Chapter Text
LARRY
“By the way, I have invited Miss Brook to take a seat in our box on opening night,” Larry tells his parents, quite casually, over luncheon. “And she has accepted.”
“Oh?” George asks with undisguised interest at the same time that Bertha says, “Miss Brook, really?”
“What’s wrong with Miss Brook?” Larry feels strangely defensive.
“Nothing,” George says, hastily. “I like Miss Brook.”
Bertha frowns at him. “I only meant that I am surprised an engaged woman would accept such an invitation. I assume her Mr. Montgomery isn’t joining us?” Larry’s bewildered face more than confirms this suspicion. “And I am a little surprised you would lose the chance to impress a young lady of whom you are fond with the offer of a choice seat in one of the best boxes on the Metropolitan’s opening night.”
“I’m not sure he’s lost that chance,” George mutters to his wife, very quietly; she gives him a sharp look in return.
“Miss Brook and I are great friends,” Larry says, a little too hotly.
“I have noticed,” George says, with a smile.
“And won’t it be a good thing, mother, to have a member of her family in our box? When her aunt is part of the many so opposed to the Metropolitan? Won’t it show that some of the old crowd are on our side, at least?”
This is the exact right argument to use on Bertha – Larry is a Russell, after all – and she narrows her eyes at her son’s calculating remark. “Certainly it will.”
“Well, then,” Larry doesn’t know why his ears should feel so hot or why he should feel so very flustered by this conversation. “It’s settled. Miss Brook will join our party at the Metropolitan.”
***
It is not, he reasons, as though he had invited her to share their box with any nefarious intent. It is not as though he had been consciously hoping to interfere with her engagement (he will deny this hotly to himself or anyone else that might ask!).
It might seem unconventional, unorthodox, perhaps, to invite an engaged woman — but that is not what or who he sees first when he thinks of Miss Brook. He sees — well, just Marian. His dear friend, who always makes him laugh, whose advice he quite depends upon, whose serene manner he appreciates, whose eyes make him feel sometimes quite weak at the knees (but enough of that, he reminds himself).
And he knows that Marian is, at heart, really quite unconventional (thrillingly unconventional, he’s discovering), so he had known that of course she wouldn’t misunderstand any invitation, or be offended – and of course she hadn’t.
But he cannot deny, in the privacy of his own mind, that he has noted her lack of enthusiasm for her betrothed. That he has seen her stricken, pained face during the proposal. And by contrast – Larry has noticed the way she smiles at him when they speak, with that hopeful, happy look in her eye. The way she grips his arm when they walk, something possessive lurking underneath that polite hand.
And he rather thinks he might have more of his father in him than he always thought. For he does not intend to stop talking to Marian about matters both trivial and philosophical; he does not intend to stop taking her on walks; he does not intend to stop dancing with her, relishing the closeness of their bodies, the way she never takes her eyes off him as he guides her.
He does not intend to stop letting her know, in his quiet, polite, unassuming way, that he is here. That he is here, and that she quite enjoys herself when he is.
That she has options.
***
MARIAN
“Not the son, I hope?” Aunt Agnes’ words are like a knife, puncturing something delicate and fluttering in her chest.
And why shouldn’t he ask her, Marian thinks, her heart beating faster. Why should it be so inappropriate? Why does she feel so ruffled by the implication? Why does her traitorous heart beat so in her chest at the idea that Aunt Agnes automatically knows it is Larry who had asked her?
And so, she lies. It is not such a sin, she reasons. She is simply keeping the peace, avoiding an inevitable, terrible argument that will only cause everyone distress.
She avoids Aunt Ada’s interested, knowing gaze as well.
***
Two strikes. Maybe, at one point, Aunt Agnes’ words would have caused Marian to worry.
But the words that take up residence inside of her and cause her true worry are when Aunt Agnes says “don’t throw your life away.”
That life passes quickly. And she needs to be brave, to be bold, while she's still young.
***
“You’re a marvellous person, you know?”
His eyes are so beautiful when he says this, so soft they are almost liquid, lit up with some emotion she’s both desperate and afraid to name.
And then – oh! – she understands, now, what she hadn’t been quite prepared to admit or understand or acknowledge to herself before. It’s not a sudden realisation; it’s not a supernova or a lightning bolt.
(It is a little like the after-affects of getting into a cold bed on a cold winter’s night in Doylestown, the kind where you hurry to wiggle and kick your legs like mad to generate heat. And then you realize that you are more than comfortable and have been for quite some time, although you couldn’t put your finger on when it started; when the shift from freezing to cold to neutral to warm began. It just creeps up on you.)
She cannot say she is surprised by it, not really. It’s been here all along, after all.
The timbre of his voice when he says these words makes her want to cry, and she wants to hear it, again and again and again. He looks at her like she is something wondrous, miraculous. Marvellous.
(And maybe it's because she is marvellous , she thinks with a fierce rush of emotion, or, at least, maybe she could be, one day.)
She suddenly, unexpectedly rather wishes he was a bit more like Tom Raikes, that he would haul her off into a deserted hallway and make dramatic declarations to her, that he would dare to kiss her passionately as Tom had done (for she understands, now, that she quite wants Larry to kiss her passionately, even as the the thought makes her blush).
But he could never, would never be Tom Raikes, and that is part of what she likes about him. His careful, polite nature, always attentive to her feelings and comfort. Never pushing, never pressuring her, never making assumptions.
But perhaps, she thinks, now that she knows what she wants, she just might get it.
It is the first step, at the very least.
***
They are standing on the front steps of the house on East 61st St when everything changes. Marian cannot decide if it happens very suddenly or incredibly slowly; she thinks it might be both at the same time.
Larry looks at her, something he has done a thousand times before, and it is somehow different than ever before. He looks both like he wants to ask her a question and like a man resolving to see something through.
And then he takes the slightest step towards her. Her heart starts beating in earnest now — does she dare hope…? — and before she can talk herself out of hoping, he is taking another step closer.
He is too close, much too close to be appropriate, but he doesn’t stop and – she doesn’t quite believe he is really going to kiss her until his lips are on hers. She is still smiling when he kisses her, and she can tell he’s smiling too.
It is not at all like it was with Tom. It is so much better: sweeter, more joyful, more comfortable, but also more thrilling in a way she doesn’t have words for. He takes her hands, squeezing them gently, as he kisses her right there, on the steps in broad daylight, for the whole world to see. She kisses him back, the feel of his lips on hers making her feel quite fearless.
It is brief but it is enough to change everything.
They break apart and she can only exclaim, in a voice of quiet delight, (“oh!”) and hope that he somehow understands everything from this one syllable. That he somehow understands this moment has been everything to her.
He is still holding her hands, smiling that tender, hopeful smile at her, his eyes crinkling up with genuine happiness, when Jack answers the door, politely clearing his throat. Larry drops her hands. They both take a step back, but she still feels rather like they are in their own private world. His eyes are still locked on hers, still hopeful, still happy, still tender, and she cannot help beaming at him.
This is so much better than she had dared to hope.
***
LARRY
When Marian tells him, during the intermission, that she has broken the engagement to Mr. Montgomery, Larry has to try hard to keep himself from breaking out into a thoroughly undignified grin.
“I am sorry…” He begins to offer, but she doesn’t look sorry or sad, not at all, not at all the way she had looked a year ago with Mr. Raikes.
She shakes her head, resolute. “There is nothing to be sorry for, not really. It isn’t some tragic tale. In the end, I realized that we are simply two very different people who want very different things, you see?”
And then she meets his eye quite steadily, and says, “Besides, we were not in love. And I’ve quite decided I’m determined to marry for love,” with a determined little jut of her chin that he finds terribly attractive. “In fact, I would rather never marry than marry for any other reason.”
“I hope you get your wish. You deserve it, Miss Brook,” Larry can barely speak, his throat and mouth suddenly dry. “Whoever he is, the fellow that one day – well – I think I already envy him his good luck.”
He says this, quite unable to think of anything but her — the resolute look in her eye, the brave calm of her voice, her dignified, erect posture. Her beautiful face. The way the delicate tulle of her choker flutters against her slender neck; the way the light catches on the diamonds that gently quiver as she speaks. Her bravery and insistence in sticking to her principles.
He can’t stop staring at her, staring at her rather like he’s never seen her before. She has always been beautiful. She has always been charming, sweet, polite, good-natured. But he finds something about her tonight that is quite mesmerizing, like she has unlocked some hidden, powerful part of herself: something shining brightly and irresistible, something calling to him like a siren song.
She is marvellous, he thinks, quite marvellous, and he must tell her so at once . But the words feel so insignificant once they are out; they are not enough, and he does not understand why.
He rather feels like he could start reciting poetry – Shakespeare, Keats, whoever – and it still wouldn’t be enough.
***
“Your mother knows what she wants, and I think that’s the first step to getting it.”
Marian’s words bounce around his head all night, and he cannot explain why they should bother him so.
He is not a coward, although he knows his father despairs of him sometimes, lamenting that Larry does not have the same quick, decisive nature that George wields fearlessly. But reticent or not – it is so clear to him now that he must not let this opportunity slip away again.
He had felt quite sick at the engagement between Marian and Mr. Montgomery, even though he knew he had no right to be. He had questioned himself quite strenuously for several nights: was he in love with Miss Brook?
He didn’t know, but he knew he could be, if given the chance. And, above all, he knew he wanted the chance to find out.
No, he resolves, he won’t be repeating the mistakes of the last year — taking too much time after Mr. Raikes, being distracted pursuing other women, and then losing out while another man advances his suit.
Especially not when he hears she will soon be leaving East 61st St. He will have a reason to call on her, quite often, wherever she ends up, he decides, in the moment when she is exclaiming to him what great friends they are, that they shall be great friends forever. And it shan’t be as friends – or at least, not simply friends, not if he has anything to say about it.
And he tries to remember that he is his father’s son, and that George Russell never gave a damn about propriety or playing by anyone else’s rules. That George Russell always knows which moments call for boldness, for resolve, for saying to hell with the rules of polite society.
For it is bold, what he wants to do – scandalous, some might say, even indecent, but he knows some moments in life might just call for such boldness.
He looks at her, and he thinks he sees the question in her eyes; he thinks he sees that he hasn’t imagined this soft, delicate something blooming in the quiet spaces between them.
And she is still smiling when he kisses her, and he thinks this can only be a good omen. He knows, all too well, that it is too much, too soon, to do in broad daylight, on the steps of her aunts’ house, where anyone in the world might see or walk by, but he doesn’t think he cares so much anymore. When she kisses him back, he knows he doesn’t care.
And the sound of her saying “oh!” like that, like she’s not at all surprised but has still discovered something new, something delightful, something wonderful — it seems to go straight to his already fluttering heart.
Before he can say anything more, before he can clarify his intentions, Jack comes to the door, and they hasten to separate.
Larry tips his hat to her, not sure what else to say to her in front of Jack, but he thinks her face looks more lovely than he’s ever seen it, glowing like a candle (for him, at him, because of him) and he wishes he’d been this bold far, far sooner.
***
MARIAN
It is a day for earth-shattering realizations all around, apparently. Marian is quite exhausted, and soon excuses herself for the privacy of her room and the comfort of her bed.
When she is finally, blessedly, in bed, eyes closed, she can almost feel his lips still on hers, kissing her gently, firmly, sweetly; his hands clasping hers; the heat of his body dangerously close; the way his lips were still curved into a smile as they met hers. His eyes on her before, questioning and resolute, making something positively burn inside of her. His eyes after, crinkling with joy when he hears her say oh!. The warm weight of his hands, his lips – and she cannot believe she now knows what the press of his lips on hers feels like, and she will never know another minute’s peace now that she does know.
And it is so, so exciting and wonderful to think that he is not so far from her, not really — that he is simply on the other side of the street.
She knows, she just knows, that he is surely thinking about her, about the kiss they shared, even now. That, in his bedroom on the other side of East 61st St (his bedroom is a thrilling thought), he is feeling this right alongside her — and the thought makes her so unbelievably joyful, so hopeful, so happy. She wants to squeal, to shriek with excitement, to kick her heels up and down like a little girl.
She doesn’t want to run ahead, to the things young ladies are always accused of racing to — proclamations of love, a proposal of marriage, a wedding and babies. Right now, she just wants to live inside this golden feeling as it unfolds around her. She doesn’t need to race ahead to make it important, or special.
It is already special, and she’s going to remember it.
***
LARRY
He had kissed her, and she had kissed him back, and she had been happy — delighted, thrilled, even — and Larry knows he’s done one thing right, at least, in this life.
Larry cannot stop reliving the moment – the nerves in his stomach, the euphoric relief of simply pushing through and going for it. And then kissing her, finally, at last, before he can turn around and find some other man with her in his sights.
He’s kissed other women more passionately, of course – and he feels like a schoolboy at the way his stomach flips at the thought of kissing Marian that passionately (and he will, he thinks, by God, he will, if he ever gets the chance), and, really, he’s much too old to be so aroused by the thought of simply kissing her (even passionately, even privately) and then – the images that flit through his mind’s eyes are beyond scandalous.
Yes, he’s kissed other women – made love to other women – even fucked other women in ways he cannot honestly describe even to himself as making love – and, yet, he cannot stop thinking about this kiss. And perhaps it is because he had been kissing her. His beloved friend Miss Brook. His Marian.
And the smell of her – a hint of perfumed soap (is it orange blossom?), and something uniquely her – the thrill of being so close to her (and yet so far, too far), holding her hands in his like something precious – finally, finally, finally, after all this time – how has he been so stupid? How has he been so blind?
He cannot believe it.
And, then, with a rather sour, anxious turn of his stomach, he hopes against hope that she understands – that this is something special to him, or maybe even beyond special – that he isn’t the kind of man to kiss her scandalously, publicly, with no regard for her reputation. That he simply couldn’t wait a second longer, not once he understood. That he couldn’t risk it for one more second, not if it meant some new version of Mr. Raikes or Mr. Montgomery popping up to thwart him.
That this – that she is special, so special, the most special.
He must make her understand that, for him, this is nothing short of a revelation.
***
Larry is on the van Rhijn doorstep the next day, as soon as it is remotely decent to call on someone. Jack lets him in the hallway with the faintest trace of a smile, clearly still excited about Larry’s business proposal. Larry grins back widely, and Jack breaks into a matching grin.
Miss Brook and Mrs. Forte are in the front sitting room. It is Mrs. Forte who sees him first, and greets him with a thrilled, “Oh, Mr. Russell!”.
Marian’s head whips around – he is rather impressed at the speed – and then he is looking at her face, at her eyes, and he rather thinks he can no longer form thoughts.
***
Mrs. Forte seems to melt into the background, creeping into some vaguely-attached antechamber, and Larry is incredibly grateful to her.
He inches closer to Marian on the settee, gently taking her hand. This makes him feel positively giddy, and he doesn’t know how the touch of a mere hand is enough to do this. But it just feels different somehow.
“Hello,” he says, softly, looking into her face.
And it is like looking into the blazing sun, he thinks, wildly, suddenly a poet, the way she beams back at him: “Hello.”
“We didn’t have much of a chance to speak yesterday after…after Jack answered the door.”
“Oh!” She is suddenly starting, and he wonders, with a faint thrill of dread, if he has somehow offended her. If she possibly regrets it. “Oh, Larry, so much has happened since then — you’ll never believe it.”
Why does this frighten him so? He almost wonders if she has somehow made plans to elope or become engaged to another man in the hours since he last saw her.
“The most incredible thing has happened. It’s simply — well, it couldn’t have happened to a better person, or at a better time, as much as that pains me to say.”
And she tells him about the discovery of the late Mr. Forte’s fortune, the letter from beyond the grave, the absurd, incredible luck of it all. How Aunt Ada’s inheritance means that they shall stay on East 61st St. How nothing needs to change.
“Well,” she gives him a wry smile, “not nothing — for Bannister and the other servants certainly intend to take their orders from Aunt Ada. You should have seen the look on Aunt Agnes’ face!”
“I am so happy for all of you,” he tells her, earnestly. “For what an incredible thing to happen! No one could deserve it more than Mrs. Forte." He pauses, afraid, but reminds himself to push on. "And yet – while I am glad – beyond glad – you are to stay here – I hope some things – I hope some further change may be welcome.”
She squeezes his hand gently, and his heart is bursting, surely. “It was not the only good thing that happened yesterday. It was not the only welcome change. Far from it, Larry.”
“No?” He asks, and oh, why is he breathing hard like this, like some kind of lovesick fool?
“No, not at all,” she says, turning pink.
“I’m glad,” he says, and this word is quite insufficient (why is he always saying it?). “More than glad — I am…” he trails off, and he hates that he cannot summon the right words.
“I know,” she says, softly, and this makes something in him thrum with joy, “I feel it too.”
“I cannot…” he must choose his words carefully. “I cannot say why I did not do it sooner.”
“Perhaps we did not yet know what we wanted,” she says to him, and was she always this wise? “Perhaps that’s why we couldn’t get it.”
“And this is what you want?” His heart is beating in his mouth.
“Of course,” she says, very simply, looking at him with clear eyes.
He picks up her hand, quite overcome, and brushes her knuckles with his lips, trying to tell her how these words make his heart sing. He can feel her hand tremble when he does so, and it makes him feel like dancing an absurd jig around this sitting room.
“Marian — I know it wasn’t proper to —- I don’t want you to think me a terrible cad for—” He whispers this, hoping that Mrs. Forte has become temporarily deaf.
“No! Never! I could never think you a cad, Larry.”
And these words make him relax so much, it is like they switch off something inside of him that lets his muscles uncoil.
“Good,” he breathes. “I want you to know that my intentions are entirely honourable. That I have every intention of…”
Her lips are twitching and her eyes are joyful. Is she about to start laughing? And he rather feels like laughing too, although he is determined not to.
“I want to court you,” he tells her, and he doesn’t really understand why this should make him feel quite so exposed. “I intend to court you, if you’ll allow me.”
“You have already kissed me,” she says in a whisper, even with Mrs. Forte thankfully, mercifully, nowhere to be found. “Don’t you think you’re doing things a little backwards?”
He gulps, but she is not being unkind. “I was — quite overcome, Miss Brook. I apologize for my impudence.”
“I didn’t mind your impudence, in case you’ve forgotten,” she whispers, giving him a look that makes his heart stutter in his chest. “And I think you should call me Marian by now, don’t you?”
“Say you’ll let me court you, then?” He is holding both her hands in his, and he doesn’t know why this feels halfway to a proposal. “Will you, Marian?” And just saying her name feels as thrilling as any kiss.
Her gaze is steady when she laughs and says, in the same delighted tone he heard yesterday, “Of course, I will, Larry.”
He leans closer to her. “How much longer until Mrs. Forte remembers she is chaperoning us, do you think?”
“Oh, she’s quite a romantic,” Marian says, grinning. “She and I are the same that way.”
Oh, he loves her, he thinks, fiercely, joyfully. How has he been so blind?
He kisses her again, and he couldn’t tell you how long this lasts for, just that it’s not long enough, could never be long enough, not now that he knows what this feels like. He kisses her as deeply as he dares in the circumstances, kisses her until they hear Mrs. Forte coming down the hallway, walking altogether more loudly than any lady he’s ever heard.
“I will — I will call on you again,” he says, a little stupidly, for surely repeated calling is an expected, obvious hallmark of courting. “As much as you’ll allow. Every day, even.”
She smiles at him, that tender, sweet, delighted smile she wore last night, the one he just cannot seem to get enough of. “I’m quite looking forward to that.”