dish. "Granny had hinted… It is to be expected."

What a thing to expect! "She believes you will go back," he says, almost angry – angry that Mrs Rhodes would think such a thing, and angry that Blair expects such a thing to be thought.

The Countess looks at him with a restrained expression that he cannot read. "Many cruel things have been believed of me," she says. "Some of them were true."

"Blair…" he says (has he said her name since he left her at Skuytercliff? Had he allowed himself to?).

"I suspect Granny feels I am to blame in the whole thing," she muses. "Perhaps I am. My husband believed I loved him, but I wanted his title and his money and his admiration. I thought all of those things together were next to love, but I was mistaken." She arches an eyebrow. "You're shocked."

"At your candor."

She gives a small, heartless shrug. "I deceived him, and myself too," she says. "Did I deserve his cruelty then?"

"No," Dan says with firm immediacy. "And anyone who would seek to return you to such a situation is a fool, and a callous one at that."

Blair studies him for a long moment during which Dan does not look away, as though to further convince her of his conviction. "You are kind, Mr. Humphrey," she says finally. "Serena is lucky. And I know she adores you – I was surprised you couldn't convince her about the wedding. Serena is the last person to be slave to such rules and superstitions."

There is a faint, twisting irony in her voice. Dan cannot source it.

Agitation courses through him once more and he rises to stand at the mantle, hand curling over one of the little porcelain figures there. He is so very conscious of their numbered minutes, and how fast those minutes are slipping away.

"When I went to see her – to see Serena, we had a frank talk," he says. "Our first. She confessed a great many things to me. She thinks my impatience a bad sign. Due to some – some events in her history, it led her to think that I…that perhaps I want to marry her at once to get away from someone that I care for more."

He can feel Blair's gaze on him but he doesn't turn to meet it. "If she thinks that, then why isn't she in a hurry too? I would be, in her place."

Dan shakes his head slightly. "She wants time, to give me time to –"

"Time to give her up for the other woman?"

"If I want to."

A breath of silence. Blair says, "How noble."

He imagines he can hear the irony in her voice again. "Yes, but it's ridiculous."

"Because you don't care for anyone else," she says evenly.

"Because I don't mean to marry anyone else," Dan corrects.

There is another long interval, so long that Dan finally turns and, catching his eye, Blair says, "This other woman, does she love you?"

"There's no other woman," he says impatiently. "At least not who she was thinking of –"

There is the clatter of horses' hooves on cobblestones; her carriage is here. Blair straightens, reaching for her fan and gloves mechanically. Her absent eyes seek the window but she does not stand. "I suppose I must be going."

"To Mrs. Dickens'?"

"Yes." She gives him another smile, the one that doesn't show in her eyes. "I must go where I am invited, or I should be too lonely."

Their time together has run out but that only makes Dan more desperate to extend it. He wants to keep her here just another moment, another hour; he eyes the gloves and fan she holds as though he could compel her to drop them.

"Serena guessed the truth," he says quietly. "There is another woman – just not the one she thought."

Blair is very still, her face turned so he can only see her profile against the pale blue silk wall. After a moment he sits down beside her and takes her hand, uncurling her fingers so the gloves and fan fall from them. That seems to jolt her into action, for she finally does stand, putting the width of the room between them.

"Don't make love to me," she rebukes. "Too many people have done that."

Dan flushes, standing too. "I'm not," he says. "I never have. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us."

"Possible?" she repeats with a sudden, astonished laugh. And again, this time scoffing, "Possible? You say that when it's you who has made it impossible?"

Dan stares at her. "I've made it impossible?"

Clawing through her cool disbelief is deep, passionate outrage. "You!" she accuses again. "You made me give up divorcing – you spoke to me of sacrificing myself to spare my family the scandal! And because you were to be my family, for your sake – your sake and Serena's, I did what you asked!" Hand on her mouth as that mirthless laughter sparks again, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!"

The air between them has never before felt quite so thick. Dan is nearly gaping at her. "The things in your husband's letter –"

"I had nothing to fear from that letter!" she snaps. "I have experienced the whole sweep of it, I have nothing left to fear – except bringing more scandal on my family – on you and Serena."

Lost and unable to speak, Dan only looks at her. Color is high in her cheeks; anger has brightened her countenance, and tears shine in her eyes. The silence seems to ring in Dan's ears and he doesn't know what to say.

But then she buries her face in her hands, a small sob tearing its way from her throat, and Dan is spurred into action. He's at her side immediately, briefly uncertain before he draws her into an embrace.

"Blair," he murmurs, hand curving around the back of her head. "Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be."

Her crying is soft and noiseless but he can feel it in her body, the way her shoulders shake. His fingers press to her wet cheek and his lips follow, a small alleviating kiss that she turns unexpectedly to meet. If Dan thought the room airless before, he was mistaken; there is nothing except the sweetness of her mouth against his, the convulsive grip of her fingers in his coat. It amazes him that they have not kissed before this moment. He understands now why she is always keeping the length of the room between them, though distance only breeds complications and touching her has made everything so simple.

But then Blair pushes him aside, moving past him to perch on the edge of the sofa. He puts a hand to his lips.

"You know this doesn't alter things," she says with resignation. "Not in the least."

"It alters everything for me," he says incredulously. "Do you see me marrying Serena after this?"

"You say that because that is what one says in situations like this, not because it's true. In truth, it's too late to do anything but what we have both already decided on."

"We've no right to lie to other people, or to ourselves," he says with certainty. Then, "Serena is ready to give me up."

It's Blair's turn to be incredulous. "What, three days after you entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?"

Dan presses his lips together. "She confessed a great many things to me," he says. "I know I'm not the first she – loved. She would understand better than any –"

"Ah," Blair interrupts softly, looking away. "Now am I to do to her what she did to me? There was a time when I would have done exactly that, and just for that reason. But not now."

"I don't understand you," he says.

Dan thinks he now recognizes the expression on her face when she looks at him: a kind of wry affection shot through with sadness. "I know," she says. "You don't understand because you haven't yet guessed how you've changed things for me. I hadn't even known all you'd done, not until Granny blurted it out one day. I was – I was perfectly unconscious of just how much I was disliked, it seems people refused to even meet me at dinner. I found out afterwards how you'd made your mother speak to Cyrus Rose on my behalf; and how you'd insisted on announcing your engagement at the Basses' ball so I would have two families standing behind me instead of one. New York, to me, was simply coming home. I thought things would be just as they were, as they had been once. It was naïve, but…" She gives a slight shrug. "And you… You see, once I had been so very good at all of this, at being one of them. But even before I learned of their distaste for me, I found it hard to slip into old ways. It's like an old dance whose steps I remember but cannot make my feet perform. And you, better than anyone, you knew that. You knew because I treated you once how they treat me now. You knew because you were not born into this world. You understood me. You could see the disloyalty and cruelty and injustice of the world and you hated the things it asks of one. You hated the manipulations and the dishonesty. That was what I'd never known before."

Her speech calms her, bringing back the new composure she returned to New York with, the composure of a woman who has nothing left to fear. He sits beside her and slips his hand into hers; Blair covers his hand with both of her own, entreating him with a gaze so warm that it's a wonder anyone could ever think her cold.

"Don't let us undo what you've done," she says, softly urging. "I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up."

His only thoughts are juvenile and selfish. He wants to take her in his arms again and sweep away her arguments with a kiss but the space between them is once again impassable. He bends to press his mouth to her knuckles, the cool metal of her ring beneath his lips.

The sound of the bell startles them both and they release each other, turning to the door for the cause of this new interruption. After a moment Dorota enters; Blair dismisses her carriage for the evening, saying she will not go out; Dorota nods and hands Blair a telegram that must have just arrived. Blair reads it quickly, expressionless, and then hands it to Dan.

It is dated from St. Augustine.

It reads: Granny's telegram successful! Papa and Mama agree marriage after Easter. Am telegraphing Dan. Too happy for words and love you dearly. Your Serena.

Half an hour later Dan finds a similar yellow envelope waiting for him in the hall table of his home. The message inside is similar but he reads it again and again in the dim hall light until he becomes distracted by Jenny's loitering figure on the stairs. No item of his correspondence is safe from Jenny.

"I waited up on purpose," Jenny says. "I hope there's no bad news?"

He seems to see her through a fog.

"Dan," she says, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he says finally. For some strange reason he laughs. "Nothing's the matter, except I'm going to be married in a month."

Jenny nearly jumps and, with an exclamation of happiness, darts down the stairs to throw her arms around him. "Oh Dan, how wonderful! I'm so glad! It's just as you wanted! But, Dan, why do you keep on laughing? Do hush, or you'll wake the house!"