Chapter Text
Mary Ann arrived at one Murder-Mystery-Invite-Only-Dinner-Party-slash-Gala-for-Friends-Potluck with a moustache on her face and a determination in her heart. The world believed George Eliot to be a man, and so a man the world would see. It was what she had agreed to, to make a living in this world… a world that scorned the very prospect of women having thoughts, let alone writing them down. It was the price she had to pay, hiding her identity, her very soul, for the craft she so loved. Her invitation may had said Mary Ann, but it was for the work of one George Eliot, and she would arrive as such.
As she rang the doorbell, her short stature was at the forefront of her mind. All the moustaches, twee hats and handheld ribs in the world may not be enough to guard her secret after all. No, it would be best to draw attention away, make herself as big as possible. She could hear the approaching footsteps, so there clearly wasn’t time to get stilts. Aha! Mary Ann congratulated herself on her genius as the door swung open to reveal her most manliest of postures, leg swung high as she leant across the whole doorframe, making sure the rather frazzled Edgar and Lenore saw the ribs she held.
“Mary Ann?” Edgar asked after a beat. No matter! Her career was at stake here. One measly recognition wasn’t going to stop her. “So-”
“The name’s Eliot. George Eliot. Likes: beer, sporting, talking about sporting. Dislikes: peeing sitting down, tending to the home, not talking about sporting.” Her script was sure to persuade, even if her appearance did not. She’d spent the whole journey over coming up with the thing. What woman would say anything like that? C’mon.
“Mary Ann, I’m not sure I understa-”
“It seems you have me confused with some sort of damsel – I understand, I have very soft skin – but the name’s George Eliot – that’s two male names, easy to remember. Now, show me to the billiards room. Or a voting booth!”
She pushed past Edgar and Lenore, who it seemed were too wily an audience for her impeccable performance. Alas, all she could do was indicate her intentions and hope they wouldn’t blow her cover. There wasn’t a force in this house that could get her to reveal her true face, not in this world of locked doors and glass ceilings.
Mary Ann had been at this party ten minutes, and not one of the guests had treated her as a man. They all called her George, sure, and no one pointed it out, but she could see it in their eyes. Someone was bound to tell! Though all appeared respectful, there were simply too many gathered here, now aware of the truth. She scanned her fellow partygoers. Oscar Wilde was certainly a gossip, but he knew the perils of such a secret. Charlotte Bronte was a jealous hack, though with her own pen name, it would certainly be a risky move. Gah! Who was that woman in a white dress, appearing so suddenly? She dropped her drink – good, strong beer – in surprise, suppressing a squeal. Her neighbour, Ernest Hemingway caught the worst of it.
“Oh, blast it! Dicknoodle! You’ve spoilt my killer suit. Now what will these fine ladies,” he gestured across the table, eyes spasming with winks. “Think of me?”
“Oh yes,” Mary replied, attempting the wink thing also. “Us gents have to keep up our style if we want to pick up the most fairest… uh… peaches?”
“Now now, that’s a lie if I ever heard one!” Ernest turned his attention fully on Mary Ann. “It’s always the quiet ones, I say. Or some of the quiet ones, in any case.” He glanced over at Edgar. “Dourness is not the same thing. But, my dear fellow, your stealth charms could never overcome that of a real man, such as myself.”
This, this… flute! Must he rub in his perceived superiority, his social and political leverage, over a suffering artiste such as herself? Well, she was not going to bend, not to any man. She turned away with a scoff, desperate for anything else to catch her attention. There was a card placed on her side plate, reading character card. Oh right! Edgar had needed some gimmick as a pretense for hanging out. She supposed it would be fun whether the party took it seriously or not. If all these brilliant literary minds pulled their creative efforts together, the potential collective storytelling would be quite compelling, possibly producing a fountain of inspiration from which the whole world could drink. On the other hand, if Edgar was forced to corral an increasingly absurd authorly dick-measuring contest, it would be really funny. And she fully intended to participate if such an occurrence broke out. It was the manly thing to do! Now, to make the most of whatever role Edgar had given him!
“My card says I’m a duchess; seeing as I have absolutely no insight into the mind of a woman, I was wondering if anyone would be willing to trade cards for a male character.” Mary Ann was shocked. Flabbergasted, even! Did Edgar intend to besmirch George Eliot’s good name?
“Please, no trading,” came Edgar’s reply. Mary Ann’s complaint fell on deaf ears, as the entire party began jostling out their own issues.
Once Eduardo Dantes and Annabel Lee had arrived, however, Eddie was certainly amenable to trading his orangutan for her duchess. It was his loss, she supposed, as she could think of nothing a man – or anyone for that matter – would find funnier than pretending to be a smelly monkey. Her impression was rather good, if she could say so. Ernest probably would, what with his bark of laughter at every one of her outbursts. The party was going swimmingly, despite Edgar’s objections to nearly every interesting moment the narrative produced. And all the character choices which deviated slightly from his original vision. Right now, Ernest’s Fitzwilliam (formerly Winnifred) the Greek Diplomat, was rounding on Fyodor’s Ignatius the Detective Inspector.
“Who, in this party, stood to benefit the most from the deaths of both the railroad heiress Belladonna Spillingsworth, and the prostitute-turned-medium Iliana Korchevsky? Who hid his connections to the long-dead coal baron George Flitspanning? And, lastly, who among us had the sole power to interpret the crime scene which only sits in the mind of our omniscient god who I for some reason would like to call Edgar?”
“No, Ernest, the inspector can’t be the killer, as I would have told you at the start of the game if only you’d let me finish the instructions! And what is this about a dead coal baron?”
“Ahahahaha, Winnifred, my friend.” Fyodor let out a resounding laughter. “You got me! This detective inspector Ignatius is completely unlike the Ignatius I met in prison, but a – what you say – psychopathic killer!”
Louisa May’s Flanders the Prominent Abolitionist attempted to chime in. “As a prominent abolitionist, I am nothing but aware of the many crimes that are perpetrated behind closed doors by the very police force meant to protect us. It is their very access to the justice system which allows their breaches, and it is something I stand against with all my breath.”
“LOUISA YOU’RE DEAD! DEAD PEOPLE CANNOT TALK!”
Lenore appeared in from wherever she was off haunting earlier. “Oh, I can’t talk Edgar? Really? I can’t talk? You wanna test that?”
“No, Lenore, I didn’t mean it like that, I meant in the game.”
“Well, the game is certainly very important to you, and all the people sat at this table, isn’t it?”
Annabel tried to calm the situation. “Lenore, I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that. All this must be very stressful for him, after all the effort he must have put in.”
“Hah! It must have scrambled his little mind for weeks, coming up with all these ideas.” Ernest added. “Listen here, buddy, all we needed was a name and occupation here, alright? It’s all we’ve taken from it anyway!”
“Oh dearie, he’s got you there. Acquired you, even.” Oscar was having the time of his life.
“WELL IF YOU ALL THINK YOU KNOW MY OWN GAME – that I wrote, you know – BETTER THAN I DO, YOU CAN VERY WELL RUN IT YOURSELF!” Edgar stormed off in a huff.
Silence fell on the table. Annabel got up and ran after him, shortly followed by the poof of Lenore’s discorporating.
“So, uh, did you check out the latest sports?” Mary Ann asked Ernest once sufficient time had passed.
“Naturally.” He was staring at her somewhat intently. “Say, what kind of skin balm do you use? You have absolutely no shaving bumps.” He reached over to her face to, well, expose her, she supposed. There was a little contact, but she put a stop to it as swiftly as possible.
“Thank you…? Thank you.” Weird.