T H E A G E O F D I S S O N A N C E (5/9)
dan, serena, blair, others.
5483 words. a re-working of wharton's the age of innocence.
summary: If he thinks of the Countess at all, it is simply as the most plaintive and poignant of a line of ghosts.
note: normal plagiarism disclaimer applies. and idk but for this section specifically I kind of want to say – this is a third person limited pov, limited to dan ofc, and not omniscient, so some things he thinks are definitely not ~the absolute truth~ and ought to be taken with a grain of salt. I think that's something I could say about all my fics but I felt it needed to be said here because dan is huffy and angsty and not thinking particularly flattering things about people.
The day is ideal from the outset: the wide Vermeer sky, blue and soft with clouds, stretching over the gray church and the gentle breeze stirring the flowered hats of slowly-arriving ladies, making all the gentleman hold onto their brims. Inside Grace Church it is cool and shadowed, golden with candles. The sunlight strains through the stained glass, leaving colorful patterns in a path Dan follows straight to the altar. He had been signaled over by Nate, his best man, which must indicate Serena's imminent arrival. Dan finds it difficult to return Nate's encouraging smile; indeed, he's had trouble in the last weeks spending any amount of time in Nate's company at all.
It isn't only Serena's revelations that have cooled Dan towards Nate. In the intervening time, Dan has gone over Nate's behavior in his mind, particularly the days following Blair's reentry into society. Nate had been so noble in his forgiveness of Blair, so reserved on the topic, and all the while it was because he knew he'd been in the wrong. Yet he could not admit it, not to Dan or his family, and he'd let them all go on thinking Blair had been the one at fault. It is an old grudge, and it isn't even really Dan's, but he finds it invading his thoughts regardless.
Dan stands at the altar with his hands clasped, gaze roving over the church, which is so thick with lilies and wildflowers that one might for a second be tricked into thinking they were outside. Sunlight warms the aisle between the pews like stage lights, drawing Dan's eye back and back, all the way to where the bridesmaids lurk in the lobby. It reminds him of the first night at the Opera, in many ways: the stage is set, the curtains drawn, and they all await the leading lady's grand entrance. He sees all the same faces in the audience as well – the Archibalds and Vanderbilts, Penelope in posy pink, dark hair distinct in a sea of blonde relatives. The Basses are there, Chuck looking bored already and his wife sighing a little into her chinchilla stole. And lastly, but not at all least, Dan's own family giving him proud and nervous smiles from the very front of the church. Who would have ever thought that they would be in this position, marrying off their eldest child into one of New York's most prominent families? Thanks to him, Jenny would probably do even better; she might even land herself a Vanderbilt.
There is nothing left for him to think of: the details have all been seen to, the plans arranged, the fees paid. All Dan must do is recite his lines and hits his marks. Everything is equally easy – or equally painful, as one chose to put it – in the path he is committed to tread.
"Do you have the ring?" Nate asks, respectfully hushed.
Dan performs the action all bridegrooms perform, hands patting over his pockets until the shape of the little ring makes itself known. "I have it –" he starts to reply, but is cut off by the sudden opening of the door. His breath seizes, but no – it's only someone having a look before closing it again. It seems the entire congregation has taken an anticipatory breath too, all of them eager to glimpse the bride. They wait, and then the door opens again, for real this time.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd as excited interest rises. First to come are Mrs. van der Woodsen and Eric (her deep mauve gown met with a rumble of general approval), followed by Serena's aunt, and finally the great lady herself, Mrs. Celia Rhodes, aided by two young Rhodes cousins on either side. This produces shocked gasps in the audience; her frailty has left her notoriously housebound, and Mrs. Rhodes has hardly been seen outside of her own home in years. There had been rumors, of course, that she might attend the wedding, but they were generally dismissed out of hand. It was a true and genuine surprise.
Perhaps Dan should feel honored, but he doesn't feel very much of anything at all.
He waits to see if anyone else follows, but Mrs. Rhodes appears to be the end of the familial train. He feels a nudge from Nate, hears a murmured, "She's here," and forces his back to straighten, snaps himself to attention. The music begins.
The bridesmaids come first, a chorus of dancers before the prima ballerina, all in soft blues that echo the bright day outside. Dan's gaze passes over them indifferently until he suddenly looks twice, heart contracting painfully in his chest. He briefly attempts to convince himself that it's merely his thoughts playing tricks, but no – no, it truly is Blair. Through his haze he fancies there is almost something apologetic in her expression, though she keeps her eyes averted.
She is the maid (or is it matron now?) of honor, of course. There could be no excuse good enough to exempt her from the wedding of her dearest friend and closest cousin. Blair had gone away abruptly to Washington some weeks ago, ostensibly to visit with an ill acquaintance ("I don't understand," Serena had complained, "Blair hates any sign of sickness; she wouldn't even call on me when I had the sniffles!") but he'd heard nothing of her returning for the wedding.
Blair comes to stand at the altar in front of the other girls, practically right across from Dan, but he sees her only in his peripheral vision, compelling himself to look only at Serena. As he does, he feels his heart resume its usual task. He slips his hand into his pocket to fiddle with the ring, sliding it halfway up his own finger, where it is stopped because of its small size, designed as it is for Serena's slender fingers. Engraved inside it: Dan to Serena, April 24, 1876.
She is radiant. There's no denying that. His numbness, like ice in his unfeeling veins, seems to melt at the sight of her open, elated expression. When her father hands her off, her touch nearly burns Dan. As one they turn to the Rector, and the ceremony begins.
They are married in a matter of minutes, though to Dan it seems to span the length of a blink. The words come to him through a great fog, made unintelligible by the time they reach his ears, but he must respond appropriately because soon enough they are walking arm-in-arm down the aisle again to the cheers of the onlookers. They are husband and wife.
Once outside, they are helped into the borrowed brougham. Serena is against him in a sudden puff of warm stain, her lace-covered arms about his neck and her mouth against his. He laughs without being able to tell if there is humor in it and feels a little relief without it being even slightly akin to comfort. Then there is her hand on his cheek. "Darling, it's like you've seen a ghost."
He gives her a smile, however weak. "I had too much time to think of every horror that might possibly happen – everything that could potentially go wrong."
Serena smiles. She is so sweet and pretty. "But nothing can now," she says, stroking his cheek as she kisses him again. "Not as long as we two are together."
The wedding breakfast is a hurried and hectic affair, and no sooner is it over than they are rushed to the train station. The Liftons have lent them a charming country house in which to spend their first night or two of marriage, an offer they rapidly accepted as it was thought very fashionable to have a country house lent to one. From there they would go on to their tour of Europe, but for now, at least, they are finally alone in their train compartment after a day of being hustled to and fro, parading and chatting and never resting. Dan feels such exhaustion that he only slumps in his seat and stares out the window, book untouched on the seat beside him.
They have never been alone together in this way. They have taken plenty of stolen moments, or carefully arranged faux seclusion with a chaperone lurking nearby. But with the exception of the afternoon in the orange-grove they have never known the intimacy of true privacy, and they have never been alone together as husband and wife.
It startles him when she speaks.
"I was so happy Blair was able to come after all." She gazes wistfully out the window instead of looking at him, but there seems no hidden motive to it; she only wants to see the countryside go by outside, that's all. "I… I feel now that I might be truly forgiven. I heard her agree to visit with Granny for a little while, and I do hope she's convinced to stay; all I can hope for is to regain the closeness we had as children." She turns a smile brimming with optimism his way. "Aside from my hope for our personal happiness, of course."
"Of course," Dan answers, feeling prompted. "But we are already perfectly happy, so feel free to turn your prayers in other directions."
Serena's smile widens so that her eyes crinkle before she returns to the window, everything in her posture suggesting tranquility. He wonders at that. It is as though he barely inhabits his skin and Serena is hardly an acquaintance, let alone a wife. She is a stranger sitting across from him. It is like he's seeing a beautiful girl at a glamorous party and thinking: what is going on inside her head? What paths do her thoughts take? It seems to him a maze of secrets no man could hope to find his way through. Perhaps once he had understood Serena, or seemed to. Now Dan isn't sure he understands anything.
He believes Serena will probably take each experience as it comes to her, just as she always has, but never anticipate them; he believes she will carry her guilt until the moment it is unloaded and then be free of it forever. But he isn't sure how much stock he puts in belief these days.
When they arrive at their destination, they are met unexpectedly by an emissary of Cyrus Rose. Apparently there had been a minor accident at the Liftons' – just some flooding, nothing of lasting consequence but serious enough to make it uninhabitable for the night. Mr. Rose, upon hearing of this, immediately stepped forever to offer the small cottage on his property, a Platoon house, for their use.
"How kind!" Serena exclaims. "Why, he shows it to so few people – but I know once he had it opened for Blair, and she told me what a darling little place it is: she said it's the only house she's seen in America where she could imagine being perfectly happy."
***
Prior to his wedding, Dan Humphrey's mother had taken him aside to say, "The first six months are always the most difficult, my dear. It may do well to remember that."
Three months into their extended wedding-tour, the newlyweds have found themselves at half past that well-meant warning though Dan couldn't ascribe any particular difficulty to their union. There was compromise, but there was always to be compromise, and he had been prepared for that. In fact, he has found acquiescence easier than he might have thought he would.
It has not been a secret to either of them that their interests diverge in many ways. Serena tries, but she has no great love for strolling through museums or seeing the sights. She has been through Europe many times before and this is only Dan's first excursion, so her knowledge and experience greatly exceeds his, lending her little patience for the usual spectacles. Instead Serena wants to have fun: to swim and ride and sail, to explore anything unknown to her. They have been to Switzerland and Normandy, to Paris to order Serena's clothes for the season and now to London to order his. They did not pass through Italy as he wanted, but it was most likely for the best.
Minor complications aside, it has been an easy trip. Serena is happy, or seems so, and her joy has always been rather infectious. He finds it hard to wallow in melancholy with her at his side: the hint of a frown is always soothed by her kiss, a lonely sigh remedied by her laughter. In the whirlwind he has hardly been allowed to settle, for during the day there are her many activities to occupy their time and at night they lose themselves to passion. A part of him knows it will always be like this between them, and that Serena will be a balm to his troubled mind as much as he will let her. And when they have children, the vacant corners in both their lives will be filled.
They discover ways to share adventure. Though it is not for respectable married people or innocent ladies, Serena shows him a bit of the Europe of her past: the parties, the gambling, the dazzling ladies and charming dandies. They get drunk together on emerald liquor and dance until Serena breaks the heel of her newest brocade boot. They spend money with a carelessness Dan has never before encountered, and which leaves a rotten feeling in his stomach.
During one such indecent outing, at a dance hall no Rhodes should be caught dead in but a Humphrey could probably pass through, they run into a gaggle of Serena's old acquaintances. She greets with customary friendliness until she catches sight of one young man in the crowd and becomes suddenly flustered, which is quite unlike her. Dan is just intoxicated enough to want to converse with her old crowd, but Serena draws them away quite soon after that. And even sooner she entreats him to return to the hotel.
It had been a mad, lovely night, Serena glowing like a beacon in the dimness of the hall. Under the streetlamps her cheeks are flushed pink, but her eyes have lost their spirited gleam. Dan assumes the man must've been one of the many she'd alluded to, and so reviews him again in his mind's eye: somewhat taller than Dan with a sturdier build, and a cockiness to the way he held himself.
"You were startled," Dan says once they're in the carriage, Serena close to his side due to a touch of rainy chill in the London air.
"No, only surprised a little," she says. "I've put that behind me now, but to see them all – well, I suppose it brought it back."
"It wasn't all of them, though, was it?" Dan presses, for what reason he could not say. "It was the man."
Serena pulls her lower lip between her teeth a moment. "I knew him," she allows. "His name is Carter Baizen."
A familiar enough name, though Dan has never met the son: the Baizens are a relatively prominent family, and they had been guests at the wedding. "He's the rogue, isn't he? Left New York years and years ago?"
She shrugs, clearly unwilling to say much more on the matter. However, she does offer, "He isn't as bad as all that. He did me something of a favor once, and for that I'll always be grateful."
It is enigmatic enough to strike an unsettling note in Dan, but he says nothing more. She is entitled to secrets as much as he is, and he shouldn't press for hers without being willing to give up his own in return.
***
The Basses' summer home at Newport presides grandly over a wide apple green lawn that tumbles down into the bottle blue sea. The air is crisp and fragrant, the sun stunningly bright – it is, all in all, a rather perfect sort of day.
The crowd milling around the grounds and taking advantage of the shade of the verandah are all vaguely focused in one direction, towards two large targets set against backdrop of purple geraniums. A collection of girls in white muslin stand opposite the targets with bows in hand. Every so often one will step up to loose an arrow, sighing in either disappointment or contentment depending upon where it hits. The Newport Archery Club always holds its August meeting at the Basses'.
Returning to Newport this summer had not been Dan's choice.
However, he had been unable to overrule the entirety of the Rhodes clan, and Serena especially proved impossible. After a long stuffy winter, she was eager to see the sun and to reacquaint herself with old friends, considering she had missed out on it all last year thanks to their honeymoon. He hadn't found any excuse convincing enough to dissuade her. How could he? If he professed his true feelings, she would only call him silly and kiss him and they would go anyway.
The fact of it is that Dan feels more the outsider than ever before.
He has been so readily accepted by the very same people who had once so readily shut him out and the disingenuousness of it is revolting to him. He had never thought of himself in the terms he often applied to Jenny. She craves society in a way he never thought he did, though he sees now that he had wanted the acceptance and the admiration of those that shunned him. He had wanted it for petty reasons, for selfish ones, but now that he has gained it (and though marriage, no less) it is anathema to him. Now that he is finally in, all he wants is out.
He misses the escape of their time in Europe even more acutely than he did all winter long.
There is a slight hush to the crowd as Serena steps up to try her hand at the target, stirring Dan from his sulking. She looks more Diana-like than ever with the bow in her gloved hands, strands of hair swept across her face. The ivy in her hair has taken off with the other girls, who all try to mimic the effect with none of Serena's panache. She reminds him now of how she looked the night of their engagement.
Dan cannot help the pride he feels to be Serena's husband. It isn't just her beauty but that specific brand of bone-deep loveliness that seems to make her the subject of high regard in every social circle. No one could be jealous of her triumphs when she managed to give the impression that she would have been just as happy without them.
Despite his ever-vacillating feelings on his standing in this world he chose to inhabit, Dan lays no blame at Serena's door. He had married because he had been infatuated with a perfectly charming girl who loved him despite his impoverished past as he loved her despite her imprudent one. To him, she was peace, stability, companionship – and the steadying sense of inescapable duty.
There needed to be an end to his rather aimless sentimental adventures, anyway. Sometimes Dan recalls that he once dreamed briefly of marrying the Countess Grimaldi, an odd stray thought over which he has no control and which has become nearly laughable. If he thinks of the Countess at all, it is simply as the most plaintive and poignant of a line of ghosts.
"You know Serena's going to carry off the first prize."
It's Bass, looking florid and over-dressed for the late summer heat.
"I imagine so," Dan says stiffly.
Rumors have been flying about Chuck Bass as of late, even more so than usual, particularly concerning what appears to be his fast-depleting wealth. They say his investments are going bad, though his response to the whispered accusations is just to spend more, even lavishing a cruise to the West Indies on his mistress and a diamond necklace on his long-suffering wife.
As he always does, Dan ceases to listen almost as soon as Bass begins to speak, so he's caught off guard when he hears, "As I said to the Countess Grimaldi –"
"The Countess?" Dan repeats. His gaze is straight ahead and his expression truly blank. "Have you spoken to her recently?"
"Why, yes, old man," Bass says, giving him an odd but still somehow smug look. "She's in town, you know – didn't Serena say? She's refused all invitations, however, always such a capricious creature… She hasn't even agreed to stay with the great lady herself, instead bunking with the Buckleys of all people. I didn't even think she cared for the Buckleys."
Dan's heart seems to be beating out of time in his chest. It is a sensation he can only attribute to one other time in his life: his wedding, watching a woman not his wife step regretfully towards the altar. He has heard her name since they had last seen each other, but this is different; a door seems to slam between himself and the outside world, conjuring a vision of the fire-lit drawing room and the sound of carriage wheels on the deserted street.
He had walked by the little house just once in the last year and a half, on his way to renewing his acquaintance with the Abrams sisters, but it had looked lifeless, jilted. It had been the house of a ghost.
Perhaps it is her unexpected proximity that has made her real again to him. He heard that she spend the summer of his honeymoon in Newport being as sociable as the old Blair Waldorf, but she was gone again by wintertime. So she had ceased to be flesh and blood in his mind, and he was able to treat news of her with detachment.
Now, however…
He breaks off from Bass, going down off the verandah and closer to the arranged chairs so he can watch Serena take aim. Her brow has furrowed, her lips flattened into a thin line – and there is her arrow hitting the exact center, followed by polite cheers and applause.
She beams at the assorted guests but her gaze seeks Dan out immediately, grin seeming to widen when faced with his congratulatory smile.
Behind him, Dan hears Bass speak again, a faint remark to Captain Archibald. "Isn't there something," Bass says, "about that level of perfection?"
Dan frowns to himself but chooses not to speak, instead striding over to meet Serena.
After her victory has been commended by all present, Serena and Dan go off to visit Mrs. Celia Rhodes and tell her of their afternoon. The great lady, as is her wont, set up many years ago in an unfashionable-if-cheap stretch of land overlooking the bay, putting those saved pennies into the sprawling, magnificent house in which she only uses two rooms, too weak to do more than go from bedroom to sitting room.
Since the wedding, she has only seemed to grow fonder of Dan, seeming to consider them conspirators in the plan to get Serena married off. There is a little twinkle in her eye as she appraises them both before turning to examine the prize Serena gladly shows off: a little diamante arrow pinned to the collar of her dress.
"Quite an heirloom, in fact, my dear," Mrs. Rhodes says with a small, superior smile. "You must leave it to your eldest girl."
Serena laughs. "Granny, don't give the thing away before I've gotten to enjoy it!"
"I must give these little hints if I am to see grandchildren before I'm in the ground," the old lady says baldly. "Now tell me all about the party, please, my dears. I tried to get Blair to go and be my eyes but she was quite insistent upon spending the day with me, and doting on her dear granny, the flatterer." It's said fondly, and she adds with more humor, "Who was I to deny her? I gave up arguing with young people fifty years ago."
Serena had straightened. "Blair? I thought she had already left for Washington?"
"No, not so; it seems the Buckleys were better company than any of us could have supposed." Then, with sudden shrillness, "Blair! Blair!"
Dan sits very still with his cup in his hand, but the only one to answer is an old servant who informs them that Blair had gone down to the shore shortly before their arrival. At that, Mrs. Rhodes waves a hand at Dan and tells him, "Run down and fetch her, like a good grandson; this pretty lady will describe the party to me."
The path to the shore cut through a bank of weeping willows, their drooping branches a picturesque obstruction to the view that exists just beyond them. All he can see through the veil of melancholy green is threads of blue sky, a patch of white that could be clouds or lighthouse, a dazzling spray of sunlight. The sun is only just beginning to descend and when Dan emerges from the trees, he is treated to a melting orange sky shot through with pink and water glittering with the last gasp of the day.
The path continues down to a wooden pier. At the very end there is the figure of a lady, her back to him as she rests her arms upon the rail. Dan stops suddenly, still some distance away, and has the strangest sensation that he is in a dream, or perhaps just waking from one.
She seems to observe the sailboats drifting back and forth in the water, and Dan observes her observing them. He wants very suddenly for her to turn around and look at him, though he knows it's both a ridiculous and childish desire. She could have no knowledge of him standing there, no reason to pull her eyes from the sight that has them captured. Yet still he thinks – if she doesn't turn before that little boat passes the lighthouse, he'll go back.
The boat glides along, dark against the setting sun, and then passes right on by; but still he waits, for what reason he could not say, until the boat is out of view. She does not move.
He turns and walks back up to the house.
As they drive back to the van der Woodsens' home in the growing twilight, Serena remarks, "I'm sorry you didn't find Blair. I should liked to have seen her, though I suppose she must have done it on purpose."
"Done what?" Dan asks, tilting slightly in her direction but keeping his eyes on the reins in her hands.
"Kept herself out of sight," Serena says. "I think she is a little sore with me, though over what I'm not sure; we've only exchanged letters these last months. I haven't set eyes on her since the wedding." She sighs a little. "I think she is much changed."
"Changed?"
"She wanted so badly to be at home again, but now she hardly seems to care – she's indifferent to her friends, she gave up her house in New York… And travelling with the Buckleys of all people, when she's always disliked Bree. I can only think it's something I must have done."
Dan is silent in the wake of that release of worry but eventually he puts his hand on hers. "I'm certain it's nothing you did. Perhaps she is only restless."
"Perhaps," Serena echoes, but she appears unconvinced.
That night he lays awake. He has gotten the notion into his head that reality has somehow flipped – that he has been the ghost all along, passing through a dream-world, and the scene down by the shore is what's real, real as the blood in his veins.
***
The following day, Serena and her family go out for a garden party at the Beatons' but Dan stays behind, ostensibly to go look at a horse for the brand-new brougham Serena's parents had bought for them. Serena teases him that he only refuses to go because he finds the Beatons pompous and son Marcus dull as dishwater, a claim Dan can do little do dispute despite the fact that it did not actually factor much into his plans for the day.
"Perhaps if your errand goes quickly, you might find time to write," Serena offers optimistically before she goes. "I know you had hoped to do so this summer."
He appreciates her encouragement but at the same time only feels a low, burning guilt.
The task with the horse does go quickly enough, Dan finding the animal almost immediately not what he wants, and then he is free to satisfy his silly curiosity. It had come to him at some point during the night as he lay sleepless, a foolish but nevertheless encompassing longing that sends him on his way to the Buckley homestead.
It isn't that he wants to see the Countess. He's certain she took the excuse of the party to go visit again with her grandmother, or call on any number of old acquaintances; it's only that he has the irrational desire to go see the place where she is living. He doesn't know why. It's all a jumble in his head. He has not thought past this outing at all, he only feels that if he could go and look and picture her there, then carry away the vision of the spot of earth she walked on, and the way the sky enclosed it, the rest of the world might seem less empty.
The house is stately, no showy spectacular like the Basses' or even Mrs. Rhodes', and it's quiet in the midday heat. A dog lays sleepily on the verandah, stretching out its paws for Dan's attention as he goes by. There is no one around, no sound coming from inside the house, and after a long contemplative moment Dan goes back down the steps to cross the lawn and enter a small gazebo at the far end of the garden edging the property.
A parasol lay across the bench, a bright, distinct summer sky blue against the wood. It seems to draw him like a magnet; he's sure it's hers. He lifts it up, feeling silk against his palm and then the sun-warmed carved handle, and just stands for a moment holding it like a fool before he hears a rustle of skirts.
He turns to find a young girl, possibly Jenny's age, surveying him with open curiosity. Her hair is mussed though she brings a hand up to smooth it down. After a beat her expression clears and she laughs, "Oh, Mr. Humphrey – I didn't hear you come, I was asleep in the hammock. Everyone else has gone. Did you ring? Oh!" She reaches over to curl a hand around the parasol. "You found it! My very best parasol. I thought I'd left it when we last went to Newport."
Dan looks down with confusion as she takes it off him, finding some excuse to give her as to his presence: "Ah. I came to see about a horse not too far away, so I drove over after on a chance of finding your visitor. But the house seemed empty."
"Indeed it is," the girl agrees with a nod. "Father and Mother and the others all went to the garden party at the Beatons' – didn't you know that was going on? – and Countess was called away, so it's only me. And Bailey." She points back at the dog.
"Called away?"
The girl nods as she inspects her parasol for any signs of potential damage. "Yes, she got a telegram from Boston and said she had to go away for a few days." Her head tilts dreamily. "I do love the way she does her hair, don't you?"
She goes rambling on as Dan's thoughts wheel forcefully away, the entire miserable summer seeming to crash over him all at once: Serena's parents who look down on him and pay for everything, for whom he will never be good enough, just a man who lucked out because their daughter had dangerous secrets; the conspiratorial smirk of Serena's grandmother, who helped him seal his fate; his wife who finds it impossible to care for the things he cares for, and who, with each attempt to do so anyway, only seems to solidify his wretched guilt.
And the Countess who is not here, but once again far away from him.
He hesitates but then plunges forward, "You don't know, I suppose – you see, I will be in Boston tomorrow, and if perhaps you did know –"
The Buckley girl gives him the name of the Countess' hotel, says how lovely it was of him to drop by and how thoughtful of him to visit the Countess, how much she would like that.
"Yes," Dan says, "I do hope she does."
Part Six
dan, serena, blair, others.
5483 words. a re-working of wharton's the age of innocence.
summary: If he thinks of the Countess at all, it is simply as the most plaintive and poignant of a line of ghosts.
note: normal plagiarism disclaimer applies. and idk but for this section specifically I kind of want to say – this is a third person limited pov, limited to dan ofc, and not omniscient, so some things he thinks are definitely not ~the absolute truth~ and ought to be taken with a grain of salt. I think that's something I could say about all my fics but I felt it needed to be said here because dan is huffy and angsty and not thinking particularly flattering things about people.
The day is ideal from the outset: the wide Vermeer sky, blue and soft with clouds, stretching over the gray church and the gentle breeze stirring the flowered hats of slowly-arriving ladies, making all the gentleman hold onto their brims. Inside Grace Church it is cool and shadowed, golden with candles. The sunlight strains through the stained glass, leaving colorful patterns in a path Dan follows straight to the altar. He had been signaled over by Nate, his best man, which must indicate Serena's imminent arrival. Dan finds it difficult to return Nate's encouraging smile; indeed, he's had trouble in the last weeks spending any amount of time in Nate's company at all.
It isn't only Serena's revelations that have cooled Dan towards Nate. In the intervening time, Dan has gone over Nate's behavior in his mind, particularly the days following Blair's reentry into society. Nate had been so noble in his forgiveness of Blair, so reserved on the topic, and all the while it was because he knew he'd been in the wrong. Yet he could not admit it, not to Dan or his family, and he'd let them all go on thinking Blair had been the one at fault. It is an old grudge, and it isn't even really Dan's, but he finds it invading his thoughts regardless.
Dan stands at the altar with his hands clasped, gaze roving over the church, which is so thick with lilies and wildflowers that one might for a second be tricked into thinking they were outside. Sunlight warms the aisle between the pews like stage lights, drawing Dan's eye back and back, all the way to where the bridesmaids lurk in the lobby. It reminds him of the first night at the Opera, in many ways: the stage is set, the curtains drawn, and they all await the leading lady's grand entrance. He sees all the same faces in the audience as well – the Archibalds and Vanderbilts, Penelope in posy pink, dark hair distinct in a sea of blonde relatives. The Basses are there, Chuck looking bored already and his wife sighing a little into her chinchilla stole. And lastly, but not at all least, Dan's own family giving him proud and nervous smiles from the very front of the church. Who would have ever thought that they would be in this position, marrying off their eldest child into one of New York's most prominent families? Thanks to him, Jenny would probably do even better; she might even land herself a Vanderbilt.
There is nothing left for him to think of: the details have all been seen to, the plans arranged, the fees paid. All Dan must do is recite his lines and hits his marks. Everything is equally easy – or equally painful, as one chose to put it – in the path he is committed to tread.
"Do you have the ring?" Nate asks, respectfully hushed.
Dan performs the action all bridegrooms perform, hands patting over his pockets until the shape of the little ring makes itself known. "I have it –" he starts to reply, but is cut off by the sudden opening of the door. His breath seizes, but no – it's only someone having a look before closing it again. It seems the entire congregation has taken an anticipatory breath too, all of them eager to glimpse the bride. They wait, and then the door opens again, for real this time.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd as excited interest rises. First to come are Mrs. van der Woodsen and Eric (her deep mauve gown met with a rumble of general approval), followed by Serena's aunt, and finally the great lady herself, Mrs. Celia Rhodes, aided by two young Rhodes cousins on either side. This produces shocked gasps in the audience; her frailty has left her notoriously housebound, and Mrs. Rhodes has hardly been seen outside of her own home in years. There had been rumors, of course, that she might attend the wedding, but they were generally dismissed out of hand. It was a true and genuine surprise.
Perhaps Dan should feel honored, but he doesn't feel very much of anything at all.
He waits to see if anyone else follows, but Mrs. Rhodes appears to be the end of the familial train. He feels a nudge from Nate, hears a murmured, "She's here," and forces his back to straighten, snaps himself to attention. The music begins.
The bridesmaids come first, a chorus of dancers before the prima ballerina, all in soft blues that echo the bright day outside. Dan's gaze passes over them indifferently until he suddenly looks twice, heart contracting painfully in his chest. He briefly attempts to convince himself that it's merely his thoughts playing tricks, but no – no, it truly is Blair. Through his haze he fancies there is almost something apologetic in her expression, though she keeps her eyes averted.
She is the maid (or is it matron now?) of honor, of course. There could be no excuse good enough to exempt her from the wedding of her dearest friend and closest cousin. Blair had gone away abruptly to Washington some weeks ago, ostensibly to visit with an ill acquaintance ("I don't understand," Serena had complained, "Blair hates any sign of sickness; she wouldn't even call on me when I had the sniffles!") but he'd heard nothing of her returning for the wedding.
Blair comes to stand at the altar in front of the other girls, practically right across from Dan, but he sees her only in his peripheral vision, compelling himself to look only at Serena. As he does, he feels his heart resume its usual task. He slips his hand into his pocket to fiddle with the ring, sliding it halfway up his own finger, where it is stopped because of its small size, designed as it is for Serena's slender fingers. Engraved inside it: Dan to Serena, April 24, 1876.
She is radiant. There's no denying that. His numbness, like ice in his unfeeling veins, seems to melt at the sight of her open, elated expression. When her father hands her off, her touch nearly burns Dan. As one they turn to the Rector, and the ceremony begins.
They are married in a matter of minutes, though to Dan it seems to span the length of a blink. The words come to him through a great fog, made unintelligible by the time they reach his ears, but he must respond appropriately because soon enough they are walking arm-in-arm down the aisle again to the cheers of the onlookers. They are husband and wife.
Once outside, they are helped into the borrowed brougham. Serena is against him in a sudden puff of warm stain, her lace-covered arms about his neck and her mouth against his. He laughs without being able to tell if there is humor in it and feels a little relief without it being even slightly akin to comfort. Then there is her hand on his cheek. "Darling, it's like you've seen a ghost."
He gives her a smile, however weak. "I had too much time to think of every horror that might possibly happen – everything that could potentially go wrong."
Serena smiles. She is so sweet and pretty. "But nothing can now," she says, stroking his cheek as she kisses him again. "Not as long as we two are together."
The wedding breakfast is a hurried and hectic affair, and no sooner is it over than they are rushed to the train station. The Liftons have lent them a charming country house in which to spend their first night or two of marriage, an offer they rapidly accepted as it was thought very fashionable to have a country house lent to one. From there they would go on to their tour of Europe, but for now, at least, they are finally alone in their train compartment after a day of being hustled to and fro, parading and chatting and never resting. Dan feels such exhaustion that he only slumps in his seat and stares out the window, book untouched on the seat beside him.
They have never been alone together in this way. They have taken plenty of stolen moments, or carefully arranged faux seclusion with a chaperone lurking nearby. But with the exception of the afternoon in the orange-grove they have never known the intimacy of true privacy, and they have never been alone together as husband and wife.
It startles him when she speaks.
"I was so happy Blair was able to come after all." She gazes wistfully out the window instead of looking at him, but there seems no hidden motive to it; she only wants to see the countryside go by outside, that's all. "I… I feel now that I might be truly forgiven. I heard her agree to visit with Granny for a little while, and I do hope she's convinced to stay; all I can hope for is to regain the closeness we had as children." She turns a smile brimming with optimism his way. "Aside from my hope for our personal happiness, of course."
"Of course," Dan answers, feeling prompted. "But we are already perfectly happy, so feel free to turn your prayers in other directions."
Serena's smile widens so that her eyes crinkle before she returns to the window, everything in her posture suggesting tranquility. He wonders at that. It is as though he barely inhabits his skin and Serena is hardly an acquaintance, let alone a wife. She is a stranger sitting across from him. It is like he's seeing a beautiful girl at a glamorous party and thinking: what is going on inside her head? What paths do her thoughts take? It seems to him a maze of secrets no man could hope to find his way through. Perhaps once he had understood Serena, or seemed to. Now Dan isn't sure he understands anything.
He believes Serena will probably take each experience as it comes to her, just as she always has, but never anticipate them; he believes she will carry her guilt until the moment it is unloaded and then be free of it forever. But he isn't sure how much stock he puts in belief these days.
When they arrive at their destination, they are met unexpectedly by an emissary of Cyrus Rose. Apparently there had been a minor accident at the Liftons' – just some flooding, nothing of lasting consequence but serious enough to make it uninhabitable for the night. Mr. Rose, upon hearing of this, immediately stepped forever to offer the small cottage on his property, a Platoon house, for their use.
"How kind!" Serena exclaims. "Why, he shows it to so few people – but I know once he had it opened for Blair, and she told me what a darling little place it is: she said it's the only house she's seen in America where she could imagine being perfectly happy."
***
Prior to his wedding, Dan Humphrey's mother had taken him aside to say, "The first six months are always the most difficult, my dear. It may do well to remember that."
Three months into their extended wedding-tour, the newlyweds have found themselves at half past that well-meant warning though Dan couldn't ascribe any particular difficulty to their union. There was compromise, but there was always to be compromise, and he had been prepared for that. In fact, he has found acquiescence easier than he might have thought he would.
It has not been a secret to either of them that their interests diverge in many ways. Serena tries, but she has no great love for strolling through museums or seeing the sights. She has been through Europe many times before and this is only Dan's first excursion, so her knowledge and experience greatly exceeds his, lending her little patience for the usual spectacles. Instead Serena wants to have fun: to swim and ride and sail, to explore anything unknown to her. They have been to Switzerland and Normandy, to Paris to order Serena's clothes for the season and now to London to order his. They did not pass through Italy as he wanted, but it was most likely for the best.
Minor complications aside, it has been an easy trip. Serena is happy, or seems so, and her joy has always been rather infectious. He finds it hard to wallow in melancholy with her at his side: the hint of a frown is always soothed by her kiss, a lonely sigh remedied by her laughter. In the whirlwind he has hardly been allowed to settle, for during the day there are her many activities to occupy their time and at night they lose themselves to passion. A part of him knows it will always be like this between them, and that Serena will be a balm to his troubled mind as much as he will let her. And when they have children, the vacant corners in both their lives will be filled.
They discover ways to share adventure. Though it is not for respectable married people or innocent ladies, Serena shows him a bit of the Europe of her past: the parties, the gambling, the dazzling ladies and charming dandies. They get drunk together on emerald liquor and dance until Serena breaks the heel of her newest brocade boot. They spend money with a carelessness Dan has never before encountered, and which leaves a rotten feeling in his stomach.
During one such indecent outing, at a dance hall no Rhodes should be caught dead in but a Humphrey could probably pass through, they run into a gaggle of Serena's old acquaintances. She greets with customary friendliness until she catches sight of one young man in the crowd and becomes suddenly flustered, which is quite unlike her. Dan is just intoxicated enough to want to converse with her old crowd, but Serena draws them away quite soon after that. And even sooner she entreats him to return to the hotel.
It had been a mad, lovely night, Serena glowing like a beacon in the dimness of the hall. Under the streetlamps her cheeks are flushed pink, but her eyes have lost their spirited gleam. Dan assumes the man must've been one of the many she'd alluded to, and so reviews him again in his mind's eye: somewhat taller than Dan with a sturdier build, and a cockiness to the way he held himself.
"You were startled," Dan says once they're in the carriage, Serena close to his side due to a touch of rainy chill in the London air.
"No, only surprised a little," she says. "I've put that behind me now, but to see them all – well, I suppose it brought it back."
"It wasn't all of them, though, was it?" Dan presses, for what reason he could not say. "It was the man."
Serena pulls her lower lip between her teeth a moment. "I knew him," she allows. "His name is Carter Baizen."
A familiar enough name, though Dan has never met the son: the Baizens are a relatively prominent family, and they had been guests at the wedding. "He's the rogue, isn't he? Left New York years and years ago?"
She shrugs, clearly unwilling to say much more on the matter. However, she does offer, "He isn't as bad as all that. He did me something of a favor once, and for that I'll always be grateful."
It is enigmatic enough to strike an unsettling note in Dan, but he says nothing more. She is entitled to secrets as much as he is, and he shouldn't press for hers without being willing to give up his own in return.
***
The Basses' summer home at Newport presides grandly over a wide apple green lawn that tumbles down into the bottle blue sea. The air is crisp and fragrant, the sun stunningly bright – it is, all in all, a rather perfect sort of day.
The crowd milling around the grounds and taking advantage of the shade of the verandah are all vaguely focused in one direction, towards two large targets set against backdrop of purple geraniums. A collection of girls in white muslin stand opposite the targets with bows in hand. Every so often one will step up to loose an arrow, sighing in either disappointment or contentment depending upon where it hits. The Newport Archery Club always holds its August meeting at the Basses'.
Returning to Newport this summer had not been Dan's choice.
However, he had been unable to overrule the entirety of the Rhodes clan, and Serena especially proved impossible. After a long stuffy winter, she was eager to see the sun and to reacquaint herself with old friends, considering she had missed out on it all last year thanks to their honeymoon. He hadn't found any excuse convincing enough to dissuade her. How could he? If he professed his true feelings, she would only call him silly and kiss him and they would go anyway.
The fact of it is that Dan feels more the outsider than ever before.
He has been so readily accepted by the very same people who had once so readily shut him out and the disingenuousness of it is revolting to him. He had never thought of himself in the terms he often applied to Jenny. She craves society in a way he never thought he did, though he sees now that he had wanted the acceptance and the admiration of those that shunned him. He had wanted it for petty reasons, for selfish ones, but now that he has gained it (and though marriage, no less) it is anathema to him. Now that he is finally in, all he wants is out.
He misses the escape of their time in Europe even more acutely than he did all winter long.
There is a slight hush to the crowd as Serena steps up to try her hand at the target, stirring Dan from his sulking. She looks more Diana-like than ever with the bow in her gloved hands, strands of hair swept across her face. The ivy in her hair has taken off with the other girls, who all try to mimic the effect with none of Serena's panache. She reminds him now of how she looked the night of their engagement.
Dan cannot help the pride he feels to be Serena's husband. It isn't just her beauty but that specific brand of bone-deep loveliness that seems to make her the subject of high regard in every social circle. No one could be jealous of her triumphs when she managed to give the impression that she would have been just as happy without them.
Despite his ever-vacillating feelings on his standing in this world he chose to inhabit, Dan lays no blame at Serena's door. He had married because he had been infatuated with a perfectly charming girl who loved him despite his impoverished past as he loved her despite her imprudent one. To him, she was peace, stability, companionship – and the steadying sense of inescapable duty.
There needed to be an end to his rather aimless sentimental adventures, anyway. Sometimes Dan recalls that he once dreamed briefly of marrying the Countess Grimaldi, an odd stray thought over which he has no control and which has become nearly laughable. If he thinks of the Countess at all, it is simply as the most plaintive and poignant of a line of ghosts.
"You know Serena's going to carry off the first prize."
It's Bass, looking florid and over-dressed for the late summer heat.
"I imagine so," Dan says stiffly.
Rumors have been flying about Chuck Bass as of late, even more so than usual, particularly concerning what appears to be his fast-depleting wealth. They say his investments are going bad, though his response to the whispered accusations is just to spend more, even lavishing a cruise to the West Indies on his mistress and a diamond necklace on his long-suffering wife.
As he always does, Dan ceases to listen almost as soon as Bass begins to speak, so he's caught off guard when he hears, "As I said to the Countess Grimaldi –"
"The Countess?" Dan repeats. His gaze is straight ahead and his expression truly blank. "Have you spoken to her recently?"
"Why, yes, old man," Bass says, giving him an odd but still somehow smug look. "She's in town, you know – didn't Serena say? She's refused all invitations, however, always such a capricious creature… She hasn't even agreed to stay with the great lady herself, instead bunking with the Buckleys of all people. I didn't even think she cared for the Buckleys."
Dan's heart seems to be beating out of time in his chest. It is a sensation he can only attribute to one other time in his life: his wedding, watching a woman not his wife step regretfully towards the altar. He has heard her name since they had last seen each other, but this is different; a door seems to slam between himself and the outside world, conjuring a vision of the fire-lit drawing room and the sound of carriage wheels on the deserted street.
He had walked by the little house just once in the last year and a half, on his way to renewing his acquaintance with the Abrams sisters, but it had looked lifeless, jilted. It had been the house of a ghost.
Perhaps it is her unexpected proximity that has made her real again to him. He heard that she spend the summer of his honeymoon in Newport being as sociable as the old Blair Waldorf, but she was gone again by wintertime. So she had ceased to be flesh and blood in his mind, and he was able to treat news of her with detachment.
Now, however…
He breaks off from Bass, going down off the verandah and closer to the arranged chairs so he can watch Serena take aim. Her brow has furrowed, her lips flattened into a thin line – and there is her arrow hitting the exact center, followed by polite cheers and applause.
She beams at the assorted guests but her gaze seeks Dan out immediately, grin seeming to widen when faced with his congratulatory smile.
Behind him, Dan hears Bass speak again, a faint remark to Captain Archibald. "Isn't there something," Bass says, "about that level of perfection?"
Dan frowns to himself but chooses not to speak, instead striding over to meet Serena.
After her victory has been commended by all present, Serena and Dan go off to visit Mrs. Celia Rhodes and tell her of their afternoon. The great lady, as is her wont, set up many years ago in an unfashionable-if-cheap stretch of land overlooking the bay, putting those saved pennies into the sprawling, magnificent house in which she only uses two rooms, too weak to do more than go from bedroom to sitting room.
Since the wedding, she has only seemed to grow fonder of Dan, seeming to consider them conspirators in the plan to get Serena married off. There is a little twinkle in her eye as she appraises them both before turning to examine the prize Serena gladly shows off: a little diamante arrow pinned to the collar of her dress.
"Quite an heirloom, in fact, my dear," Mrs. Rhodes says with a small, superior smile. "You must leave it to your eldest girl."
Serena laughs. "Granny, don't give the thing away before I've gotten to enjoy it!"
"I must give these little hints if I am to see grandchildren before I'm in the ground," the old lady says baldly. "Now tell me all about the party, please, my dears. I tried to get Blair to go and be my eyes but she was quite insistent upon spending the day with me, and doting on her dear granny, the flatterer." It's said fondly, and she adds with more humor, "Who was I to deny her? I gave up arguing with young people fifty years ago."
Serena had straightened. "Blair? I thought she had already left for Washington?"
"No, not so; it seems the Buckleys were better company than any of us could have supposed." Then, with sudden shrillness, "Blair! Blair!"
Dan sits very still with his cup in his hand, but the only one to answer is an old servant who informs them that Blair had gone down to the shore shortly before their arrival. At that, Mrs. Rhodes waves a hand at Dan and tells him, "Run down and fetch her, like a good grandson; this pretty lady will describe the party to me."
The path to the shore cut through a bank of weeping willows, their drooping branches a picturesque obstruction to the view that exists just beyond them. All he can see through the veil of melancholy green is threads of blue sky, a patch of white that could be clouds or lighthouse, a dazzling spray of sunlight. The sun is only just beginning to descend and when Dan emerges from the trees, he is treated to a melting orange sky shot through with pink and water glittering with the last gasp of the day.
The path continues down to a wooden pier. At the very end there is the figure of a lady, her back to him as she rests her arms upon the rail. Dan stops suddenly, still some distance away, and has the strangest sensation that he is in a dream, or perhaps just waking from one.
She seems to observe the sailboats drifting back and forth in the water, and Dan observes her observing them. He wants very suddenly for her to turn around and look at him, though he knows it's both a ridiculous and childish desire. She could have no knowledge of him standing there, no reason to pull her eyes from the sight that has them captured. Yet still he thinks – if she doesn't turn before that little boat passes the lighthouse, he'll go back.
The boat glides along, dark against the setting sun, and then passes right on by; but still he waits, for what reason he could not say, until the boat is out of view. She does not move.
He turns and walks back up to the house.
As they drive back to the van der Woodsens' home in the growing twilight, Serena remarks, "I'm sorry you didn't find Blair. I should liked to have seen her, though I suppose she must have done it on purpose."
"Done what?" Dan asks, tilting slightly in her direction but keeping his eyes on the reins in her hands.
"Kept herself out of sight," Serena says. "I think she is a little sore with me, though over what I'm not sure; we've only exchanged letters these last months. I haven't set eyes on her since the wedding." She sighs a little. "I think she is much changed."
"Changed?"
"She wanted so badly to be at home again, but now she hardly seems to care – she's indifferent to her friends, she gave up her house in New York… And travelling with the Buckleys of all people, when she's always disliked Bree. I can only think it's something I must have done."
Dan is silent in the wake of that release of worry but eventually he puts his hand on hers. "I'm certain it's nothing you did. Perhaps she is only restless."
"Perhaps," Serena echoes, but she appears unconvinced.
That night he lays awake. He has gotten the notion into his head that reality has somehow flipped – that he has been the ghost all along, passing through a dream-world, and the scene down by the shore is what's real, real as the blood in his veins.
***
The following day, Serena and her family go out for a garden party at the Beatons' but Dan stays behind, ostensibly to go look at a horse for the brand-new brougham Serena's parents had bought for them. Serena teases him that he only refuses to go because he finds the Beatons pompous and son Marcus dull as dishwater, a claim Dan can do little do dispute despite the fact that it did not actually factor much into his plans for the day.
"Perhaps if your errand goes quickly, you might find time to write," Serena offers optimistically before she goes. "I know you had hoped to do so this summer."
He appreciates her encouragement but at the same time only feels a low, burning guilt.
The task with the horse does go quickly enough, Dan finding the animal almost immediately not what he wants, and then he is free to satisfy his silly curiosity. It had come to him at some point during the night as he lay sleepless, a foolish but nevertheless encompassing longing that sends him on his way to the Buckley homestead.
It isn't that he wants to see the Countess. He's certain she took the excuse of the party to go visit again with her grandmother, or call on any number of old acquaintances; it's only that he has the irrational desire to go see the place where she is living. He doesn't know why. It's all a jumble in his head. He has not thought past this outing at all, he only feels that if he could go and look and picture her there, then carry away the vision of the spot of earth she walked on, and the way the sky enclosed it, the rest of the world might seem less empty.
The house is stately, no showy spectacular like the Basses' or even Mrs. Rhodes', and it's quiet in the midday heat. A dog lays sleepily on the verandah, stretching out its paws for Dan's attention as he goes by. There is no one around, no sound coming from inside the house, and after a long contemplative moment Dan goes back down the steps to cross the lawn and enter a small gazebo at the far end of the garden edging the property.
A parasol lay across the bench, a bright, distinct summer sky blue against the wood. It seems to draw him like a magnet; he's sure it's hers. He lifts it up, feeling silk against his palm and then the sun-warmed carved handle, and just stands for a moment holding it like a fool before he hears a rustle of skirts.
He turns to find a young girl, possibly Jenny's age, surveying him with open curiosity. Her hair is mussed though she brings a hand up to smooth it down. After a beat her expression clears and she laughs, "Oh, Mr. Humphrey – I didn't hear you come, I was asleep in the hammock. Everyone else has gone. Did you ring? Oh!" She reaches over to curl a hand around the parasol. "You found it! My very best parasol. I thought I'd left it when we last went to Newport."
Dan looks down with confusion as she takes it off him, finding some excuse to give her as to his presence: "Ah. I came to see about a horse not too far away, so I drove over after on a chance of finding your visitor. But the house seemed empty."
"Indeed it is," the girl agrees with a nod. "Father and Mother and the others all went to the garden party at the Beatons' – didn't you know that was going on? – and Countess was called away, so it's only me. And Bailey." She points back at the dog.
"Called away?"
The girl nods as she inspects her parasol for any signs of potential damage. "Yes, she got a telegram from Boston and said she had to go away for a few days." Her head tilts dreamily. "I do love the way she does her hair, don't you?"
She goes rambling on as Dan's thoughts wheel forcefully away, the entire miserable summer seeming to crash over him all at once: Serena's parents who look down on him and pay for everything, for whom he will never be good enough, just a man who lucked out because their daughter had dangerous secrets; the conspiratorial smirk of Serena's grandmother, who helped him seal his fate; his wife who finds it impossible to care for the things he cares for, and who, with each attempt to do so anyway, only seems to solidify his wretched guilt.
And the Countess who is not here, but once again far away from him.
He hesitates but then plunges forward, "You don't know, I suppose – you see, I will be in Boston tomorrow, and if perhaps you did know –"
The Buckley girl gives him the name of the Countess' hotel, says how lovely it was of him to drop by and how thoughtful of him to visit the Countess, how much she would like that.
"Yes," Dan says, "I do hope she does."
Part Six