Chapter 1: The Morning After
Summary:
"A dashing way he had of treating me like a plaything, was more agreeable to me than any behaviour he could have adopted. It reminded me of our old acquaintance; it seemed the natural sequel of it; it showed me that he was unchanged; it relieved me of any uneasiness I might have felt, in comparing my merits with his, and measuring my claims upon his friendship by any equal standard; above all, it was a familiar, unrestrained, affectionate demeanour that he used towards no one else." ♡
Chapter Text
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Chapter 1:
The Morning After
We were awoken the next morning by Littimer, who was drawing the curtains around the bed with purposeful noise so as to wake us.
He had already been in the room for some time, as was evidenced by the sight of our travelling clothes, which were laid out ready for us. Our shoes were brushed and gleaming, and pitchers of hot water stood steaming on the dresser, with towels, beside a bowl of shaving water for James. How Littimer had done all this without disturbing us was more than I could fathom; he was possessed of nothing short of the softness and slyness of a cat in his manner.
We were still ensconced in the embrace we had fallen asleep in, and tired as I was, I was disposed to feel slightly embarrassed by Littimer finding us so. I released Steerforth, shifting from my side onto my back. Rubbing my eyes, I squinted at Littimer as he drew the heavy window curtains back, flooding the room with bright sunlight.
“Good morning, sirs,” Littimer said in his crisp, drawling manner, bowing to us as we stirred. If he found our sleeping situation inappropriate, his expression gave nothing away. He was as respectable as ever, and as unruffled as if this was a daily occurrence to which he was very used.
“I trust you both slept well.”
“Good morning, Littimer,” Steerforth replied with a yawn. His husky morning voice gave me a faint thrill. He had unwrapped his arms from around me when Littimer had first disturbed us, and had lifted himself up on both arms, stretching his back and legs.
“Yes, we slept very well, thank you,” he continued, when once he had stretched and cracked to his satisfaction.
Laying directly down again, he folded his arms over my stomach, laid his head down, and looked towards his servant. He was clearly more comfortable than I was with the present situation.
I stretched too, then, and glanced down at Steerforth. I couldn't resist stealing a hand through his glossy hair, lightly mussing the curls.
He turned his head to look up at me, giving me a contented smile, his eyes crinkling.
“Good morning, Daisy,” he murmured in a soft, amused tone after appraising me quietly for a few moments.
I blushed and gave him good morning, feeling self-conscious despite my lingering sleepiness.
“Well? How about you, Mr Copperfield? Did you sleep well?” he asked, his half-closed eyes fixed on mine.
“Oh, yes. I was very comfortable, thank you, my dear Steerforth,” I yawned, blushing again. James smiled, pleased, and turned his head back towards where Littimer stood.
“I am very glad to hear it,” Littimer replied as we both looked at him, but his dry manner and unruffled eye suggested otherwise to me, and I felt a stronger blush rising to my cheeks. This man awoke my natural antipathy by making me feel like nothing but a naughty child in his highly respectable presence.
“I am sorry to wake you, sirs,” he continued, “-but the morning coach leaves in an hour. Breakfast shall be ready when you are ready.”
With this salutation, he bowed himself out of the room, leaving us together. As he softly shut the door upon us, I caught his unruffled, unreadable eye again, and blushed uncomfortably.
When he was gone, James looked up at me, his eyes sparkling with good humour, and he laughed heartily.
“Well, Daisy,” he grinned. “There goes the coolest fellow in all England.”
“He certainly is an excellent actor,” I laughed, my discomfort dissipating.
“The best,” James replied with a soft smile.
Pulling himself up higher, he suddenly slipped his fingers easily through mine, and leaned down, kissing me on the cheek gently. My heart stopped at this unexpected action, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. I gazed up at him, mutely blinking and blushing my confusion as he raised slowly up and looked down at me, smiling mischievously. His eyes flickered over my dumbfounded face, and he reddened and laughed again, running a hand through his hair as he sat up. He released my hand after bestowing a kiss affectionately upon the back of it, his face impish with humour.
“As much as I'd love to stay in bed with you and continue making you blush, my lovely, dear Copperfield, London awaits us!” He stretched again then threw back the covers, slipping out of bed. “And we'd better hurry to it,” he continued, throwing a wink over his shoulder at me as he trotted to the wash water.
His usual, jocose, charming manner had returned to him in full force this morning. Any trace of the tired vulnerability he had shown the previous night had disappeared with the dawn of the new day.
He was himself again - cheerful, self-possessed, irresistible - but there was a new element in his manner that hadn't been there before. Something more natural, and less pretended. Something genuine.
He was relaxed.
The walls that had fallen the previous night had somehow revealed a truer version of the man I loved so well.
As I watched him busy with his toilette, whistling merrily, my heart fluttered and I felt a glow of pleasure at the quiet thought that this development in James’ character was, in fact, down to me. I had occasioned it. I was responsible for it. He was happier than he had been for a long time this morning because of me.
As I slipped out of bed to join him, I quietly resolved to keep it so.
He should always wake up happy, and it should always be because of me.
***
Chapter 2: Judicious Arrangements
Summary:
Steerforth and Aunt Betsey become thick as thieves.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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Chapter 2:
Judicious Arrangements
It felt like almost the whole of Yarmouth turned up to send us off as we climbed into our coach and left for London.
It pleased me greatly that Steerforth had made so many friends in so short a time. The fishermen he had cavorted with were all sad to see him go, and Peggotty, who covered us in affectionate kisses and waved her handkerchief to us as the coach pulled away, shed copious quantities of tears. Littimer came with us, seated outside beside the coachman; I felt more than a little relief to be out of the range of his respectable gaze for a while.
It was nothing short of a royal procession as we waved goodbye to the townspeople, and I couldn't help thinking of Steerforth's fairytale of the night before. I glanced at him admiringly as he exchanged cheerful salutations through the window, and fancied I saw a crown perched atop the shining curls. I myself felt more attached to my prince, and prouder of him, than ever. He caught my eye and winked, smiling gleefully as he turned from the window and settled himself into the plush seat.
“Well, my dear, angelic little Copperfield,” he grinned, pulling on my arm to bring me closer to him, “How's that for a royal send-off? I shall miss this capital little town, and mingling with my faithful subjects an awful lot,” he laughed pleasantly, linking his arm through mine, his face a picture of good humour.
“My dear Steerforth, there are so many invitations for you to return, I don't see why you shouldn't come back soon,” I replied with a smile. He raised his eyebrows at me, and I checked myself, adding, “--after the wedding, of course.”
Steerforth sighed, a melancholy expression stealing momentarily over his features. “Yes, after the wedding. Let's not speak of it more than necessary, if you please David. At any rate, I won't come near this place again without you, dear boy.” He smiled, his features brightening as he squeezed my arm affectionately.
“I'll be glad to return,” I replied, looking out of the window at the curious buildings that were rolling past. “I wonder what changes will have taken place before we're next here again…”
Steerforth shook his curls and laughed, inhaling the fresh country air. “There'll be plenty enough before we walk those rocky beaches again, I'm sure. With them, and us! My heart is extraordinarily light this morning. I don't mind telling you, Daisy, that I'm glad not to be leaving with any ill feeling or ill will behind me. But you made sure of that, didn't you?”
“I'm afraid I forced it out of you, my dear Steerforth,” I laughed, blushing.
“Nonsense!” he grinned, squeezing my arm again. “You stamped and kicked it out of me, like any good angel should!” He laughed again, more heartily, while I shook my head at him, abashed, but unable to suppress a smile. He grew briefly subdued after this burst of hilarity, his face momentarily reflective.
“I can't help but feel grateful that you did, you know, Daisy. For my sake, and theirs…” He tailed off and was silent for a few moments, then shaking himself again, he refastened his hazel eyes on me, a playful sparkle dancing in them as he slipped his hand into mine and shook it. “Besides, we've got a whole European voyage to plan now, my dear boy. The sunny climes of the Mediterranean! The dusky domes of Florence! The bells of Notre-Dame are simply calling my name - it'll be something, my dear boy, to show a fresh fellow like you just what awaits us there!”
It was safe to say that Steerforth was henceforth in a very cheerful frame of mind, and we chatted happily about our upcoming adventures as the coach sped us away from the quaint seaside town and back towards the business and metropolis of London City.
At last, I remembered a letter I had received from my aunt at breakfast. Pulling it out of my pocket, I showed it to Steerforth, feeling suddenly checked in my enthusiasm to become a second Robinson Crusoe.
“Oh, before I forget Steerforth, here's the letter from my aunt that I mentioned I wanted to talk to you about.”
“And what does your good aunt say, Daisy?” he replied, taking the letter from me and scanning it.
“Only that she reminds me that I came on this expedition to look about me, and think a little,” I sighed.
“Which you've done, of course?” he asked, throwing a quick, amused glance at me.
“No-o, I can't say I have, particularly,” I blushed. “To tell you the truth, Steerforth, since meeting you at the hotel that night, I haven't given it a moment's thought.”
“What! Since meeting me, you say?” he cried with obvious delight, and threw a friendly arm over my shoulder. “You don't blame me for your lapse of memory, Daisy! For this unfortunate lapse in your duty– do you?” he laughed heartily, looking anything but sorry.
“Of course not,” I laughed, blushing. “Well– not entirely. But, you've kept me extremely busy, you know, Steerforth.”
“Oh dear, I have, haven't I? Well, I can't have you saying so. We'd better start looking about us right now, you darling boy. I can't fall out of your aunt's good graces before I've even been in them!” His eyes sparkled with laughter as he took a hold of my chin and turned my face to look out of both coach windows in turn.
“If you look to the right, you’ll see a flat, marshy sort of country; look to the left, and you’ll see the same. Look to the front, and you’ll find no difference; look to the rear, and there it is still.”
I couldn't help laughing as I pulled his hand off my chin, keeping hold of it and slipping my fingers through his.
“I don't think I can see anything suitable out here on the whole, Steerforth. It's much too flat, I think,” I smiled, amused.
“Wise, Daisy. I think your aunt suggests something, does she not?” he asked, glancing back down at the letter, which he still held in his free hand.
“Yes, she suggests that I take up proctorship. She was down at the Doctors’ Commons, settling her will in my favour, when she got the idea. However, I don't know anything about it, so I'm obliged to ask you, as someone who doubtless does,” I replied, looking at him expectantly.
“Ah, you have so much unwavering confidence in me, Daisy,” he laughed, laying his head against mine. “I love that about you; it's what makes you so very endearing. Well, my dear boy, a proctor is a sort of monkish attorney…”
He launched into a description of proctorship and kept us entertained on the subject for much of the journey. Before we had quite reached our destination, I thought I would enlighten Steerforth on a subject I'd been hitherto holding close to my heart.
“You know, my dear Steerforth,” I broke in, taking advantage of a lull in conversation, “I think I'll try proctorship, if you suggest that I do. I'll go at it with a good will– after we return from Europe, I mean. But–,” I paused and blushed, hesitating.
“But?” he prompted, raising his eyebrows with a mischievous smile. “Don't say I haven't painted delightful enough pictures for you on the subject?”
“No, you've been highly entertaining,” I replied, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “It's just…” I hesitated again, then blushingly plunged into my secret before I could change my mind. “It's just that I had a funny sort of notion that I would like to try my hand at– at authorship,” I blurted. “I've penned a few short stories, and–”
“Authorship!” Steerforth cried, an admiring glint in his eye. “Why, my dear Copperfield! So you're to become a bonafide, veritable storyteller, are you? Well!”
I blushed as I looked at him, unsure if he was jesting.
“So, you don't like the idea?” I queried shyly.
“Quite the contrary, my dear boy!” he cried again, clapping me on the shoulder. “What a capital notion! It's just the thing for you. It didn't cross my mind, but by God, if it had, it's the profession I'd have chosen for you myself!”
I glowed with pleasure at his words and shyly drew forth a sheath of papers I had concealed in my pocket for the purpose of showing him; they had some few short stories I had penned therein. He uttered a cry of delight as I handed them to him and fell upon them at once, reading voraciously while I sat in an anxious silence beside him, watching his every reaction.
He very quickly reached the end, and had his verdict of them been any more glowing, I should have laid down that night with a head swollen with pride. As it was, I was bursting with pleasure at his praise as I shyly repocketed my whimsical manuscript.
“Whyever don't you suggest to your aunt that you'd like to follow a path of authorship, Daisy?” he asked, his eyes inquisitive.
“Oh,” I blushed. “I haven't told anyone but you about it yet, Steerforth. I fear my aunt wouldn't think it a very proper profession to invest in as a career...”
I told him that she was waiting for me in London, and I was to meet her at her hotel for supper.
“I'll come too. I'd like to see this aunt of yours, Daisy,” Steerforth mused. “At any rate, I must ask her gracious permission before whisking her favourite nephew away to Europe.” He laughed gaily and threw a friendly arm over my shoulder. “Do you think she'll mind your going?”
“I don't think she'll mind in the slightest.” A pleasant feeling warmed my chest as I smiled at him. “So long as I look about me for prospects out there too, I suppose,” I added, laughing.
We rolled into London town; Steerforth sent his luggage home with Littimer, and drove with me to Lincoln Inn Fields, where we found my aunt up, and waiting supper.
My aunt wept outright as she embraced me, regardless of Steerforth's presence, and after an introduction, the two were as confidential and chummy as if they had been old friends. I marvelled at just how quickly they took to one another. Steerforth was, of course, charming, but I could see that he was equally as taken with my aunt as she was with him.
For one thing, she was delighted that he had taken such a fancy to me, for she doted on me (which had placed her firmly in Steerforth's high opinion– he liked anyone who like me), and for another, she was very pleased that he agreed with her that proctorship would be just the thing for me. All in all, he needn't have worried an inch about falling out of her good graces, for it wasn't long before he was very safely, and permanently, secured within them.
We made an amiable party, and fell to the supper with a good will when it finally arrived. My aunt remarked on my bruised temple, which I had endeavoured to hide by artfully parting my hair to the side and letting it flow over the bruised area; nevertheless, it sometimes showed. Steerforth was disposed to remorsefully confess all, but I hastily brushed it off as the remnants of a scuffle that was all for good, and she, after some chiding and some persuasion, let it drop. At length, over supper, he broached the topic of our hopes for a European adventure.
“Miss Betsey, I have a little proposition to make you, involving your dear nephew sitting there,” he began, glancing meaningfully at me.
My aunt looked shrewdly at each of us in turn, and replied, “And what is it you want with my dear nephew, Mister Steerforth?”
“Only this,” he replied, smiling winningly at her as he leaned forward with a confidential air. “I am going to be taking a trip to the Continent in about a month's time. As I've enjoyed David's company so very much these past few weeks– I assure you, Miss Betsey, that I haven't had such a delightful time since we were at school together– and as I've become quite attached to him, I would like him to come with me. Now,” he continued, leaning back and steepling his fingers. “--the benefits of a trip like this at his age would be doubtless of great consequence to such an intelligent and capable fellow, for it would open his horizons and expand his prospects, and that would, I think, make the trip worth consideration.”
My aunt was silent as she mused over Steerforth's eloquent request. He glanced at me again, a confident sparkle in his eye as he took a little wine and waited for her response.
Her eventual reply in the affirmative surprised and delighted me. After much bartering over terms and timescales, and discussion of costs, and reassurances on the side of Steerforth that he would take care of me and be responsible for me and keep me out of harm's way (especially in reference to any scuffle I may feel disposed to join), my aunt looked at me directly, as was her manner, and asked me if I would like to go.
“Very much, aunt!” I cried, glowing with delight. “You really mean that I can?”
“Why yes, Trot,” she replied simply. “If you want to go, and Mister Steerforth here is responsible and will take particular care of chaperoning you, then I see no reason why you shouldn't see something of the world. You're young, and such a trip will only work good for you, I have no doubt. If I have any object in life, my dear Trotwood, it is to provide for your being a good, a sensible, and a happy man. Only be a loving child to me in my old age, and bear with my whims and fancies; and you will do more for an old woman whose prime of life was not so happy or conciliating as it might have been, than ever that old woman did for you.”
I was overcome by these words and reached out, grasping my aunt's hands with unbounded respect and affection.
“Well, you are a brick, Miss Betsey,” Steerforth beamed at her. Looking at me, he exclaimed in pleasure, “Isn't she a capital woman? Aunt Betsey! You dear, dear thing–!” And here he slapped the arms of his chair, arose, trotted around the table, and gallantly bestowed his own respectful affections upon her, with which she was highly gratified.
There were some further discussions about the timescale– we would leave in a little over a month, and travel Europe for a minimum of six months– about cost– my aunt had intended to article me as a proctor for the sum of a thousand pounds, but she decided to invest the sum in my travels instead– and about the places we would visit for my benefit– the South of France, numerous Spanish and Portuguese old towns, and the Italian centres of culture were all high on the list.
I sat as one in a dream, listening to this lively discussion, and felt, when Steerforth finally took his leave of us, that he must be nothing short of a magician to have managed things so well, and I told him so as we walked together down the long staircase. It was an affectionate leave-taking, and Steerforth kissed my aunt, and at the bottom of the passage, kissed me and promised to call on me the next day but one.
I returned on cloud nine to my aunt, who smiled sagaciously at me all through taking her nightcap, and I eventually retired to bed in the same blissful state, where I dreamt of dusky, sundrenched old towns, Steerforth, and romance, until my aunt's agitated, periodic knocking on my door made me dream of donkeys on the green in Dover.
***
Notes:
Steerforth never met Aunt Betsey in the original book, but I've somehow convinced myself that they would have got along like a house on fire (unless Steerforth had held onto his ill intentions, under which circumstances, I'm sure she'd have sniffed them out a mile away!) I wove parts of Dickens own text into this - hopefully seamlessly! ♡
Chapter 3: Pre-Dissipation
Summary:
A whirlwind visit from James at David's new apartment!
Notes:
I had so much fun rewriting this little section of the story!! ♡
Chapter Text
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Chapter 3:
Pre-Dissipation
My aunt took me to Doctors’ Commons the next day for my first view of proctorship; I was, on the whole, pleased enough with the prospect for us to engage a trial period of a month with Spenlow and Jorkins, a respectable lawyers office in the Commons. We were clear with them that a decision as to whether or not I would continue onto articulation would follow this trial period. We agreed not to mention my going away with Steerforth into Europe when the month was out, in case it should jeopardise my opportunity to walk the legal halls and gain some valuable experience from being amongst so many dusty books, and equally dusty officers of the law.
On this understanding, we also engaged a charming set of chambers in the Adelphi for my use while I was roaming the antiquated by-ways of the legal system.
I was exceedingly proud to be the master of my very own set of chambers, be it ever for so short a time; I had a whole pantry, a sitting room, and a bedroom at my disposal, along with an excellent view of the River. I was impatient to share my good fortune with Steerforth, and anxiously awaited his return. Two days elapsed, and to my manifest disappointment, instead of Steerforth's handsome, cheerful face, I was presented while at breakfast with my aunt instead with the rather pockmarked face of the mail, who brought me a short, hurried letter from him, which read:
“So sorry, Daisy. Been carried away by force to Oxford. Back in a few days. Mother would love to see you. My love, J. x”
I was very put out by this communication, notwithstanding the extended invitation to visit Highgate again.
When my aunt had taken leave of me, and I had begun to live at the Adelphi chambers, I began to miss Steerforth's company more than ever. After three weeks of him, I almost felt like he had taken a part of myself with him to Oxford; I didn't feel complete.
I visited Highgate and sat up with his mother and cousin Rosa; and I believe we spoke about nothing but him, and our upcoming travels, the whole day. I was a little surprised to realise just how exceedingly jealous I felt of his Oxford friends that had carried him away; but as I sat alone with my candle that night, and looked around my rooms with a listless air, I quite resented them.
I was taking my breakfast the next morning, when Steerforth himself, to my unbounded joy, unexpectedly walked through the door.
“My dear Steerforth,” I cried, jumping up, “I began to think I should never see you again!”
“My dear Copperfield! I was carried off, by force of arms,” laughed Steerforth, embracing and kissing me good-humouredly as I trotted forward to receive him, evidently pleased to have garnered such a reaction, “-the very next morning after I got home. Your aunt is gone, I suppose? It's a jolly good thing I saw her when I did, then. Why, Daisy, what a rare old bachelor you are!” He looked around my rooms with an air of delight, and so I showed him over the whole of my castle, not omitting the view or the pantry, with no little pride, and was thrilled when he commended them both highly.
“I tell you what, old boy,” he remarked, his arm slung comfortably through mine, “I shall make quite a town-house of this place over the next month, unless you give me notice to quit.”
I laughed in delight, resting my hand on the said arm, replying, “You'll have to wait until doomsday for that occurrence, my dear Steerforth. But come–,” I pulled him over to the table, pushing him into a chair, “-you shall have some breakfast! Mrs Crupp will bring up some coffee and I'll toast you some bacon.”
I spun away to the bell-rope, but was stopped by Steerforth who rose hastily and pulled me back, spinning me around to face him, catching hold of my hands.
“No, no!” he cried. “Don’t ring! I can’t!”
I looked at him, astonished. “I am going to breakfast with one of these fellows who is at the Piazza Hotel, in Covent Garden, my dear Copperfield,” he explained, giving both my hands apologetic kisses.
I felt my heart sink into my boots, an edge of desperation stealing into my voice as I asked, “But you’ll come back to dinner?”
Steerforth looked more sheepish than ever as he clasped an arm around my waist, walking us towards the sofa as he responded, “I can’t, dear boy, upon my life! There’s nothing I would like better, but I must remain with these two fellows. I'm afraid all three of us are off together again tomorrow morning.”
“But you've only just returned–” I began, dismayed.
“Yes, I know. I'm disappointed too. But I am planning our journey, my life, you can be sure of that,” he interposed, stopping by the sofa and planting a solid kiss on my cheek. “And as soon as I'm rid of these two fellows, I promise I'll fall to planning with a good will–,” two more conciliating kisses followed in quick succession.
“Bring them here to dinner,” I returned, blushing as I laughed and pushed his face away, although I was inwardly pleased by his show of affection.
Since the chain of events that had led Steerforth to divulge his heart and commit his confidence to me, I noted that he had been more affectionate towards me than ever before. He'd already had a familiar, unrestrained manner of interacting with me previous to our last night in Yarmouth, but ever since that night, and the morning after, he had become more abandoned to his innate childish playfulness than ever. These abundant cheek kisses were his new favourite thing, it seemed, and he bestowed them with a generous hand, seeing that I had no objection to them. I attributed it to his feeling closer to me than ever before, and fancied I held an even more special place in his heart by reason of our deepening friendship. It felt like a natural sequel in what was already an exceedingly loving relationship.
“Do you think they would come?” I asked seriously, a hand on his chest as I looked up at him.
“Oh! they would come fast enough,” said Steerforth flippantly, brushing my hair away from my temple to look at the fading bruise; “-but we would inconvenience you. No, you had better come and dine with us somewhere,” he concluded, dropping his eyes to mine, satisfied by what he saw.
“Not at all!” I cried, as a delightful idea occurred to me. I clapped my hands together and pulled Steerforth to the window where, with the backdrop of the river backing me up, I intimated that it was the perfect opportunity for me to host my first housewarming party, and celebrate my coming of age, even if it was for a short let apartment. I had new pride in my rooms after his approval of them and, with the opportunity to use them to their utmost capacity presented to me, I would do so by any means.
He had replaced his arm around me, and he gave my waist a squeeze to corroborate his pleasure at the prospect. I made him positively promise in the names of his two friends to be there, and so we appointed six o’clock as the dinner-hour.
He kissed me three more times and left me dizzy with anticipation, and gleefully scheming as I planned our night ahead.
***
Chapter 4: My First Dissipation and What Came Of It
Summary:
David gets drunk for the first time, and falls in with bad company, while committing a thousand forgotten offences.
Notes:
Ooft! This one was interesting. This chapter should be subtitled "The kind of snakey friends best AVOIDED" 😅 However, it WAS one of the funniest chapters in the book - though, I felt while reading it, that it should be illegal to fawn over anyone the way David fawns over James! And so I, of course, played it up - and followed the others, who are evidently not as drunk as David, just to find out what they thought of him... (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 4:
My First Dissipation and What Came Of It
At six o’clock on the dot, Steerforth returned to my apartment, bringing with him his two Oxford friends.
I had conspired desperately with Mrs Crupp, my housekeeper, when Steerforth had left me, and during the course of the day, I had ordered a liberal dinner that I felt would please my three guests; more particularly, that I thought Steerforth would like. I wanted to do him credit for his having brought his guests to my house for dinner. I would by no means suffer him any embarrassment if I could help it.
There was plenty of wine; it was so plenteous that it scared me silly, but I hardened my resolve in entertaining these two worldly, aged scholars.
One of Steerforth’s friends was named Grainger, and the other Markham. They were both very gay and lively fellows; Grainger, something older than the twenty and three year old Steerforth; I placed him between the ages of twenty and six and thirty; and Markham, a youthful-looking fellow, who was, I should say, not more than twenty.
I was by far the youngest, and felt my teenage years painfully; it made me, as a result, very bashful and shy at first. I was also, however, more determined than ever that the dinner should go off well, so that these two Oxford scholars wouldn't have the opportunity to sneer at Steerforth's keeping company with a seventeen-year-old still fresh from school.
I quickly observed that Markham had a habit of referring to himself in the third person, as ‘a man’ - and seldom, or never, in the first person singular. I took this as his way of acting more grown up than he was, with his barely being out of his teens; and yet, it made me feel more abashed than ever. I looked to Steerforth for an explanation and he, understanding my perplexity, smiled in amusement, his eyes sparkling with fun, but said nothing about it.
The supper arrived, and after making Steerforth preside– I felt much too embarrassed, as the youngest, to presume to take that place– I sat myself opposite him, and we fell to without further ado. I was thankful, and a good deal relieved, that it was all hot and very good, despite some certain, jittery feelings I had had about particular elements of it, such as the Mock Turtle soup.
The only real cause for embarrassment that I had was on account of the service; but I could quickly forget about the ‘young gal’ stationed in the pantry who was forever smashing the plates, and the handy young man who was filling himself with our drink, due to Steerforth and how brilliantly he exerted himself to make sure we all had a good time. He could, no doubt, see that I was out of my depth, and he saved me by being even more wonderfully charming than usual. I knew very well that I couldn't have gotten along without him.
And at length, when I had finally sent the two hopeless servants away, I at last felt relaxed enough to abandon myself to enjoying the evening.
The wine was passed faster and faster, and I surprised myself by boldly holding forth in a most unusual manner. I laughed heartily at my own jokes, and everyone else's, made several announcements to have weekly parties just like this one, took snuff for the first time– and had to shut myself up in the pantry for ten minutes to sneeze it all out again, during which Steerforth peeped in at me with laughing eyes to ask if I was alright, and I could only just nod assent before shutting him out again– and made several engagements to go to Oxford.
Every time I caught Steerforth's laughing eyes, I felt faintly uneasy, wondering if he was laughing at or with me, but he would smile at me so pleasantly that any worry I was harbouring about making a fool of myself would instantly dissolve, and I would continue on being as gay and lively as I felt.
It wasn't long before I proposed Steerforth’s health. I said he was my dearest friend, the protector of my boyhood, and the companion of my prime. I said I was delighted to propose his health. I said I owed him more obligations than I could ever repay, and held him in a higher admiration than I could ever express. I finished by saying, ‘I’ll give you Steerforth! God bless him! Hurrah!’ We gave him three times three, and another, and a good one to finish with.
I staggered to my feet and broke my glass in going round the table to embrace him– although he caught my intention and quickly interposed and shook hands with me before I could wrap my arms around him– and I said (in two words), “Steerforth—you’retheguidingstarofmyexistence.”
He laughed heartily, and was, I could see, mightily pleased by the proceedings, although he did not kiss me in the presence of his two friends, and I remember being a little disappointed, for I thought he might have done.
Someone was singing–,
“If the heart of a Man is depressed with cares,
The mist is dispelled when a Woman appears;
Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly
Raises the spirits, and charms our ears,
Roses and lilies her cheeks disclose,
But her ripe lips are more sweet than those.
Press her, caress her,
With blisses, her kisses
Dissolve us in pleasure, and soft repose.”
It was Markham– singing at the top of his voice, this song whose lyrics I have reason to remember, despite all my dissipated state– for two reasons. Firstly, because it irked me so much that I heartily objected to it, and secondly, because I caught Steerforth looking at me during the singing of it with the dreamy expression that I'd only seen a few times before– even though he was also laughing at us both with Grainger as we argued. If I had any unconscious worry, though, about being the butt of their jokes, Steerforth soon dispelled it by making a speech about me, in the course of which I was affected almost to tears.
Somebody lit a cigar, and then we all had cigars, and were all smoking; the room was filled with smoke; I couldn't suppress my tendency to shudder at each draught of my cigar, for I found it, in all honesty, horrid; I was choking on the cigar fumes and excused myself to my bedroom where I might refresh myself with the cool night air and check on my appearance in the mirror. I was remonstrating with myself for smoking; my reflection in the mirror, looked rather unwell, and then I was suddenly back in the room with the smoke and the jingling, glass covered table, when someone proposed we go to the theatre. The theatre? The very thing!
If it hadn't been for Steerforth, I don't believe I would have made it there at all; I would have never found the door, I would have lain where I had fallen at the bottom of the stairs, I would have lost my hat in the damp streets, and the man in the box at the theatre would never have let me in on my own accord.
The theatre, when we made it inside, was swimming and staggering in a most untoward manner; all was bright light and hazy pictures, and all of a sudden, Agnes– Agnes! Although, she didn't seem as pleased to see me as I was to see her, and I was terribly surprised when she actually shrank from me. It wasn't long before she adjured me to leave, and let my new friends and Steerforth take me home. I felt somehow ashamed, and so I consented to go, and got up to stagger home.
***
Steerforth, taking hold of David's arm, led him out of the theatre, supporting the slight, staggering, drunken youth. Followed by his two friends, they decide to go separate ways; James determining to get David home safely, and the other two going on to their hotel to wait for him there. David, incapacitated, is unaware of the conversation flying over top of his head, and grasps in vain at the following proceedings of the night; we, however, may hover silently above the scene, and witness without compunction the end of the night of dissipation.
“Right, boys,” laughs Steerforth, struggling with his wriggling, staggering burden. “I'll catch up with you at the hotel. I need to get this one home safely.”
“Already? The night is young, Steerforth!” Grainger replies with a vulgar grin. “And there's more fun to be had out of that one yet.”
“He's had quite enough fun for one night,” James replies, picking David's hat from the floor as he knocks it off for a third time. “He's intoxicated enough that I wouldn't dream of leaving him alone with you on any account, anyway, Grainger,” he adds, throwing a meaningful look at the aforementioned.
“For shame, Steerforth! I don't know what you're insinuating,” Grainger smiles sweetly. Then looking at David, who is standing looking vacantly up at a lamp and humming, he says loudly, “You want to come with us, don't you, pretty little Copperfield?”
“Mmmyuth! Moooorrwine!” David exclaims, realising, through his mind fog, he has been addressed.
“No, we're going home directly. Come along, Copperfield,” James interposes, taking David by the shoulders and hurriedly hustling him towards the Adelphi.
“Oh, well, another time then. Goodbye, pretty little Copperfield! You've been awfully good fun!” laughs Grainger, lighting a cigar and waving it at the retreating pair.
“Yes, it's been a top-notch house-warming! A man thanks you for the hospitality!” yells Markham.
“Steerforth's going to make sure you have a good bed warming too, pretty Copperfield! Try to make better friends in the future!” sniggers Grainger, puffing easily on his cigar.
“I say, good luck Steerforth,” Markham yells again, for the two are getting pretty far off by now.
“I dare say he will be lucky,” rejoins Grainger, now a shadowy figure in the street.
“Filthy devils. I'll be nothing of the like!” frowns Steerforth, yelling back.
“Make sure he doesn't take all night about it, pretty Copperfield! Good bye!” Grainger yells out, as he and Markham turn and head in the opposite direction, laughing all the way.
***
They arrive back at David’s flat. Steerforth has a job of it, getting his drunk, unsteady youth up the many flights of stairs, getting his apartment door open without the youth falling back down the stairs, and getting the youth safely inside his bedroom– for the youth feels disposed to lay down on the floor of the sitting room and go to sleep right there– but eventually he manages it.
“Come on, Daisy, let's get you to bed,” sighs James, relieved to have made it so far.
All of David’s speech is practically unintelligible, but at this point, James can interpret even his most slurred speech.
“Tobedisit? Righnoo? Noooo!” cries David.
“Yes,” James replies firmly, struggling with his desire to laugh as he starts undressing David.
“Morwine!”
“Jacket off, that's it. You're absolutely steaming, Daisy. No more wine for you,” James shakes his head emphatically.
“Noooo!” cries David again.
“Yes! There's the waistcoat and all its trimmings safely off. And the bib…”
“Hmmph. Mean!” David pouts, looking like a drunk, upset bunny rabbit.
“Am I?” James smiles, highly amused. “Cravat, cuffs and collar, if you please.”
“Teefuth, Teefuth… Hug!” David wraps his arms around James’ neck and embraces him tightly. James laughs and returns the embrace. “Mmm. Agnes… Agnesssmsistuhh! She… Mmmmsistuh.”
“You told me you don't have a sister,” James demurred. “There, there's those off and in a pile. Shoes and trousers next. Sit, Daisy. That's a good boy.”
“Hmm? Agnesssmsistuhh! Moooorewine, Teefuth!”
“No more wine. You don't have a sister, Daisy. I dare say our Agnes will be pretty ashamed of you after tonight's performance,” James murmurs, unable to stop himself laughing quietly as he pulls David's shoes off one after another.
“Agnessss –shhhmed?” David catches it, and looks troubled and confused.
“Never mind, eh?” James smiles, standing and bending over the miserable youth. “I don't know why you wore a corset, you don't need one.”
“Mmmmlookmbess! Fuhyoo, Teefuth.”
“For me, hmm? You always look good, Daisy. Your sweet little angel face is always a sight for sore eyes!” James smiles wider, catching hold of David's chin momentarily and looking him in the face. “Although you're a pretty drunk angel right now. There you go, that's off, poor fellow. No, don't take those off!” remonstrating David for attempting to remove his breeches. “I don't need to see that much of you, you know.”
“Mmmhot! Off. Off!” complains David in his unreasoning frame of mind.
“If you insist. Give them to me then. You just get into bed and sleep it off, poor fellow.”
“Hmmm? Yousleeptoo. Sleeptoo,” David stops in the act of climbing under the covers.
“No, Daisy. I'm going. You're almost naked, you know… And the others will be missing me,” James sighs, raising his eyebrows apologetically.
“A-ahyago? Nooo! Dohgo! Nooooo!” David wails, tearing up and turning back to James, clutching at the sleeve of his coat.
“Daisy-”
“Youstay. Youstayyyyy!” David wails louder, now clinging to Steerforth's waist. “Sleep!” He starts sobbing hysterically, much to Steerforth's dismay.
“I have to go. I'm going to Oxford tomorrow, dear fellow,” James replies, trying to pry David's arms from around his waist. “Come on, let go.”
“No!” David's arms tighten stubbornly.
“Yes.”
“No!” David moves, suddenly standing up and throwing his arms around James' neck, he wraps his legs around James’ waist, clinging to him like a limpet, much to James’ embarrassment and untold horror.
“Daisy–! Get down–! Okay, look, I'll be back in a few days,” he tries, feeling desperate. When he tries to peel David away, he is met with more heartrending wailing.
“Noooo! Dohgooooo. Teefufth, Teefufth!”
“Come on, get down! I'm putting you down, okay? Come on. That's it.” James is forced to kneel and physically sit David down on his bed. He's extremely relieved when David unwraps his legs and arms, although he keeps a hand gripping Steerforth's collar.
“Teeefuth… Yoocomeback?” he hiccups, rubbing his wet face.
“Yes, I'll come back,” Steerforth replies gently. “In a few days.”
“Pwomise?”
James smiles affectionately at this. “I promise,” he half-laughs.
“Hmmkay. Yoogo,” David concedes, satisfied, turning away and drawing his legs into bed, pulling the covers over himself.
“I can go now?”
“Mmm. Teefuth!” David turns back and looks at James, who is still kneeling beside the bed, his speech more slurred than ever as sleepiness takes over. He reaches out both his arms and cries “Iluvya! Ilooooveya! I-luv-yu.”
James laughs as he replies, “I love you too, my dear Daisy.”
David ends this embarrassing interview by doing the most embarrassing of all things (he would surely curl up in a ball and die if he knew he had done it)– and surprises a slowly standing James by pulling him back down directly, embracing him, and kissing directly on the lips. “Hug! Mmm. Kith! Mmm. Goori.”
“…Good night, Daisy,” James replies, confounded.
***
Steerforth returned to his friends, who laughed and jibed him mercilessly, but good humouredly, about David. The mercy was that David wasn't present to hear what was said, being incapacitated thus and dreaming feverishly in bed, unaware of a thousand offences he had quickly forgotten; but we shall peer into the room as Steerforth arrives, stationing ourselves high up on the wall to observe the following proceedings, and lend a truth to the old proverb, “The walls have ears”.
“Well, Steerforth,” the abominable Grainger grinned. “I thought you'd never get away from our pretty little Copperfield. That one's very in love with you, isn't he?”
“And? What of it, Grainger?” Steerforth replied coolly, throwing himself into a seat by the blazing fire.
“What a sprightly seventeen year old baby! He positively brightens the room with his presence and his lovely, clear voice,” Grainger grins again, gesturing and flourishing his hands.
“A man remembers when his voice was that high once,” interjected Markham.
“Your voice has never been as sweetly bell-like,” laughed the unwholesome Grainger, winking at Markham surreptitiously, as he joked at Steerforth's expense.
Steerforth didn't see the wink, as he was abstractedly gazing into the fire, but turned at this, replying, “Neither has yours, Grainger. Have you got nothing else to say about him, then? Or are you bent on making fun of his youthfulness?”
“Well, he's devilishly good-looking, if you want me to admit that. And he's good fun to boot,” Grainger shrugged, pulling on his cigar, a perverse twinkle in his eye. “A bit young, obviously can't hold his drink, but who cares? What a dandy little fellow! Blondes are always sweet and charming and all that, aren't they? Especially this one.”
“What did I tell you?” Steerforth replied, evidently pleased with this report. “He's just like he was at school, in all honesty. A capital fellow.”
“At any rate, you've got good taste, Steerforth,” -here the noxious Grainger gave a decidedly wicked grin.
“Idiot. Why would you doubt it?” Steerforth retorted scornfully.
“Ha ha! I never did, my dear fellow. I can see why you're so protective of him– though, I don't mind telling you Steerforth, that it looks to me like you're as in love with him as he is with you! And as to why you have him around! Well! He's very ego boosting, if not a little embarrassing,” continued Grainger laughing and blowing smoke circles. “Not that you need your ego boosting.”
“Ha, ha,” Steerforth rolled his eyes as he dug in the cigar case. “Doesn't hurt to have it stroked once in a while in any case. He's always in dead earnest, and I like that.”
“A man thinks it's all very well to love one's friends, to a certain extent, but a man’s a little indiscreet when he's as tipsy as that man is,” interposed Markham.
“He says what he means and he means what he says. Not like you two worldly flatterers! Frankly, though, I feel a little bad, chaps. Maybe I shouldn't have let him drink so much,” frowned Steerforth, the abstracted look returning.
“You should feel bad. Defiling a charming little boy with drink and smoke, tut tut Steerforth,” laughed the corrupting Grainger again, even more heartily. “Baby's first time getting intoxicated, was it? Ha ha! We ought to have him on all our nights about town. What a jester!”
“A man thinks all in all it was a good night,” added Markham. “A man thinks your little dandy is a very good entertainer, and entertaining to boot. Too disposed to argue with a man, though.”
“Don't make fun of him, if you please, you two.”
“Who's making fun? I'm deadly sincere. But you look quite out of sorts, Steerforth. Baby will be alright in the morning, don't worry. Did you tuck him in, hmm? Kiss him goodnight?” Grainger laughed again.
“I tucked him up, alright. There may or may not have been a kiss. He was half-naked when I left. He won't remember it, either way,” Steerforth returned coolly as he sat and leant back in his chair, fixing his eyes on the fire.
“Oh dear. You naughty devil. That is bad,” Grainger observed.
“Oh, ‘pon my soul, Grainger, he's the one who did it, not I,” Steerforth retorted, glancing at Grainger contemptuously. “It was quite innocent. I'm not quite as bad as you seem to make out. Certainly not as bad as you. Why? Are you jealous, hmm? Grainger?” Steerforth replied, folding one leg over the other carelessly.
Grainger shrugged. “He's your fairy. I'm sure you can do anything you like with him,” he grinned perversely again.
Steerforth rolled his eyes and looked briefly uncomfortable, but lit his cigar and changed the subject. “I don't care to know what you mean, you base creature. What time is the coach tomorrow? I'll need to head home before it leaves for some of my stuff...”
***
And here we shall withdraw our heads, and close our ears to the rest of this unwholesome conversation, and leave the disturbed Steerforth with his equally disturbing friends; and we shall look with pity upon the oblivious David, and we shall wonder, on the whole, what is to come for our heroes after this night of dissipation and debauchery.
***
Chapter 5: Slow and Steady Wins The Race
Summary:
Steerforth reappears, as Agnes' warnings fall on David's deaf ears.
Notes:
Slow and steady (is what I keep reminding myself whenever I want to race on ahead...) ❀
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 5:
Slow and Steady Wins The Race
It was almost a month before I saw Steerforth again.
My term at the Adelphi was rapidly drawing to an end, and I had determined to move into Steerforth's Highgate mansion with him when the time came for me to hand back my keys; I had yet to tell him of my determination, but I would do that in person.
Although we wrote to one another regularly, and affectionately, I hadn't heard much from him in the way regarding our travels; he would write to me from Oxford, telling me that he was working on a plan, slowly engaging ships to carry us, and hotels to board us abroad; but where we were going and what we'd be doing, he wouldn't say.
I was rather disappointed that he didn't, in fact, make a townhouse of my apartment during this time, as I'd fervently hoped he would. I couldn't imagine why he couldn't plan our travels just as well from my chambers as he could from Oxford, and I put the question to him several times. However, he remained determinedly vague in his responses to this point, which only watered an uneasy distrustfulness of him that had grown up unwillingly in my heart after a decidedly agonising interview with Agnes two days after my first dissipation.
I had awoken the day following the wild night with a throbbing head, and a conscience heavy with guilt over sins I didn't know if I was sure I had committed.
There was a short letter on my bedside table in Steerforth's hand, and groaning as I rubbed my aching head, I squinted at it in an attempt to read the sprawling letters. It said:
“Dearest Daisy, hope you don't feel too rotten this morning! Thanks for a great night. Thought I'd leave you a note as I'm not sure you'd remember anything otherwise. Have returned to Oxford but hopefully back in a few days. Will be planning our trip. Longer letter soon! My love, J. x”
I couldn't for the life of me remember much from the night before; the more I tried, the foggier the details were, and at length, I gave it up.
Agnes called for me the following day, and I went to her most unwillingly. She reproved me, as I knew she would, for my drunkenness, and cautioned me against my Steerforth, to my horror. In vain did I try to profess my love for him to her; for she was my ‘good angel’ and her disappointment in me, and her disapproval of him as my ‘bad angel’, was enough to cast a shadow on my golden image of him for the second time– the first shadow being cast on the occasion of my discovery of his plot on little Emily.
Agnes was my sister, and my confidant, and though we loved each other, I was disturbed to find we couldn't agree when it came to him. She was right, of course– he held a place of influence in my life. He possessed some kind of power over me. My love and trust of him was more of a conviction than just a sentiment now, and it was deeply rooted in me. Even so, for all this, a new seed - the uncomfortable, lingering seed of distrust that had been awakened over the case with Emily - was watered by this trying disapproval of him from one who I loved so much as I did Agnes.
It didn't help that I worried so for Agnes. Uriah Heep, a detestable goblin of a man working for her father, was hovering over her, and working like the evil spider he was to weave a net that would ensnare her in it– he had told me so himself– and so I resolved to tell Steerforth all about it whenever we next met, feeling sure that there was something he could do that would help save Agnes, and would subsequently raise him into her good graces.
I continued my trial at Doctors’ Commons, meanwhile, and was being daily pressed by Mr Spenlow to make a decision either for or against articling with Spenlow and Jorkins. Knowing full well that I was not going to continue my training with them when the month was out, I struggled to hold my tongue about my upcoming escape to the Continent, and tried to look instead as though I just wasn't convinced yet by the profession as a whole.
Mr Spenlow took this as a personal affront, –although, that might have been on account of the thousand pounds it would take to article me– and so endeavoured to persuade me by inviting me to dinners and plays as the weeks passed, and eventually, he invited me to a ball that would be held at his place of abode on the very last day of my trial. I committed myself to going, privately purposing to bring Steerforth with me, and so I wrote to him imploring him to come. He couldn't reply in the affirmative; he was very busy right now and he'd have to see. The days were quickly passing, and my hopes with them were dying.
It was fortunate for me that during this depressing time, when I missed Steerforth so much, I had become reacquainted with another of my old school fellows at one of the aforementioned dinners; Mr Tommy Traddles, ever a singular object of interest, and a capital fellow if ever there was one, brought a wholesome, cheerful new light into my life.
I welcomed the rekindling of our friendship with joy, for I was becoming heartily tired of more or less always languishing after Steerforth, and of always being alone. Through Traddles, my circle widened, for I became unexpectedly reacquainted with Mr Micawber and family– the big-hearted, loving, though tragically amusing companions of my ill-used younger days; specifically, of the time when I was thrown into the world to fend for myself by my unfeeling stepfather and his sister after they had occasioned the death of my poor mother.
I decided, upon meeting them, to hold a reunion dinner to celebrate this happy coinciding of old friends. The day came, the dinner was a roaring success, and a jovial time was had by us all.
After the dinner was over and my guests had left for the night, I had returned to my fireside, and was musing half gravely and half laughing, on the character of Mr. Micawber and the old relations between us, when I heard a quick step ascending the stairs.
At first, I thought it was Traddles coming back for something Mrs. Micawber had left behind; but as the step approached, I knew it, and felt my heart beat high, and the blood rush to my face, for it was Steerforth’s.
I was never unmindful of Agnes, and she never left that sanctuary in my thoughts—if I may call it so—where I had placed her from the first. But when he entered, and stood before me with his hand out, the darkness that had fallen on him changed to light, and I felt confounded and ashamed of having doubted one I loved so heartily. I reproached myself, not Agnes, with having done him an injury; and I would have made him any atonement if I had known what to make, and how to make it.
“Why, Daisy, old boy, dumb-foundered!” laughed Steerforth, his eyes sparkling.
“My dear Steerforth!”
I couldn't manage more. I threw my arms around his neck in my ecstasy.
He laughed heartily as he embraced me, picking me up and spinning me around to give vent to his own happy feeling.
“Well, the sight of me is good for sore eyes, as the Scotch say,” replied Steerforth with a cheerful laugh, “–and so is the sight of you, my dearest Daisy, in full bloom! How are you, my Bacchanal? It feels like years since I saw you last! And here I've detected you in another feast, you Sybarite!” he exclaimed, poking me in the chest. “These Doctors’ Commons fellows are the gayest men in town, I believe, and beat us sober Oxford people all to nothing!” He laughed merrily again as his bright glance danced around the room.
I laughed happily in agreement, and was about to launch into a description of the dinner party just broken up, but Steerforth was positively unable to remain still in the joy of our reunion. He caught my waist in one arm, and my hand with his own, and laughing all the while, he sang Markham's ditty from my wild house-warming dinner, as he spun me dizzily around the room. He twisted the lyrics as he went along, causing me to blush right into my roots.
“If the heart of a Man is depressed with cares,
The mist is dispelled when Daisy appears!
Like the notes of a fiddle, he sweetly, sweetly
Raises the spirits, and charms our ears,
Roses and lilies his cheeks disclose,
But his ripe lips are more sweet than those.
Press him, caress him,
With blisses, his kisses
Dissolve us in pleasure, and soft repose.”
“I've never heard it quite like that,” I laughed, reddening, but pleased.
“It’s infinitely better than Markham's version, isn't it, old boy? And so true! Ah, but give me a kiss Daisy, and gladden my heart, will you!” he laughed, proffering his cheek, which I duly showered with all the cordiality I felt.
“And now, my dear Steerforth,” I began, when I had recovered enough breath, “you're to tell me where you've been, and what you've been up to, and all about our travel plans.”
I felt almost delirious with happiness as I pushed him down onto the sofa by the fire, and promptly flopped down beside him, throwing my legs over his lap as I curled up and made myself comfortable. “And you're not going anywhere until you do. I feel far too excited and impatient to wait for news any longer!”
“But, my dear boy, I'm absolutely famished!” he exclaimed with a groan, running his hands through his clustering curls. I was unmoved. He looked beseechingly at me, his hands on my bent knees, and asked, “Could I possibly tell you over dinner? Supposing there's anything left!”
There was something left, and I reluctantly withdrew my legs to gather the remains of the pigeon-pie and so forth for him, while we chatted about my recently departed guests. He laughed heartily at my feeble portrait of Mr Micawber, or ‘my friend in the tights’ as he called him, and was pleasantly surprised to hear of my reacquaintance with our old school fellow Traddles.
“So, it wasn't all that Bacchanalian, my dear Steerforth; just a cheerful reunion dinner for four!” I concluded.
“All of whom I met in the street, talking loud in your praise,” returned Steerforth, his face pleased as he rose from the sofa and kissed me soundly on the cheek.
“Why, Daisy, here’s supper for a king!” he exclaimed, taking his seat at the table. “I shall do it justice, for I have been applying myself most strenuously to planning our escape.”
I could see the strain plainly on his handsome features as I sat down opposite him, leaning my chin on my hand, my eyes hungrily drinking him in; his face was ruddy with it. It concerned me a little, but pleased me too, to think that he was exerting himself so for me. I watched him dispatch the meal with no small pleasure.
To think that we were actually going away together! In a few moments, my reacquaintance with my old friends was all but forgotten in the heady intoxication that was James Steerforth. In only a few days we'd be alone together on the Continent! I could hardly process such a delicious promise. It didn't feel real. I glowed at the prospect of travelling exotic, unknown countries with such a wonderful companion, and felt myself in a beautiful dream as I looked at him.
“My dear fellow, I have a little confession to make.” He stopped eating suddenly, putting down his knife and fork as he looked penitantly at me. “I've just come from Yarmouth– I know I said I wouldn't go back without you, old boy,” he conceded apologetically in response to an extremely surprised look from me, “–but I couldn't resist rewarding myself with a little bit of rough seafaring after my success! But you'll have to hear of my successes later. I have a letter for you from your nurse, Peggotty.”
“From Peggotty? What does she say?” I asked, perturbed.
“It seems that her old man's in a bad way,” he replied, feeling in his pockets, and looking over their contents for the letter.
“Barkis, do you mean?”
“Yes! It’s all over with poor Barkis, I'm afraid. I saw a little apothecary there—surgeon, or whatever he is—who brought your worship into the world,” he gave me a quick grin at this, seemingly tickled by it. “He was mighty learned about the case, to me; but the upshot of his opinion was, that the carrier was making his last journey rather fast.—-Put your hand into the breast pocket of my great-coat on the chair yonder, and I think you’ll find the letter. Is it there?”
“Here it is!” said I.
“That’s right!”
I scanned the letter quickly; Peggotty was clearly distressed by Barkis’ deterioration, but she was also as heroically determined to be as faithful to him as she'd been to my mother right down to the last moment of her life. While I deciphered the unhappy scrawl, Steerforth continued to eat and drink.
“Oh dear, this is bad…” I muttered, my heart sinking.
“It’s a bad job,” Steerforth said, when I had done; “but the sun sets every day, and people die every minute, and we mustn’t be scared by the common lot, Daisy.”
His voice was oddly urgent and I looked from the letter to him attentively. A change seemed to have come over him– his jovial mask had dropped, and he was looking at me with a dark earnestness that might have frightened me had he not reached out just then and taken my free hand, enclosing it warmly in both of his. He looked at me searchingly for a moment before continuing.
“If anything, I'm more determined than ever, my dear boy, not to fail to hold my own; not to let my opportunities slip; but to ride on– rough-shod if need be, smooth-shod if that will do, but I must ride on! Ride on, over all obstacles, and fears, and nay-sayers, and win the race!”
“And win what race?” I asked wonderingly, startled by the sudden intensity of his passion.
“The race that one has started in,” was his enigmatic reply. “Ride on!” he repeated with a curious smile, lifting my hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.
I had a vague uneasiness that he was referring to Emily again. My memory being pricked, I remembered what he'd said about her the night he'd told me the fairytale of our lives so far. Agnes was before me; I wondered, ever the more uneasily, what she'd say if she heard him speaking like this. I had never told her of the things that had passed between Steerforth and I; the plot upon Emily, and our interactions since then all seemed to have felt too personal, too private, too intimate to share so freely with her; and so, as much as I loved her, she knew nothing of the events that had brought Steerforth and I closer together than ever, or of the truly affectionate nature of our current relationship. I wondered what she would say if she did, but quickly shut out that thought, for I knew immediately that she wouldn't like it– she saw him as a dangerous friend– and the uneasiness that provoked in me was almost unbearable.
“I don't understand you, Steerforth– unless you mean you've encountered difficulties in planning our travels. I wish– well, I wish you wouldn't have such a desperate way of pursuing any fancy that you take to. Some of us are happy just to take things slowly, and rejoice as they come,” I rejoined, sighing resignedly.
He said nothing for a moment, then squeezed my hand, which he still held, and said in a low voice, “Is that so, David? Well! I had forgotten some of your sensibilities, my dear fellow. I'm just in time to start relearning them, for they may be… a good influence on me. As the old nursery rhyme goes– slow and steady wins the race– eh?”
“I hope, Steerforth, that you do win whatever race you're about, if it be a good one!” I said emphatically.
“Oh, it is. The very best,” he replied, a sparkle in his eyes as he released my hand and sat back in his chair looking at me, still with the curious smile upon his lips.
“—And I hope you're not still talking about little Emily!” I added a little sharply. He tilted his head to the side and looked at me, amused.
“No, I've quite forgotten about her, I promise you, David,” he smiled quietly.
“I still can't believe you went to Yarmouth without me!” I continued, shaking my head in reproachful amazement at him, which seemed to bring him back to himself. “After you said you wouldn't!”
“I know, old boy, I know! I am contrite,” he replied with an apologetic air, rising from the table– for he had now dispatched his meal to the utmost– and striding over to my side. He took my arms and gently pulled me up, leading me over to the sofa where we again sat down side by side; he with a contented sigh, and I, curling my legs up against him as before.
“Which is why,” he continued when we were thus ensconced, “I've also come with the intention of inviting you to come and stay at Highgate with me for a few days before we set off at last on our journey, my dear boy. Say you'll come?”
“But Steerforth, you haven't told me a thing about our journey yet! And I have been very patient,” I argued.
“In a moment, in a moment!” He laughed, lifting a hand to tap me on the nose. “Have you been well employed while I've been gone, Daisy? How's Doctors’ Commons treating you? Most importantly, have you penned any more stories, my young Shakespeare?” He turned himself towards me as he spoke, pulling my curled up legs over his lap again and folding an arm around my knees, while laying his head restfully on his other arm, which he loosely folded over the back of the sofa.
I sighed, throwing him an exasperated look, but as I told him of the doings of the past month, he visibly softened. As I spoke, I reached out and pulled gently on some of his curls, straightening them and releasing them to watch them bounce back again.
“Ah!” he smiled, as he looked at me for several heartbeats when I'd finished speaking. “I've missed you.”
I blushed and smiled at him, hugging my knees, and his arm, which was still slung around them, hazarding to press a light kiss to his hand. “Me too.”
There was a short silence, and as I was now feeling strangely awkward and warm, I ran my hand through my hair, avoided his eyes, swung my legs away and stood up, changing the subject while trying to appear nonchalant as I walked back over to the table with my hands buried in my pockets.
“Steerforth, my lease on these chambers expires in three days. I was thinking of moving–”
“You'll move in with me, of course?” he cut in, watching me through half-closed eyes from where he still sat.
“I thought you'd never ask!” I spun on my heel and smiled at him gratefully, my heart pleased and light. Leaning against the table, I folded my arms and tilted my head. “Yes, if it's not too much trouble. It makes the most sense to me, especially if we are to go away soon.”
He laughed then, “Trouble, Daisy! It would be only too delightful.”
I blushed and looked away– I don't know how it was that I couldn't maintain meeting his gaze– and my eyes alighted on Peggotty's letter, bringing her grief back to my remembrance in full force.
“I'll need to go and see Peggotty too– tomorrow, I think,” I sighed, picking the letter up and scanning it again.
“Poor Peggotty…” I murmured sadly. “It is not that I can do her any good, or render her any real service, Steerforth,” I said aloud, glancing at him, “-but she is so attached to me that my visit will have as much effect on her, as if I could do both. She will take it so kindly that it will be a comfort and support to her. It is no great effort to make, I am sure, for such a friend as she has been to me. Wouldn’t you go a day’s journey, if you were in my place?”
“I would go any amount of day’s journey,” he replied, smiling softly. The smile widened into a grin and he threw out his arms and gestured, raising his voice as though he were an actor on a stage. “I would traverse land and sea just to be a comfort, and a friend indeed, to a friend in need!” I couldn't help laughing at this, and although he laughed too, he was soon subdued again, and sighed, looking at me. “You are good David. I wish we all were,” he said quietly.
“And again, I say, you are – or, at least, you can be, Steerforth. You have as much capacity to be as anyone else– more, even!” I responded, folding my arms again.
He smiled at me but said nothing. After a brief pause, he asked, “You'll go tomorrow, will you?”
“Yes. I think I must. Then next day I could move my things over to Highgate?” I raised my eyebrows hopefully at him.
“Bah! Don't worry about doing that yourself,” he replied, standing up and stretching. “I'll send Littimer down to transport your things while you're in Yarmouth tomorrow, and then ‘pon your return, you shall come straight to me at Highgate,” he concluded with such a decisive air that I could only consent.
“That's good of you, Steerforth,” I said earnestly in response to his smile. “It feels very odd to be leaving this place all of a sudden, though. I shall miss it, even though I hated it sometimes. How odd that it should hold so many memories in so short a time,” I mused, gazing around with a fondness I didn't know I'd possessed for the place.
“And it shall hold more yet, I'm sure,” Steerforth rejoined, walking over to me and linking my arm with his own. We stood arm in arm, leaning against the table, looking across my firelit room, and out of the darkened window to the river slowly moving beyond, and at the twinkling lamps on the far side.
I changed the subject, then, as it occurred to me to remind him of Mr Spenlow's invitation. “A-and the ball– you remember, Steerforth? It's the night after that. Will you come with me?”
“Ah, the ball,” he sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “Hmm. I said you were good just now didn't I David? But it seems rather naughty to me to go to the house of a prospective employer and drink his wine, and eat his food, and dance with his daughters, and then fail to ever turn up for work again.” His eyes glittered with mischief and amusement as he bumped my shoulder with his. “And that tickles me something wonderful. So yes, I'll go - we'll go.” He released my arm, took my hand, and spun me in a circle, laughing. “You shall go to the ball, Cinders!”
“Lucky me– I shall be going with a prince!” I added, putting a hand on his shoulder and joining his merry laughter. He beamed at me and took both my hands in his, drawing me closer to him as he spoke.
“And I shall be going with an angel! I think I'm the lucky one. Now, Daisy, I haven't been home to see my darling mother since I saw you a month ago. I thought of going there tonight– but it's late, and you have been so persuasive, you know, in insisting that I make good on my promise to turn this place into a townhouse - and as I only have three days left to fulfil that promise, I'd better show you I can keep a promise and stay– that is, if you can put me up?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Gladly!” I exclaimed, delighted. “You can take my bed, the sofa will do fine for me–”
“Come!” he laughed, throwing his arm around me. “I won't be responsible for kicking you out of your room, Daisy. No! We'll be bedfellows again. It's not like we aren't used to it, old boy,” he chuckled, walking us into my bedroom.
I blushed, but it was useless to protest, and a half-hour hadn't passed before I found Steerforth once again curled up against my chest, his eyes closing as he dropped into a deep repose.
“Dissipated Daisy would have been thrilled to find me here,” he murmured, with a soft laugh that vibrated through my chest.
“What do you mean?” I asked, trailing a hand idly through his glossy curls.
“You don't remember? You burst into tears when I told you I had to go, Daisy,” he shifted, lying on my arm as he looked up at me, a slight smile on his lips.
“Did I?” I asked in surprise.
“You clung to me and positively wailed,” he continued, still smiling as his eyes closed. “So you don't remember? Well. You were drunk as a lord, Daisy…”
As I watched him slip into sleep, and looked at his peaceful face in the moonlight, I wondered, a little uneasily, what else I had done that night - and I realised too late, that he still hadn't told me anything about our upcoming journey.
***
Chapter 6: Loss and Meditation
Summary:
Barkis dies, and David moves into Highgate.
Chapter Text
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Chapter 6:
Loss and Meditation
The next day I repaired to Yarmouth early in the morning; Steerforth home to his mother at Highgate.
I got down to Yarmouth in the evening, the journey being long, and betook myself to the inn, dined there, and engaged my bed. I went out after dinner, at around ten o’clock that night, and after visiting an old friend (who also happened to be the town’s funeral director), I went directly to Peggotty and Barkis with a solemn feeling. I found the Peggotty’s all assembled there, and they were all as pleased to see me when I arrived as I was to see them, although the solemnity of the moment clung to them, and made us all sober.
Little Emily leaned on Ham’s arm, quiet and still, as he whispered to her, cheering her through the dark night. Their uncle stood near, admiring the couple, and would not interpose between them for anything. Seeing them in this attitude made my heart rejoice that I had thwarted Steerforth’s resolve to separate the pair. There never was a pair better matched than the two of them. Emily’s slight figure clung to Ham’s giant frame with a prettiness that I found too beautiful for words; it cheered my heart, despite the circumstances surrounding us, or perhaps because of the circumstances being what they were.
They were to be married soon, for I had received an invitation to the nuptial celebrations, but Barkis’s deterioration meant that the wedding was postponed to a fortnight away. I privately hoped I would be able to attend, and that I wouldn’t have taken my journey by then - but I did not speak of this to either Ham or Emily; I hadn’t yet told any of the Peggotty’s that I was going away, feeling the time wasn’t right to do so.
The situation with Barkis was just as bad as Peggotty had mentioned in her letter. She met me in tears and took me up to him. He lay senseless for many hours, until at last, in the early morning, he came around just long enough to know me, speak his final words, and go out with the tide.
His funeral was to be arranged for the following week, and I resolved to go. My last action that day was to write to Spenlow and Jorkins and engage a trustworthy, reliable young proctor that I had befriended there to come up to Yarmouth to take charge of Mr Barkis’s will and support Peggotty in settling it, as I knew that in a few days, I would not be able to render her this service myself.
As I was to return to London on the afternoon coach, it was then that I privately sat Peggotty down and let her know of my plans to go abroad. She was much surprised, but somehow, through her grief, the good creature also managed to be glad for me. I did not tell her how it came about, or what it had engendered since– since I wasn't exactly too sure myself that I understood it all–, but I was quietly glad that my going away would mean Emily’s staying; Emily’s staying would mean that joy would follow the grief; and in this assurance, my heart found peace. Gladly would I lay down my life, many times over, if it would repay in some small way the kindnesses that Peggotty and her family had ever shown me since I was born! I did not fully know what it meant to take Emily’s place then, or perhaps I would not have rejoiced as I did; but the switch was made, and there was no going back now.
I promised Peggotty that I would be back for the funeral, resolving to ask Steerforth to push back our travel dates if they happened to be before the day (it pained me to inform her that I had no clear idea on when we were to sail), and asked her to inform her family of mine and Steerforth’s trip. All this being done, I bade her and the Peggotty family an affectionate, tearful farewell, and climbed aboard the coach that would take me back to London, to Highgate, and to Steerforth.
I arrived in the middle of the night, and repaired directly to the Highgate mansion. There, a pretty maid was waiting up to let me in– for I had written to Steerforth that morning to let him know of Barkis’ death and my planned arrival time. A cheerful, simple supper awaited me in the kitchen, and after I had dined, I took my candle to walk up to bed.
It was strange not to go ‘home’, to the Adelphi, that I had called home for a month; to be effectively a lodger, or boarder in another’s home; a home that asked no rent of me. It was stranger still to go so suddenly from languishing after Steerforth for a month, to moving into his house, as though I were a part of his family.
It warmed me inside, for I had always admired him and held him in my heart as though he were a type of found family, like the Peggotty’s, that as a poor orphan I was fortunate to have had encountered along the weary route of my life so far; yet, I also knew that it was far from a perfect relationship. I had looked at him as an older brother, a father figure that had taken me under his wing at school, and had continued this delightful bond from the time of our reunion; but since the disturbing case with Emily, the exposure of his evidently calculating nature, his disconcerting confessions, and then his increasingly affectionate behaviour, I wasn’t exactly sure where we stood, and that made me a little uncomfortable.
I turned up the staircase with my candle and went directly to what I now called ‘my room’ – the bedroom besides Steerforth’s that I always stayed in while I was at Highgate.
Although I was tired after my long journey, and would have gone straight to my bed, I couldn’t resist knocking softly at Steerforth’s door first, and peeking in at him. He was fast asleep; lying, easily, with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school. I crept in and went softly over to him, stroked a finger over the peaceful cheek, and kissed it; then took myself to my own room, undressed, and was soon fast asleep.
***
Chapter 7: Rosa
Summary:
Rosa has something to say; David is unsettled.
Notes:
Rosa Dartle being Rosa Dartle ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and David being David... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Is Rosa right about Steerforth now?...
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 7:
Rosa
It was a wonderful thing to wake up late the next day in that comfortable, king size bed, and find sunlight pouring in through the large Georgian sash windows. It was even more wonderful to find Steerforth sitting in an easy manner close by me, in a low chair by the bed, reading. He noticed as I stirred and grinned a hello at me as I squinted at him.
“Why, I thought you'd sleep the morning away, Daisy!” he exclaimed, flipping the book he held closed; it was The Adventures of Roderick Random by Tobias Smollett, a favourite of ours.
I smiled and gave him good morning with a tired laugh, rubbing my eyes free of the sleep that lingered in them and yawning.
“The maid tells me you came in very late last night– early this morning would be more accurate, I think?”
“That’s right,” I nodded, yawning again.
“So old Barkis is gone, is he?” Steerforth looked subdued as he said this, a meditative look stealing over him. “They must all be very dolorous this morning,” he muttered.
I nodded assent again, and took immediate advantage of the opportunity to ask my question in a croaking– or as Steerforth called it, ‘roopy’– voice. “Yes, but they all have each other to keep their spirit’s up, and that’s cheering. Steerforth, the funeral is a week today; we won’t be gone by then, will we? Because–”
“Because you want to go to the funeral,” he finished, with a slight, curious smile. “No, old boy, we won’t be sailing until three weeks on Saturday. Pay Barkis your last respects! He’s carried you many journeys, I know. It will be a kindness for you to carry him on his last.”
I blinked at him, taken by surprise. “Three weeks?”
He raised his eyebrows at me and blinked back innocently. “Hmm? Oh yes, didn’t I tell you?”
“You haven’t told me–”
“--anything!” Steerforth chorused, and laughingly reached out, pinching my cheek. I batted his hand away, also laughing despite my exasperation.
“The earliest ship I could engage for us sails four days before your birthday, Daisy. We’ll be in the South of France tasting the wine to celebrate your eighteenth year,” he grinned, cocking his head and flipping one leg over the other in a careless manner as he tossed his book onto my bed.
I stared at him, then pulled the covers around myself and laughed into them in my delight. I pulled them away from my face and looked back at him, and laughed again. His eyes sparkled at me as he knit his fingers together, flicking his airborne foot back and forth. The motion reminded me of a cat’s tail. Had his self-satisfied smile been accompanied with purring, I almost think I would have accepted it as the expected thing.
As it was, I shook hands with him, laughed again, and climbed out of bed to begin the day. It was a fine thing to find my clothes hanging or folded in the dark wood closets. My possessions were decoratively placed around the room; that was Steerforth’s doing, and it had the effect of making me feel immediately at home.
I had a late breakfast after I had washed and dressed, and was pleasantly welcomed by Steerforth’s gracious mother, who I found sitting in the garden room, and who I thanked profusely for allowing me to stay the weeks ahead until the time for the European departure came.
Rosa Dartle was with her, and also bid me welcome in her own manner; but what I particularly observed about her, that was different from usual, was the close and attentive watch Miss Dartle kept upon me; and the lurking manner in which she seemed to compare my face with Steerforth’s, and Steerforth’s with mine, and to lie in wait for something to come out between the two.
So surely as I looked towards her, did I see that eager visage, with its gaunt black eyes and searching brow, intent on mine; or passing suddenly from mine to Steerforth’s; or comprehending both of us at once. In this lynx-like scrutiny she was so far from faltering when she saw I observed it, that at such a time she only fixed her piercing look upon me with a more intent expression still. Blameless as I was, and knew that I was– I had quite convinced myself that I was –, in reference to any wrong she could possibly suspect me of, I nevertheless shrunk before her strange eyes, quite unable to endure their hungry lustre.
All day, she seemed to pervade the whole house. If I talked to Steerforth in his room, or in mine, I heard her dress rustle in the little gallery outside. When he and I engaged in some of our old exercises on the lawn behind the house, I saw her face pass from window to window, like a wandering light, until it fixed itself in one, and watched us.
We had practised fencing, and were boxing somewhat violently when she came strolling across the lawn to watch us. I was unaware of her presence, but I think Steerforth must have noticed her. He parried a lunge from me and suddenly knocked me square in the chest, followed by another on the chin, flooring me, and effectively ending the match. I lay on my back on the grass, stunned, until Steerforth, laughing, hauled me to my feet.
“So sorry, Daisy! You aren’t much hurt, are you?” he chuckled, brushing me down and checking my eyes for signs of dizziness. He rubbed lightly at the mark he had left on my chin, amused.
“N-no,” I replied, shaking my head, and immediately regretting it.
Steerforth laughed again and affectionately threw his arms around my shoulders, enveloping my head, and kissed my forehead twice before swinging me about for a moment in his high spirited manner. It was then that I caught sight of Rosa, standing a few feet away, watching us. When he stopped, he wrinkled his nose at me in an impish manner as I looked up into his face, seemingly ignoring her presence. His arms were still wrapped around my shoulders, and he kissed my forehead a third time before letting me go.
This seems to have been what Miss Dartle had been waiting for, for she immediately spoke up.
“But really, Mr Copperfield!” Rosa interjected peevishly. “Why do you let him sport with you in such a manner? Is it appropriate? Is it right? I only ask because I do not know.”
I reddened as I returned her sharp gaze, confused. “What do you mean, Miss Rosa? What have we done that's inappropriate?”
“Well! Do you mean to tell me,” she pursued in a snippy tone, “–that all young men behave in such a demonstrably sappy, romantic way with their ‘bosom’ friends? I'm only asking as a woman, for I do not know, and I should like to!”
“Rosa is annoyed because she has never had a bosom friend, my dear Copperfield,” Steerforth laughed, a mischievous look in his eye. I felt Rosa's uncomfortably piercing gaze on us as he slung an arm around my shoulder, drawing me to himself.
"She would slice them all to shreds if they got too close," he grinned, throwing her a provoking look.
I did not know how to answer her question, and so, because I remained tongue-tied, she spoke to him in a sharp tone.
“James, you should be ashamed of yourself! Playing mind games and manipulating a child!”
I coloured, suitably nettled. “I'm not a child!"
“Mr Copperfield, you must be veritably blind if you can’t see what he’s doing. You innocent baby!” And here she glared at Steerforth, who smiled at her, seemingly impervious to her words. I, on the other hand, was increasingly aggravated by her verbal assault, and pushed Steerforth away, rankled.
“And I’m not a baby– I wish everyone would stop calling me that!” I replied, hotly.
Rosa continued speaking over my head to James, disregarding my comment, much to my vexation. “It's one thing to do it to a woman who loves you, but to another man– and a child at that--! ”
“And I should be ashamed, should I? Why, what am I doing, Rosa? Beyond making you jealous, my dear, sweet girl?” He grinned wickedly at her, moving and standing behind me, wrapping his arms around me in a tight embrace.
“Does it offend you?” He laid his head down on my shoulder.
“Maybe I should refrain from showing any affection–,” and here he stopped to plant a kiss very decidedly onto my flaming cheeks, “–to my intimate, particular friend Mr Copperfield while I'm around you?”
He laughed heartily as Rosa turned away from his provocations with a look of disdain, making a disgusted sound.
“Just let your mother see you do that, James!” she hissed. Finally she narrowed her eyes at me, throwing a last comment over her shoulder as she glided away. “Don't say I didn't warn you, Mr Copperfield, if nothing good comes of it.”
As peeved as I was, I was also troubled by her admonition, and Steerforth plainly could see that it had bothered me. It cast a shadow on my recent familiarity with Steerforth, and made me look with uncomfortably fresh eyes upon the gay way he sported with me. It reminded me of Agnes’ warning against him as my ‘bad’ angel, and a ‘dangerous friend’. I felt a tremor of discomfort at the two-fold warning as I replayed some of our interactions in my mind's eye. But I was also confused; what possible harm or ill could come of our affection for one another?
“Do you suppose she's right, my dear Steerforth?” I asked, glancing away from her retreat and into his hazel eyes. “Perhaps we're a tad too familiar with one another…?”
“Too familiar!” he cried. “Hardly, my dear fellow.”
“But don't you think that maybe there's some truth in what she's saying–?” I frowned.
“Ah! That witch. Don't let her trouble you, my dear Copperfield,” Steerforth interjected, squeezing my cheeks in his hands playfully. “She’s the one playing mind games. You are a very baby– although you don’t like to be called that! Rosa's just a little hipped today, and wants to make trouble. We shall make friends with her before the day is through, though, you'll see.”
He smiled, lightly dismissing the subject as he drew his arm comfortably through mine and led me back into the house to change for our afternoon walk.
***
When we all four went out walking in the afternoon, Miss Dartle, to my horror, closed her thin hand on my arm like a spring, to keep me back, while Steerforth and his mother went on out of hearing: and then spoke to me without preamble.
“How old are you, again, Mr Copperfield?” she asked with haughty detachment.
I reddened instantly, and replied with as much similar haughtiness as I could muster, “I'll be eighteen by the close of this month.”
“So, you are seventeen - a teenager. Quite so,” she replied, with distinct callousness which stung me. “And James will be twenty-four by the middle of April. I am older than you both, as spinsters like myself tend to be, which ignorantly leads me to believe that I somehow know more and can advise you– for even when you are nineteen next year, Mr Copperfield, you will still be a teenager. And so, we have the facts.”
“What is your point, Miss Rosa?” I ground out from between my teeth, quickly growing tired of her discourse.
“Only this. He has you eating out of the palm of his hand. He leads you here, and you go. He leads you there, and you follow. Can't you lead yourself? Or are you just a little sheep? If I am wrong, please put me right,” she replied, with the utmost coldness.
“I– I can't help it!” I stammered, flushing, angered by her comparison of me to a sheep. “How can I help following him? I wonder that you can.”
“I can, because I know him!” she hissed.
“No, you've been soured by his rejection and the incident with–,” I pulled myself up short, but Rosa’s hand immediately flew to the scar on her lip, given to her by the hammer that Steerforth had thrown at her as a boy. I could see it turn deadly white as she grew pale with rage.
“Don't think he wouldn't do it to you if he could, and get away with it! You're a fool to trust him like you do,” she snapped, her hand tightening on my arm in her fit of pique.
“Miss Rosa–”
“He smiles at you, but you don't know what's behind that smile,” she pursued, infuriated. “The cunning. The calculation. It's all a game to him, just a game. He'll win you just to see that he can do it, and then throw you away without a second thought. And it will be worse for you!” She laughed suddenly, a wild, impassioned sound that frightened me. “He'll drag it out for as long as it delights and interests him, but when he has what he wants from you, he'll find some newer, shinier, more illicit toy to play with. His heart is untrue. Don't trust him,” she hissed.
I tried to extract my arm from her hand, my temper rising. “I’ve heard quite enough, Miss Rosa–”
She shook my arm in a passion, refusing to let it go. “You're his friend because you're young and innocent! Of course you wouldn't think, you wouldn't dream of it– it would never enter that innocent head of yours. You can't see what he's doing, but I can. His emasculation of you; dandifying you to make it acceptable to treat you as his new romantic other!”
Her words hit me like a sack of stone, and shook me, but I retorted, my face red with anger and humiliation, “I’m not a dandy!”
“Aren’t you? I only say it because it seems so. You have corrected me; I thank you,” she replied with notable sarcasm. “Well, no matter. If you care about him–” she paused, then fixed me with an intense look. “Then don't go. Think of his blindly-doting mother. Think of what the disgrace will do to her– to yourself. Think of him, his social standing, his name - and don't go.”
“If you’re referring to our trip abroad–” I began stiffly.
“What else could I be? Unless there is something else?” she asked waspishly, cutting in.
“If you’re referring to our trip abroad,” I started again, and speaking slowly, with suppressed rage, “You are too late. Our tickets are bought, and we are going.”
“Then your doom is sealed,” she replied, her caustic tone searing me, taking my breath away. “You want to be with him; you want to take that peasant girl Emily’s place– yes, I know all about that,” she sneered in response to my shocked face. She continued before I could ask her how she knew. “So you would replace Emily, would you, Mr Copperfield? Then replace her, and don't let it frighten you.”
“But– but–” I stammered, for her words began to sink in. “I– I don't want to be with him– like that.” I lowered my voice and blushed in my modesty, but she continued to sneer at me; the shocking lack of blush on her cheeks at this illicit subject made me feel unaccountably young. “I want to be like him,” I continued, arguing with that sneer. “I admire him! I look up to him. I– I adore him, yes - I even love him! I do. But not– not like that.”
Rosa paused, her dark eyes observing my agitation with disdain. “You only think you don't. But, I've watched you with him. You don't have the power to resist him. If he wanted you, you'd give yourself to him.”
“I wouldn't!” I almost shouted, causing Steerforth and his mother to pause and look around, having heard my voice, even as far away as they were.
“Wouldn't you?” Rosa asked in a low voice, her eyes narrowed. “You would. I speak from experience. I swear you to secrecy about this!” she hissed in a quick, fierce, passionate way, for she saw him coming. Detaching her hand from my arm at last– I’m sure it made as much of an impression on my skin as her dialogue did on my mind– she turned and glided away, back towards the house.
“David!” Steerforth waved me over to meet himself and his mother half-way, and with a last, troubled look over my shoulder at Rosa, I went to him.
***
(For RenLeed !)
Chapter 8: At The Ball, I Fall Into Captivity
Summary:
David, Rosa and Steerforth meet Agnes, Dora and Miss Murdstone at a Ball... and James gets a shock, as David falls for Dora.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 8:
At The Ball, I Fall Into Captivity
I was so shaken by my discourse with Miss Dartle that I had to remove myself to my room, away from Steerforth’s inquisitive eyes and his concerned questions, on our arrival back at the house. Locking the door so I wouldn’t be interrupted, I wept away my overcharged feelings as quietly as I could, then washed my face, taking several minutes just to breathe before I felt enough in control of myself to reappear before the Steerforth family.
I had heard James try the door, and knock and call out, “Daisy? Let me in! What's wrong? Talk to me,” for a while, but knowing that he would make me feel better only made me feel worse.
I found him downstairs when I eventually unlocked my door and ventured out. Although I tried to be upbeat and cheerful, James could plainly see the remnants of my recent distress on my face. He had very quickly realised by my agitated, altered manner when I had met with him and his mother– although I had done my best to hide it– that whatever Rosa had been saying to me while he was walking and talking with her had left me a great deal disquieted. I refused to tell him what we had spoken about, endeavouring in vain to brush it off as nothing. He wouldn't accept this and was very persistent in questioning me; a process I found almost unbearable, because of how kind he was to me.
Conversely, he kept throwing Rosa suspicious looks– and inflammatory words– which she positively froze out, until he actually became quite irritated with her. She was absolutely frosty now, and chose to completely ignore us both; a behaviour she maintained all afternoon, and right through the carriage ride to the Spenlow mansion for the evening ball– for we three were all going together.
I had bought (in my excitement on finding myself in receipt of an invitation to this glorious ball, that I imagined would be a splendorous, lavish affair) a number of luxurious new outfits. I had been pleased with them, being bought with a little extra money that I had made by sending my miscellaneous, whimsical short stories to a publisher in a burst of confidence.
But now, instead of seeing them as elegant suits designed to make me look every bit a stylish young man of means, Rosa’s stinging comments led me to criticize them and wonder if they in fact, made me look foppish and foolish.
I felt self-conscious about them, but I had to wear something – so, in order to keep Steerforth’s mind off of Rosa, I asked him to pick an outfit for me, which he did with remarkably good will. I tried on various articles, to his approval, and tried to shake away from my feelings of discomfort by shyly sporting with him and allowing him to sport with me, which seemed to alleviate some of his anxiety about me. He was fixing my cravat– a crimson, silk affair– for me with a diamond and gold pin, one of his own, when he smiled softly and remarked, “You know, Daisy, this reminds me of our school days. You never could tie your cravat just right, I always had to help you. Do you remember?”
His eyes flickered to my face as I smiled and slightly nodded.
“I couldn’t have gotten on without you, Steerforth.”
His eyes flickered away, and he said nothing. He soon turned me around so I could look at our joint reflection in an ornate, floor length mirror on his bedroom wall. I had to admit, we both looked suitably debonair in our tailored dress coats, crisp trousers, and embroidered waistcoats; white silk for me, royal blue velvet for Steerforth. Our shirts, collars and cuffs were starched white to perfection, our dress boots were polished to a high shine, and our trim embellishments subtly enhanced the elegance of our outfits. Steerforth wore a large gold watch from his waistcoat, and looked every bit a prince, minus the crown. I had wet a hairbrush and, with the aid of a little grease, had smoothed my normally somewhat fluffy golden hair down. Steerforths’ curls, also tamed for the occasion, shone; notwithstanding a stray curl here and there that gave him a distinctly rakish look.
“Perfectly angelic,” he beamed, studying me in the mirror.
“And perfectly princely. But, you always look perfect, Steerforth,” I replied, starting to smile back, then stopping suddenly and frowning at myself, unsure for the first time of my unreserved manner of speech. I knew I had a– a somewhat gushing way of complimenting Steerforth, sometimes– could that be part of the problem?
Steerforth watched me, the smile slipping slowly from his face, replaced by a troubled look.
“What’s the matter, David? What has happened?” he asked gently, taking me by the shoulders and turning me back around to look me directly in the eyes.
“What do you mean?” I asked lightly, trying to smile, my heart sinking.
“What’s going on inside of there?” he asked, tapping my forehead lightly. “What has Rosa said that’s made you so unlike yourself?” His voice was quiet, his curious gaze burning into mine.
I looked back at him, struggling with my desire to reveal all, and the seed of distrust that had been so watered by Rosa’s words during that afternoon conversation. What could I possibly say? ‘Your cousin, Miss Rosa, suspects that we are more than friends? She suspects that we are, in fact, homosexuals?’ I balked at the idea and shied away from it.
Was I really a fool to trust him? I wanted to, and yet the issue with Emily was always in the back of my mind, troubling me. And yet, as I looked at him, I loved him. Was I wrong to doubt him? I desperately wanted to embrace him, and be comforted. But had he and Rosa really…? I couldn’t help but feel reluctant indignation on Rosa’s behalf if so. Her hurt and bitterness were still raw, and struck me as being unfeigned. I could hardly believe that so gallant a character, that so admirable a personality as Steerforth’s could do such a thing. No matter how I tried, I just couldn’t consolidate the accusation with the man, or bring myself to broach the topic, feeling that if the hammer incident had been delicate and painful, then this would be twenty, forty, a hundred times that.
But was it true?
If it was, would he tell me why he’d done it? And… what were his plans concerning me? Were Rosa’s insinuations also true, in that case? Would I… be able to resist them if they were? He was looking at me now with so much concern and interest, that the words were rising to my lips– for I could keep no secret from him, any more than I could in school– when Littimer’s soft knock sounded on the room door, letting us know the carriage was ready, and I, instead, held my tongue.
“It’s nothing,” I replied with forced cheerfulness, turning away quickly from the hurt in his eyes.
“We're coming, Littimer!” I called out, linking my arm with his, grabbing our top hats and canes, and bustling us away from the privacy of his room and into public space before he could tease the truth from me.
I would tell him later.
***
I was extremely relieved to step out of the suffocating, uncomfortable atmosphere of the carriage, for it had been an unusually quiet ride. I had sat beside an extraordinarily silent, brooding Steerforth, facing Rosa, who watched me, and him, alternatively, with cold but triumphant eyes from beneath her evening fan. She wore a flattering dress of soft blue silk; her dark hair was fixed in long ringlet curls hanging on either side of her face.
I had attempted conversation, but James had been so uncommonly unresponsive, that at length I became mute, anxiously twisting my gloved hands under the cape of my great coat throughout the long journey, while trying to appear unruffled as I looked out of the window. I wanted to take and hold his hand, but I kept catching Miss Dartle’s eye, and new chills would run over me as her words would riot wildly around my mind until I thought I would come apart.
I practically leapt from the carriage e’er it had stopped, and had taken several deep breaths of the bracing night air before composing myself to turn and watch Steerforth alight and help Rosa down.
She climbed down with an easy grace, then took his arm, and they both smiled at our host with a warmth that suggested that they were on the very best terms with one another. I couldn’t help but feel shocked by just how easily they switched faces, and began to wonder, with no small trepidation, just what I had gotten myself mixed up in…
Mr Spenlow’s property turned out to be extremely charming. Although it was quite dark, so we couldn't see the full extent of the gardens, I glimpsed a pair of ornate gates as we drove through. There was a charming lawn, there were clusters of trees, and there were perspective walks that I could just distinguish in the dark, arched over with trellis-work, on which shrubs and flowers grew in the growing season. Overall, I was quite enchanted with it, despite my discomfort.
The mansion was a stately building, cheerfully lit up, and carriages and phaetons of all kinds were alternatively drawing up, and being driven to stables that were out of view. Silks and satins, taffeta's and tophats, were gliding up the steps towards the front doors.
“Mr Copperfield! Welcome, sir!” Mr Spenlow, the picture of a gracious host, greeted me cordially as he shook my hand, extending the same friendly greeting to Miss Dartle and Steerforth.
“I must introduce you to my daughter, Miss Dora. This ball is held in her honour, you know, for she has been away some time,” he said aside to Steerforth, “-finishing her education at Paris.”
Steerforth made an amiable reply, but raised his eyebrows slightly at me, a subtle smile on his lips, with an expression I understood to refer to our upcoming travels. It was the first bit of return to good humour that I saw in him, and I welcomed it with a lightening heart.
Mr Spenlow led us inside to a scene of gaiety, glamour, and show; where handsomely dressed guests were reflected in gilt mirrors, and where girandoles and wax-candles adorned every surface.
In the ballroom, the card-room, on the staircases, and in the passages, the hum of voices sounded, and the music of many footsteps blended with the genteel airs of the quadrille band. I was so overpowered by the sight of so many rustling dresses, and waving feathers (and waving fans in delicate hands); by the sparkling jewels, and bewitching forms gliding from one part of the throng to another; by the sound of merry laughter, and the general mass of people assembled in Miss Spenlow’s honour, that when my eyes alighted unexpectedly on none other than those of Agnes, I'm sure I would have fallen head first, had I not kept so close to Steerforth, as Mr Spenlow, our obliging host, led us through the press.
“My dear Agnes!” I exclaimed, delighted, surprised and relieved beyond measure to see her gentle face smiling at me. I advanced towards her quickly, as though towards a haven of safety, with my hands held out to receive hers, which I presently held and kissed in my joy.
“Whatever are you doing here?” I asked, embracing her and quite forgetting about Steerforth and Mr Spenlow and Rosa in my happiness.
“My dear Trotwood! How wonderful to see you,” she beamed at me. I felt so thankful to see her calm, sweet face, that I could actually feel my anxiety evaporating in her presence, and a peaceful feeling sweeping over me. “You are looking very well. Father - and Uriah - are in town on business, and I am accompanying Father. We were invited by Mr Spenlow on short notice, and decided to come,” she said quietly.
“Then they are also here?” I asked.
She nodded in reply, then gazed behind me. I remembered then that I had been following Mr Spenlow to be introduced to his daughter, and I turned to see our group waiting politely behind us.
“Ah, so you are already acquainted with Miss Wickfield?” Mr Spenlow inquired, his face pleased.
“Oh yes. We have been dear friends for a very long time,” I smiled, squeezing her hands in mine. “Agnes, this is Mr James Steerforth and his cousin Miss Rosa Dartle,” I announced, a trifle nervously, introducing them.
Steerforth had been watching us all the while with attentive eyes, and was extremely charming on reception of this introduction, bowing gallantly to Agnes and kissing her outstretched hand.
“How do you do, Miss Wickfield? We meet formally at last,” he smiled bewitchingly at her. She politely acknowledged his salute, but seemed unmoved by his charms, apparently impervious to them, ever calm, and graceful. She greeted Miss Dartle, who was observing us with inscrutable sharpness from behind her fan, with similar grace.
“Come, now, Saint Agnes,” Steerforth continued laughingly, in a lower voice. “Now that we have met on these more favourable terms, we must try to be friends, for David's sake.”
She made no reply, but looked at him with her serene eyes before turning away. This seemed to ruffle Steerforth, but before he could respond to this little snub on Agnes’ part, Mr Spenlow, who had momentarily disappeared, returned with his daughter on his arm.
“My daughter, Miss Dora Spenlow,” he announced. “And my daughter Dora’s confidential friend!”
It was, no doubt, Mr. Spenlow’s voice, but I didn’t know it, and I didn’t care whose it was. All was over in a moment. I had fulfilled my destiny. I was a captive, and a slave. I loved Dora Spenlow to distraction!
She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t know what she was—anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted. I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to her.
“I,” observed a well-remembered voice, when I had bowed and murmured something, “-have seen Mr. Copperfield before.”
The speaker was not Dora. No; the confidential friend— Miss Jane Murdstone!
I don’t think I was much astonished. To the best of my judgement, no capacity of astonishment was left in me. There was nothing worth mentioning in the material world, but Dora Spenlow, to be astonished about.
I said simply, “How do you do, Miss Murdstone? I hope you are well.” She answered, “Very well.” I said, “How is Mr. Murdstone?” She replied, “My brother is robust, I am obliged to you.”
The effect our conversation had on the party was subtle but immense. Agnes reached out and touched my arm in surprise, and I also felt moral support in the gentle pressure of her hand; Steerforth reached out and touched the small of my back, perhaps fearing that I would either faint in shock, or in order to hold me back lest I should feel disposed to launch an assault; Rosa looked from Agnes, to James, to Dora, to Miss Murdstone, to me, and back again; but it was Mr Spenlow, who, I suppose, had been surprised to see us recognize each other, who put in his word first.
“I am glad to find,” he said, smiling ignorantly, “-Copperfield, that you and Miss Murdstone are already acquainted!”
“Mr. Copperfield and myself,” said Miss Murdstone, with severe composure, “-are connexions. We were once slightly acquainted. It was in his childish days. Circumstances have separated us since. I should not have known him.”
I replied that I should have known her, anywhere. Which was true enough.
As Mr Spenlow explained how Miss Murdstone came to be the ‘confidential friend’ of his lovely daughter, my eyes kept flickering to Dora's in a daze, and bashfully flickering away again when she met them. Steerforth tried to speak to me, but I was lost in the captivating, girlish, bright-eyed lovely Dora. What a form she had, what a face she had, what a graceful, variable, enchanting manner! She had the most delightful little voice, the gayest little laugh, the pleasantest and most fascinating little ways, that ever led a lost youth into hopeless slavery. She was rather diminutive altogether. So much the more precious, I thought. She had a little dog called Jip that she periodically picked up and kissed laughingly; I was wildly jealous of Jip, and would have traded places with him in a heartbeat.
“David? David!” Steerforth jostled my arm, but still I dreamed. It was Agnes’ voice that called me back to myself.
“Trotwood, Mr Steerforth wants to speak with you,” she remonstrated quietly, though not without a gentle gleam of understanding my predicament in her eyes as she placed herself between me and this wonderful vision.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, James, what is it?” I asked abstractedly.
He frowned slightly at my offhand reply, then gestured that I follow him. “I want a word with you before the dancing starts: let's see if there are quieter rooms upstairs.”
I turned to follow him in a daze, then immediately turned back to Agnes apologetically. She was ready with a smile and a charitably kind look for me. “I'll see you later in the evening, Trotwood. I want to speak to you too before the night is over, so be sure to save some time for me.” I squeezed her hands again and nodded, then reluctantly left my ‘good’ Angel to befriend the bewitching little Fairy that was Dora Spenlow, and save her by any means from the ogrish stepfather's sister.
As I followed Steerforth up the winding flights, I couldn't help thinking what an odd evening– day– number of days it had been. Nothing in my life seemed to run in easy-to-understand, parallel lines; always, some complicated new issue arose– heartbreaking, hilarious, or devastating by turns. I wondered, with some little envy at those who knew, what ‘normal’ looked like, and if I would ever have a taste of it.
Ahead of me, Steerforth was trying doors and peering into rooms to try to find the least crowded, when at last, he took my arm and pulled me into a little gallery that was all but deserted.
As soon as we were alone, I took his hands and breathed reverently, “Steerforth! Isn't Miss Dora Spenlow the most beautiful, graceful, delightful little creature that you have ever laid eyes on?”
He stared at me, taken aback, then actually laughed out loud. Seeing, however, that I didn't laugh along, he realised that I wasn't in jest.
“David! Are you in earnest?” He stared at me in disbelief. “You can't possibly like that empty-headed pooch-smoocher downstairs, can you?”
He looked so disgusted and dismayed that I was astonished. He saw my shock, and quickly checked himself, laughing more good-humouredly and kissing me amiably on the cheek.
“Sorry, Daisy, I didn't mean that. I've been a little out of sorts tonight, I know. My dear fellow–,” he said, taking me by the shoulders and holding me at arms length, cocking his head to one side.
“How could you say that?” I whispered, pulling away from him.
“Now, Daisy–” I could see the incredulity in his gaze, and it provoked me to fresh indignation.
“How could you say that about–” I sighed, my eyes half-closing. I looked to the ceiling, turned and drifted slowly around the room, “-the most wonderful creature in this whole ball? She's a Fairy, she's a Sylph, she's–” I stopped and turned suddenly, facing him where he stood, “ James, I love her,” I declared with utmost conviction.
He had been watching me mooning around the room with growing dismay, and now his eyes widened with the shock of my declaration.
“You what?” he all but spluttered.
“I love her,” I replied simply, but with no less conviction. “I must have her, she must be mine! I've got to see her again, I–” I rushed towards him and grabbed his hands again, almost in desperation. “You will help me, won't you?” I asked, widening my eyes at him beseechingly. “Please, Steerforth! Help me win her!”
He stood frozen throughout my narrative, and stared down at me now with something akin to horror in his eyes, his lips pressed tightly together. He lowered his eyes slowly and swallowed; I could see him fighting with himself as I waited desperately for an answer. He let my hands drop and walked slowly around the little room, his arms folded loosely behind his back, his eyes on the ground.
“James!” I tried calling him again in my agitation.
“So you love her, do you?” he replied in a low voice, his eyes still on the ground.
I sighed dreamily, feeling myself wilting as I thought of her. “If that describes this… glorious feeling… Then I do,” I sighed again, pressing a hand to my chest and leaning my back against the door to support my buckling legs.
James was silent for a long moment as his gaze returned to me, his eyes inscrutable.
“Now you know how I felt– how I feel about Emily,” was his quiet, strained reply.
I felt a shock that brought me back to myself in an instant. We stared at one another across the narrow space, neither of us speaking.
This was how he had felt about little Emily? This abyss? This glorious feeling of absolute captivity? I blinked at him, my mouth falling open with growing horror and pity. I suddenly understood the terrible depth of his anguish– and why he had planned to do what he had. If I had found Dora engaged– I suddenly realised with a terrible jolt that I didn't know if she was-!
“Oh, Steerforth!” I threw myself at him then, tightly embracing him, my heart overflowing.
He suffered me to embrace him for a few moments, then gave a low, fretful laugh and again put his hands, which I could feel were trembling, on my shoulders, holding me at arms length. A moody smile had overspread his features, a dark look in his eyes.
“Ah, Daisy… Daisy,” he said, shaking his head. “How providential that I wanted to ask you if you would like me to speak to Miss Murdstone–”
“Miss Murdstone!” I cried, a terrible thought crossing my mind to disturb my reverie. “What if she takes it into her head to disparage me to Dora!” I clutched my head in despair.
Steerforth observed me as I went through these motions with pained interest. He released one of my shoulders to rub his forehead, and then replaced his hand, looking me in the eyes.
“So you do want me to speak to her?”
“Oh, yes! My dear Steerforth, I do!” I cried, suddenly overcome, grasping his jacket lapels. My saviour! “Avouch for me, my dear fellow! Portray my good character in multitudinous flattering lights! Anything–!”
He continued to observe me with a remarkable increasing detachment and formality that I barely noticed.
“Very well,” he acquiesced at last in a low voice, with a slight nod, his eyes unreadable. “The second thing I had wanted to ask–” He seemed to want to say or do something, but hesitated, and eventually said, “My curiosity is awakened over Saint Agnes,” with a rueful smile. “How can I win her approval? Do you think she'll agree to dance with me downstairs?”
I suddenly thought of Uriah and cried again, shaking his jacket lapels, which I still clutched, “Oh, yes! My dear Steerforth, you must!” I filled him in on the desperate situation as I knew it to stand with Uriah, sketched a portrait of his loathsome character, and implored Steerforth to watch him and to assure Agnes that he was on her side.
“I believe, my dear Steerforth, that if anyone can help save her from his designs, you can,” I finished, gazing into his handsome hazel eyes.
He pursed his lips and gave another tiny nod. Releasing my shoulders suddenly, he turned himself with a slight shake, straightened his shoulders, and smoothed his curls with one hand.
“Then I shall keep a sharp lookout for this repugnant fellow,” he murmured, throwing me a sideways glance through his long lashes. “We've been away long enough, David. Come.”
He offered me his arm, which I took, opened the door, and led me back to the ball, and what awaited us there.
***
Notes:
Ah, we finally made it to The Ball... I used a little of 'The Pickwick Papers' to help me describe this glittering event! And, I always wondered what the characters that never met (or only met in passing like Agnes/Steerforth) would have thought of one another - throwing them all together is the only way I guess we're ever going to find out, hehe!! (P.S. Steerforth is dying inside a little right now, so I guess we're going to take the next chapter to dive into his thoughts.....) ( • ̀ω•́ )✧
Chapter 9: James Steerforth
Summary:
James has a few mind battles...
Notes:
Oh boy... here we go (˶˃⤙˂˶) This took some time to write, so I hope you enjoy! Let's dive into that good old inner turmoil ~❀ ♡
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 9:
James Steerforth
Taking the arm of the bright eyed, well-dressed, impressionable youth of seventeen, James Steerforth, Esquire, quit the seclusion of the little gallery and returned with long strides to the glitter and gaiety of the Ball below.
To say his private interview with Daisy hadn't gone the way he had hoped it would was a staggering understatement. It had taken less than a minute to turn him, his world, and all his plans upside-down. A love-sick, moony David wasn't what James Steerforth had anticipated– especially as that love-sickness was not over him –; but it was now what he had to deal with.
The golden-headed young man bouncing along at his side was completely oblivious to the turmoil into which he had just thrown his curly-headed companion.
He had no idea that James Steerforth had been prepared to use whatever means he had to use to extract the secret that David was keeping for Rosa - even if that meant repaying David's forgotten, drunken, rainy day surprise a little early. James had steeled himself for it for over a month, had talked himself into it, and now provoked by the day’s events, had prepared himself to plunge into the illicit waters– only to find himself check-mated. Instead of a masterclass in seduction and lip-locking, James had found himself locked out of David's heart of hearts with immediate effect, by nothing less than an empty-headed pooch-smoocher.
Although somewhat relieved to find that David was, in fact, as susceptible to womanly charms as he, or any other typical red-blooded male– for James had been uncertain of this fact–, James was also– dare he say it?-- disappointed. He was usually bored, for there was nothing much to hold his interest in the ordinary day-to-day. Because of that, there was nothing he liked better than the chase.
Emily had caught his attention; her unmistakable beauty, her seemingly reluctant engagement to a coarse– though loving– fisherman, her pretty, private desire to be a ‘lady’, her inescapable, unconcealable attraction to James– it all seemed to fit together and form a temptation that James could not resist. His darkest excitement had been incited by the idea of enticing the little maiden away from her betrothed and making off with her overseas where her incensed family, surely too poor to follow, would not be able to find her, or stop him.
James was clever– he would be able to outwit them - and he would be able to charm her. He would pour his kindness and affection on her, portray himself in the best light, speak softly to her, and exert his powers until she would simply not be able to resist him.
That was the idea that had planted itself in his heart, had wormed its way into the idle soil, had energised his wicked angels, and had overpowered him. He was not able to overcome it– was giving himself over it– until bright-eyed, earnest little David Copperfield had surprised him by intervening.
At first, James had been wonderfully relieved.
The intense pressure that was driving him to do something irrevocably underhanded and destructive, the powers that had been pushing him and hounding him and hardening his resolve, suddenly dissipated.
Here was someone who cared about him, who cared about what happened to him. Here was someone who could actually be a true, close friend to him– not like his other friends, who were just as bad, no, worse than James– here was a completely uncorrupted personage who might actually give him the energy, the encouragement, and the support to pursue a better course. Here was an unexpected, loving, guiding light to brighten the darkness that had surrounded and suffocated him. He had welcomed this diversion with open arms; had run after it headlong; had poured himself into loving this darling one who loved him so very much, with all the gratefulness, affection and joy he could muster.
But the powers that be were not content; they had reconvened; they had whispered in his ear that here was new excitement. Here was fresh blood. Here was new, irresistible temptation. Here were pure waters just waiting to be polluted. Here was a chase worthy of him.
He was already familiar with it; his friends had experimented with it on wild nights; had told him what it was like - they had known what they were doing, and had committed themselves. And now the voices in his ear whispered that this was his opportunity. He had fought them at first, desperately desiring to maintain his honour, as a prince among men, and his sweet, angelic little David’s honour. He loved their new, deeper, even more affectionate relationship as it was.
But his demons had slowly gathered themselves nonetheless. Enraged that they had been deprived of their first victim, they were stronger and louder than ever; and the night that David, in his inebriated state, had clung to him and kissed him, they had caught fire and roared at him.
Emily was gone; but David was here.
James had fled to Oxford, and there stayed, fighting with himself and his demons– but he knew that he was slowly losing the battle.
He didn’t know what he would have done if he had not gone. But he didn’t know if going had been any better for him than staying; for removing himself from the source of this new temptation meant surrounding himself with friends that mercilessly egged him on to it.
Eventually, the roaring fire simmered into a slow-flowing pool of lava. James was succumbing. He would form a new plan. He wouldn’t rush. After all, he wouldn’t really have to do anything different to what he was already used to doing; manipulating others to do his will came easily to him. It would be easy. David didn’t know what he had done that night. If he did, he might run, frightened– and he certainly wouldn’t go with James overseas. But he didn’t know. David loved James, and would follow him anywhere; so James would keep the secret to himself, until they were alone, and David couldn’t run. He would bide his time until everything came together…
And so James played his cards, and resolved to be patient.
On the surface, everything was as innocent as it should be. He had won over the overprotective aunt, as he knew he would, and got permission (this time) to take his David away - and they were going away together. They would be away for months. David did not suspect any deeper motive on James’ part; he trusted him implicitly, wholeheartedly. There would be plenty of time for James to develop his plans, to develop the atmosphere; to lead David step-by-step into the desire that had been awakened in him.
Only James’s ever present conscience, at times roused from where it had been chained, sometimes pricked him; but he had pushed on, regardless– surrendered to the chase.
But somehow, now– now– when they were only three weeks away from leaving, things had started to go wrong– spectacularly wrong. It was like the powers that be had decided to begin to play new sadistic jokes on James, just to see how far they could push him.
‘Why the devil does this always happen to me?’ James wondered, fighting with the stormy emotions within his breast as he and David wound their way through the crowds. In a single day, Rosa had planted seeds of obvious doubt and discomfort in David, and now Dora had all but swept his heart away. Why were there always nothing but obstacles in his way?
James looked composed enough on the outside as they rejoined the Spenlow’s, but what he really wanted to do was to scream in frustration. He didn't, though– princes didn't scream. Princes got what they wanted. And what he wanted was David Copperfield– it was just that simple.
He watched his David shyly take the arm of Miss Dora Spenlow and take up positions for the first dance with a heart in turmoil. He had already lost an opportunity to steal away with a captivating little sea maiden. And now his little Daisy was slipping out of his grasp too.
Only, he wouldn't be robbed a second time: of this James was determined. He had committed himself to do as he was bidden. He had surrendered to the chase, and he would win this race.
If he couldn't have his Emily, then David couldn't have his Dora.
“Ride on!” he murmured darkly to himself, gritting his teeth as he watched the giggly, blushing pair waltzing with fairy-like grace. “Rough-shod if need be, smooth-shod if that will do… but I must ride on…” His expression was moody enough to terrify a hovering set of pretty young ladies that had clocked him on arrival, and send them scattering. After that, it was all he could do to smile at passers-by and keep up appearances.
As it was, when Rosa sidled over to him between dances laughing vindictively, mocking him from beneath her fan, and sneering, “What's the matter, James? Trouble in paradise?”, he could only scowl darkly at her and continue to brood.
He would get her back for this.
This was, in part, her fault.
Whatever she had said to David today had occasioned an unexpected, unwelcome change in his demeanor towards James that he hadn't bargained for. Her words had been sharp enough to make the tenderhearted youth cry. Not much got next to the heart of James, but this had, and it drove James wild with indignation towards Rosa.
How dare she make his Daisy cry?
James couldn’t stand seeing David cry. The day had started off so well; James had been thrilled to find his Daisy asleep in the next room. He had sat himself patiently down to await his stirring; he had surprised him enough to draw his lovely, musical laughter from him when he awoke. James didn't often feel that lighthearted or happy, but this morning he had. He always did when he was with Daisy. He should have known better; should have known that Rosa would pounce; should have known she wouldn't allow him any happiness outside of her own bitter self.
He glowered at Rosa's back, then catching the eye of Miss Murdstone, he bethought himself. She beckoned to him; he advanced. Here, at least, was something he could do to help win his Daisy's confidence back.
“Miss Murdstone,” he bowed politely.
“Mister James Steerforth,” she replied, with enviable composure. “You have grown much since I last saw you.”
“You have changed little,” he returned, “since I knocked on your door looking for my young friend. You are pleased, no doubt, to find us reunited despite your interventions. Still preying on the young and simple?” He couldn't keep the chill out of his voice.
This woman had kept back his letters, and his present, from his Daisy; he could not and would not forgive her for it.
She regarded him coolly for a moment, then with a steely expression replied, “Mister Steerforth– it takes one to know one.”
James started, taken aback by this abrupt, transparent confrontation, but Miss Murdstone continued, lowering her voice.
“Mister Steerforth, I have been watching you watching them. I know that look. I merely ask that you keep your young man away from my young woman, and we shall have no issues. Each to their lawful prey.”
With these cold words, she turned her back and sallied out towards where Dora stood like the very angel of Death.
James stood frozen for a moment until, feeling a gentle touch on his arm, he turned to find none other than his sweet, oblivious Daisy at his elbow.
“Steerforth,” came the soft voice, “I've just had a talk with Agnes. She's willing to dance the next waltz with you, if you would still like to?”
James violently endeavoured to discard his discomfited feelings, and turned to David with a quick, tender glance and breezy words. He took and squeezed one of the pretty, graceful hands of the slender youth with a smile, placing an arm around his back.
“Of course, Daisy! Where is she?”
David nodded to where Agnes stood at a little distance, watching the pair of them patiently.
“I won't keep Saint Agnes waiting, in that case. Thank you, Daisy,” James smiled again, swiftly kissing the graceful hand and drawing a blush from the youthful angel that almost made him forget what Miss Jane Murdstone had just said to him.
Almost.
The words pricked at his heart as he strode over to Agnes. Miss Murdstone had thrown his insinuations about her predatory behaviour right back at him. Is that what he was– what he had become?
Seeing himself, and his arrogant, self-righteous hypocrisy, suddenly so clearly in this Murdstone mirror made him feel lower than an earthworm; but he held his head up higher, more defiantly, and pushed his conscience further and further down into the idle soil. He would not listen to it.
It was unfortunate for James Steerforth then, that he had chosen to dance with Miss Agnes Wickfield.
He reached her with a charming smile, took her outstretched hand, and bowed as gallantly as he could, despite his hammering heart and his agitated feelings.
“Miss Wickfield, this is a pleasure,” he said pleasantly.
“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied with just as much pleasantry as they took their places. “A formal introduction has long been overdue, Mister Steerforth.”
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long. We bad angels tend to do that.” He grinned wolfishly down at her, taking one hand and placing the other on the small of her back.
Agnes didn’t evince the surprise he had thought she would, but only looked at him with her serene eyes and nodded softly to herself. “I thought he might tell you what I said to him the last time we spoke.”
“You think I’m a bad influence for him,” James stated matter-of-factly as they spun. “Miss Wickfield, don’t you think you may have judged me too harshly, and too quickly?”
“I can only judge based on what I have seen, and what I have heard from Trotwood,” she returned quietly, unintimidated.
“Well. I can’t defend what you saw… But what you heard must be given a little grace,” he appealed, raising his eyebrows at her beseechingly. “The benefit of the doubt, if you will. I believe you to be a gracious character, Miss Wickfield.”
“And I believe you to be a flatterer,” Agnes replied with utmost coolness. “Mister Steerforth… a lying tongue hates those it hurts, and a flattering mouth only works ruin. I know well enough that behind flattering lips, there is a double heart, and an evil agenda… even if Trotwood doesn't. Oh, James! Learn from your own book: ‘A double minded man is unstable in all his ways, so purify your hearts, ye double minded’ ,” she quoted quietly, looking up into his eyes with an unfiltered obsecration that pricked him and reminded him terribly of David.
“Well! Saint Agnes, you are good enough to influence anyone onto the straight and narrow path,” James replied, endeavouring to shake off his discomfort with a gay laugh.
“I would that that were true. How much happier we would all be if we didn't always have to guard against the devices of double minded, flattering schemers!” she returned with a sudden sorrowful earnestness, so unlike her previous serene manner that it took James by surprise. He was silent for a few moments as they danced before speaking again.
“So you judge me to be a lost cause, I presume, Miss Wickfield?” he smiled ruefully.
“Ah, James,” she sighed, her eyes flickering to the ground. “A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good things. But a corrupt man…” She looked back up at him; he was surprised to find himself hanging thirstily onto her every word. “You have so much potential to run a worthy race. So quick witted, with so much potential to do good… if you choose.”
“If I choose,” he replied loftily, almost arrogantly. Agnes was silent in response as they entered the last quarter of the dance. James’ heart smote him, and he softened, trying a new tactic as he spotted the red-headed personage he had been warned against skulking by the sidelines.
“I have heard from David that Mister Uriah Heep is a bothersome figure to you,” he resumed, in softer tones. “I assume that that is he– the creeping, redheaded individual on the fringe of the dance that keeps a close watch on you?”
“That is him,” Agnes assented quietly.
“I don't much like the look of him. Is there anything I could do to relieve you of the attention of such an individual?”
Agnes smiled gently, but shook her head slightly.
“… ‘Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help.’ Thank you, Mister Steerforth, but, the Lord my God is my hiding place; I will repair to Him. He will help me. His eye is on the orphan… He will save him,” was her tranquil, simple response as the dance ended.
She curtsied in response to his bow, sighed once softly, and walked away. James watched her go with a new, perturbed feeling settling in his bosom.
Most other girls present were falling over themselves to dance with him: they would hang onto his every word, wholly unable to resist his charms. Agnes was so different to the norm that he didn't know what to make of her. She was desperately good– now he could see how David could call her his ‘good Angel’, for she certainly possessed a sweet aura of incorruption– but she had such a kind, gentle way of saying things that it made you want to be good too. James could still feel her influence on him from where he stood watching her speak to a horribly writhing Uriah Heep.
Agnes recalled things to his mind that he hadn't thought about for a long time. Her thoughts were clearly fixed on more noble things than his, and that made him feel terribly uncomfortable.
What she was saying was true, of course, but James's mind was so set on his schemes that truth was like an unwelcome visitor arriving at an inopportune time. It was disturbing, and problematic; and it now lay heavier than ever on his conscience. All evening long he couldn’t shake away from their conversation.
But at last, the dancing ended; at last the food was eaten, and the wine had been drunk; at last the carriages and phaetons had been called, and the guests had slowly departed; at last he, David, and Rosa were on their way home.
David was in a dreamy mood all the way; Rosa was irritatingly smug. James took himself to his room, exhausted. He undressed, and lay huddled under the bedclothes, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, wondering what he was doing, and why.
A soft noise drew his attention– a blonde head poked itself through the gap in the doorway. David was only returning Steerforth’s cravat pin: he was grateful for its use.
“Goodnight!” came the soft voice.
“Daisy… wait,” James extracted a hand and waved the blonde head over to him. David came, and crouched down, tilting his head to look into James’ half-hidden eyes.
“I can’t… I can’t sleep…” he muttered miserably.
David understood.
For the third time, James found himself curled up against David’s chest, his upset, unhappy feelings slowly soothed away by the lyrical voice and loving arms that circled him. He was confused by so many things, but here was only comfort, here was only peace.
There was a reason James had found it impossible to keep David out of his heart.
This youth, who loved so intensely, and felt everything so deeply, captivated him beyond reason. He loved him– loved everything about him. His earnest manner, his sincere affection, his unreserved emotions; his bright, clear blue eyes that reminded Steerforth of summer skies; his shy, pretty, innocent manners and rosy blush; his animated way of interacting with Steerforth when he was excited; his happy laughter, his faithful, puppy-like trust; and above all, his fresh, untainted, unfeigned purity. It was the only thing James ever found himself satisfied with; Daisy's freshness.
Was James sure that he wanted any of that to change?
No… he realised.
He wasn't– not yet.
What he wanted was to have more of it– and to have it all to himself. To take this delightful creature away with him and bask in the rays of it, in a place where he could breathe easily, laugh freely, and never worry.
Maybe, just maybe, he might just find some real happiness overseas.
They just had to get there first.
***
Chapter 10: How I Passed The Next Three Weeks
Summary:
Two conversations; David's good and bad angels fight for his confidence. The events of the next three weeks, and David & James finally depart for Europe.
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 10:
How I Passed The Next Three Weeks
The weeks preceding our departure flew by in a veritable blur after that momentous Ball. Steerforth and I were largely preoccupied with packing, planning, shopping, and taking leave of our family and friends, who treated us as though we were bound for the Colonies, never to be seen or heard of again. Notwithstanding, there were several incidents, events, and conversations of note that took place during that time that struck me as being highly pertinent and significant, and which I remembered for a long time afterwards.
The first of these took place between Steerforth and myself the morning after the Ball.
I was emboldened, perhaps, by the precipitous love I felt for Miss Dora Spenlow– the angel of my heart! My sweet Dora!– and I felt proof against Rosa’s vulgar accusations against my person, that I would not be able to resist certain implied sexual advances upon my said person by her cousin if , in all improbability, it ever came down to that.
Now I knew, from how I felt about Miss Spenlow, that I certainly would do my utmost to protect any Christian honour I had for her– I was Dora’s and Dora’s alone! Not that I had any doubt that I would have done so otherwise, had I not known Dora; but Miss Dartle’s gaslit insinuations had left me weakened, distrustful, and suspicious of myself– perhaps that was her motive– although I would not have admitted this to her for the world.
I knocked at Steerforth’s bedroom door with this new determination in my heart (for I had slipped back to my room the moment he was asleep). Now that my confidence in myself had been restored, I made the decision to reveal the details of my exchange with Miss Dartle.
He bade me enter, and I did so with a hammering heart, and a fiercely determined countenance, which he immediately remarked on.
“Why, Davy,” said he with a pleasant, though curious look. “You look terribly up in arms this morning. What has Rosa said to vex you now?” He was dressing for the day in his languid and easy manner. The discontented, dispirited gloom that had surrounded him throughout the previous evening had disappeared, and he was again his own frank, winning self.
I hesitated on the threshold, then, fortifying myself, began. “Steerforth,” I said seriously, taking a step forward and shutting the door.
“David?” he smiled, unperturbed.
“I want to talk to you about what happened yesterday. Miss Dartle–” Here I faltered, my resolve momentarily departing.
“Yes? What did she say? Out with it, Copperfield,” he replied good-humouredly, choosing a waistcoat from his extensive wardrobe. He seemed remarkably unhurried. Whereas yesterday he was all but hounding me to discover the extent of my conversation with Rosa, today his manner was almost careless.
I looked at him, confused by the change. He chose a waistcoat with great deliberation, and, because I still hesitated, he turned and raised his dark eyebrows at me, prompting me to continue my dialogue.
“Come on, out with it, Daisy. What has she been telling you that has poisoned your heart towards me?”
“She said–” I hesitated, colouring, then blurted out, “She said that you have cultivated crude designs upon me, and that is your reason for taking me away. Is that true, Steerforth?” I asked gravely.
“If I said it was, what would you do?” he smiled, fixing his collar in place.
“I–” I stopped, taken aback. “So it’s true?” I asked, aghast.
Steerforth’s smile widened. “I never said that,” he replied laughingly. “I asked you what you would do,” he repeated, his face mischievous.
I was so baffled that I blinked at him several times and shook my head, foolishly replying, “I– I don't know.”
“Daisy!” Steerforth cried, clapping his hands with a peal of laughter. Trotting forward, he caught my face in his hands, squeezing my cheeks. “What do you mean you don't know? Are you saying–?” he laughed heartily again. I reddened, furiously embarrassed.
“I– No, stop!” I pushed him away. “You confuse me, James!” I exclaimed, turning about and shaking my head in my perplexity.
“Do I? I don’t mean to, Daisy,” he replied, his laugh dying away, but the twinkle of mirth in his eye brightening as he cocked his curly head at me.
“I'm not– ” I coloured again as I turned back to face him. “I'm not of that persuasion. I'm not!” I clenched my trembling fists to emphasize my point. He noted them with an amused look, completely at ease, in extreme contrast to my defensive agitation.
“My dear Daisy! What a relief! Neither am I. Shall we move on?” he beamed most cheerfully.
I looked at him, and I'm afraid I must have looked how I felt– perturbed, embarrassed and unsure, and above all, painfully young– because he sighed and drew his arm through mine with a decidedly fatherly air.
“My dear fellow– David. Don't you remember what I told you the night you discovered my little plot to steal away with Emily?”
I hesitated, trying to remember.
“Yes, you said… A lot of… peculiar things that night,” I started slowly.
Steerforth suppressed a smile and endeavoured to look serious as we walked slowly to and fro across his room.
“I won’t dispute that they may have been peculiar,” he assented graciously, with a slight nod. “Well. I was quite frustrated that night. I called you an annoying little brother, because, Davy,” he raised his eyebrows at me again, almost reprovingly, “-you really threw me into quite an upsetting little fix, even though it was, in the end, for my good.”
“Wait!” I argued, as the night flashed across my memory. “You distinctly said, Steerforth, that I reminded you of Emily– and that I’d ‘have made a capital little fairy’ myself –and you said you’d have carried me away long ago if I’d have been a woman! You did!”
“Yes. But you're not a woman, Daisy,” he sighed, though his eyes continued to express amusement, “-even though I wish, I wish, I wish you could give it to me! You can't.” He said this with such a conclusive air, that I felt convinced that he had given the subject much thought. I listened attentively as we continued slowly pacing the room. Steerforth’s tone was confidential and affectionately paternal as he continued to discourse, throwing me alternatively amused and serious little glances, while raising his eyebrows to emphasize his point.
“You're, instead, like the little brother I never had, David. Remember? I'd like to believe, Daisy, that if I had had a brother, I would be as affectionate with him as I am with you - but that may be the airy notion of a dreamer out of touch with the realities of siblingship. How should I know?” He shrugged and gestured with his hand, pulling a face. “In the meantime, you're just going to have to take your friend as he is, with all his romantic habits and affectionate sensibilities… Can you do that for me, David?” He stopped and looked down at me, his gaze unexpectedly unguarded and sincere. “Can you accept me as I am?”
There was something so extremely charming in his direct, unfiltered appeal, that it went straight to my heart. I felt my guard melt away at once. “Of course I can!” I cried with all the warmth I felt towards Steerforth once again flowing freely in me. “If you can accept me and my stupid ways! I am so sorry that I ever doubted you, my dear fellow.” I caught his hands and squeezed them in my immeasurable relief and joy.
“Tush! The less said, the better,” he laughed, reddening.
How glad I was to at last know where we stood! I felt an unbounded camaraderie and friendship filling my heart, and I couldn’t help embracing him in the overflow of my relieved emotions. He laughed again and patted me on the back, before pulling away, returning to dressing himself for the day ahead.
“Besides, Daisy, you know that I love little Emily. Even though I can’t have her…” he sighed, pulling a bottle green jacket out of his wardrobe and scrutinising it. “And I know that you're not of that persuasion. I've seen you with– the lovely Miss Spenlow,” he continued, making a decided effort that I appreciated. He replaced the green jacket and pulled out a navy one, continuing to deliberate.
“She is lovely…” I sighed concurrently, seating myself dreamily in one of his many easy chairs. “If only I could get around her father…”
I had taken advantage of a particularly amiable mood that I had discovered Mr Spenlow in during the previous night to inform him that I wouldn't be able to continue my apprenticeship as my venerable aunt was sending me on an overseas tour– I'm afraid I was cowardly enough to present it this way– in only a few weeks, and that I would be away for some months. When Mr Spenlow realised he would not be a recipient of my aunt's thousand pounds, our affinity had been brought to an agonising, grinding halt.
“Her father!” Steerforth exclaimed. “Well, my dear fellow, you are committed then? Good,” he nodded approvingly, much to my surprise, considering the undeniable aversion to Dora that he had evinced the previous evening. “Now that that little issue is cleared up, we can go on loving each other the same as we always have. You will let me continue to shower you with affection as my bosom friend, to whom I'm most attached, and I will do my gracious duty and intercede on your behalf to the lovely Miss Dora Spenlow, in spite of her father.”
“You'd do that for me? ” I cried in happy surprise.
“Oh yes, Daisy,” he smiled, pulling on a white jacket, his eyes twinkling at me. “It would be my pleasure.”
Steerforth was as good as his word and gained me, through a secret interview with Dora's bosom friend, one a Miss Julia Mills, a way to pass letters between Dora and myself. Whenever Dora went to visit Miss Mills– without Miss Murdstone in attendance– she wrote to tell me, and I would visit her clandestinely in the evening. I was let in through the kitchen door by Miss Mills when her father Mr Mills was out, and Dora and I would have the silliest, most rapturous interviews that ever youthful love did produce. We were only babies, Dora being just fifteen and I still only seventeen, but I was in a euphoria of love, and in a perpetual state of bliss over this arrangement. I began to think of proposing to Dora– what was my immeasurable joy to know that she loved me! – and all of a sudden, in one of our interviews, I did.
It was only two days before Steerforth and I were to sail and, feeling my impending separation from Dora with a gloomily leaden heart, I was desperate not to leave without inferring to Dora some definite token of our love. This token turned out to be an engagement ring of blue forget-me-nots.
I don't know how it happened that I had Dora in my arms that evening. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the time.
She hung her head and cried because I was going so far away for so long, and said I would soon forget her and that my love for her would die as soon as I had laid eyes on girls of French or Spanish blood.
I denied this vehemently. Life without Dora’s love was not a thing to have on any terms. I couldn’t bear it, and I wouldn’t. I had loved her every minute, day and night, since I first saw her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every minute, to distraction– French and Spanish girls be damned! They would never supplant my love for her and I would be as true to her as I knew how to be until I returned, or I should die in the attempt.
Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by, quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peacefully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.
I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in marriage. We must have had some, because Dora stipulated that we were never to be married without her papa’s consent. But, in our youthful ecstasy, I don’t think that we really looked before us or behind us; or had any aspiration beyond the ignorant present.
We were to keep our secret from Mr. Spenlow; but I am sure the idea never entered my head, then, that there was anything dishonourable in that.
I told Steerforth what I had done when I got home to Highgate in my noodly state of euphoria, and he hid his face and laughed outright for a good many minutes. He couldn't look at me without laughing; but before I could rouse myself enough to be offended, he shook hands heartily enough with me, kissed me twice, and said that he was pleased for us both and would help us keep our wonderful secret.
Long before these memorable events transpired– before even a single letter had passed between myself and Dora– during the week when my conversation with Steerforth the morning after the Ball was still fresh in my mind, I had gone down to see Agnes at her request. I saw her at the hotel she was staying in, and it was there that I took leave of both her and her father, in case I should not be able to visit them in Canterbury for a formal leave-taking before sailing.
We had at that time– and it was the only time to ever happen, to the best of my knowledge– a disagreement that led to our first and only real argument– of which Steerforth was again the centre.
I had informed her briefly at the Ball that I was shortly going away with Steerforth to Europe for some months. She had been very surprised by this, and as I had more to tell her– about little Emily and the things that had happened that fateful night– but wanted to prepare myself, she had asked me to visit her in two days.
I went down to see her as arranged, very much lighter in my heart than I had been at the Ball when I'd first met her, partially because of my boyish new love for Dora, and partially because of my better understanding of the present stage of my relationship with Steerforth.
After my frank conversation with him, I now trusted him more implicitly than ever, and would not hear any ill about him, not even from Agnes.
She listened with a solemn air and a steadily disturbed countenance to my narration of the events that had led to my upcoming travels with Steerforth. I tried to picture them in a slightly better, airier light to make them appear less grievous than they were, if that were possible, but even as I recounted the matter, I couldn’t help but realize just how troubling the situation was; nor could I ignore just how terribly it would have fallen out for the Peggotty’s had Steerforth been successful with his plans to woo and win little Emily.
Agnes did not speak after I had finished my tale, but sat silent for a good five minutes, pondering the matter.
“Now, Agnes, I know it sounds— very bad ,” I winced, “but I promise you, it sounds much worse than it is. Steerforth has had a complete change of heart since that night!” I smiled encouragingly at her, willing her to see that it was all resolved now, but the look she gave me seemed to have notes of new alarm in it.
“A change of— heart?” she asked slowly.
“Oh yes!” I nodded resolutely. “And, he’s so much nicer now than he’s ever been! We’ve never had such clear dialogue between ourselves as we have had lately, he fairly tells me everything. Why, Agnes, you spoke with him yourself at the Ball– what did you think of him?”
“I thought…” She arose and slowly walked to the window, then turned and looked at me with her gentle brow quite puckered. “I thought him to be a most inscrutable man. There is something false about him; he seems to be acting half the time, and idly amusing himself the other half–”
“Why, Agnes!” I exclaimed, shocked by this description.
“–amusing himself at your expense,” she finished slowly.
“Agnes! Now you know that isn’t true,” I frowned, hurt on Steerforth’s behalf.
“Trotwood, does your aunt know any of what you just told me?” she asked seriously.
I flushed then, caught out. “No-o, not exactly– oh Agnes!,” I cried imploringly, rising and going to her. “You know she’d never let me go with him if I told her the… the truth?” I winced again, as I held her hands in mine, and Agnes sighed deeply. “I didn’t lie to her! We just thought–”
“We?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Trot–”
“Steerforth said to her that he had grown attached to me, and had enjoyed my company!” I continued, somewhat desperately. “Which is absolutely true! And that a trip abroad would broaden my horizons, which it will, my dear Agnes.”
“Oh, Trotwood! The battle for your mind and heart is raging,” Agnes replied, her face contorting with sudden passion. “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he. You shouldn’t trust so blindly in James Steerforth! You don't seem to realise what kind of person he is.”
“I do realise, Agnes–”
“No, you don't, Trot–!”
“–that you have judged him too quickly!” I finished, turning myself and walking away in an exasperated manner.
“Then you are choosing to be wilfully blind to it to your own hurt, Trotwood!” Agnes pursued, following me and placing a hand on my arm.
“Stop, Agnes! You don't know him like I do!” I looked back at her, galled, but still trying to persuade her.
“He has deceived you once already, by your own admission!” she continued in an agonised voice, her eyes full of tears. “He has already taken advantage of your ignorance! Why would you think he wouldn't do it again? Why would you think he wouldn't take advantage of your blind trust in him? Blind, Trotwood, blind!”
Agnes hid her face in her hands, and though I was aggrieved by her words, I was equally as displeased with myself for provoking her to tears.
“Don’t cry, my dear Agnes,” I implored, catching her in my arms.
“Oh, Trot! Your naivety is leading you to the edge of disaster,” she wept, her hands still before her face, even as I embraced her. “I fear it will drown you in falls from which even I cannot rescue you, from which you will never recover, if you don't take warning–! You must listen to warning, Trot!” She looked desperately up at me, the tears flowing freely from her eyes. “ Please– as you value my friendship, your family, your life - don't trust in James Steerforth!”
“You sound just like Rosa!” I exclaimed, irritated. “But Agnes, maybe he–”
“Trotwood, by your own account, he is a master of deception,” she cut me off, her distress increasing. “Is that the kind of person to let lay in your bosom? He constantly plays mind games. He is so frighteningly— calculating! He exerts his charms and uses flattery in order to manipulate– Oh, I worry for you Trotwood, because of how quickly you seem to have forgotten this! Or has he made you forget? Do you think Mr Steerforth divulged the whole of his secret to seduce Emily to you willingly, out of the goodness of his heart?” she exclaimed despairingly.
“Maybe he did! Agnes, someday you’ll realise you’re wrong about him! Steerforth– my bad angel, or anyone’s! Never!” I argued, releasing her in my frustration and marching to the door.
“No, Trotwood,” she shook her head hopelessly at me, wiping at her eyes. “When will you face the truth? You must!”
“It isn’t the truth! Agnes, I'm going to Europe. I'm going with him. And neither you, nor Rosa can stop me!”
I’m afraid I stormed out of the room then in a fit of temper, and left Agnes in tears. However, it wasn’t to last long– my heart was too soft to remain angry for long, and I very soon repented myself, returned to her in tears, and fell upon my knees across her lap apologising– for she had sunk down into a chair in her discouraged state.
We must have passed a quarter of an hour this way, before Agnes, once again drying her eyes, with a troubled look– for she was so sensitive to the hurts of others– asked in a whisper, “I hope I have not hurt you, Trotwood?”
“No,” I shook my head, also wiping the tears from my eyes as I looked up into her face– for I had laid my head down upon her lap and wept remorsefully when I had fallen on my knees at her feet. “Faithful are the wounds of a friend, Agnes!”
“But the kisses of an enemy are so deceitful…” she finished with a quiet sob. She reached out then, and stroked my face tenderly, her lips pressed together as she struggled to control her feelings. “You are so trusting… so forgiving! And so easily influenced, that I can’t help worrying for you, Trotwood.”
“I know it, Agnes. You are the most loving sister ever a youth could wish for! I know I don’t deserve you. I only hope I have not hurt you,” I returned fervently.
“No,” she replied with a small smile. She became solemn again, and bent forward, folding her arms across her knees, resting her forehead against mine as I looked up at her. “Trotwood… I only want you to learn to guard your heart. Everything you do flows from it…” she said quietly.
“I’ll try…” I whispered back.
Agnes attempted to smile and nod, her eyes again becoming damp. “I know you will.”
I rose and embraced her, then lifted her up and supported her on my arm as we walked together to the door. I was suddenly reluctant to leave her, and lingered in the doorway. Agnes also hesitated, unwilling to take leave of me. She bade me wait a moment, and ran towards a little desk in the room, pulling out a wrapped present. I was touched by her thoughtfulness, and embraced her tightly, feeling suddenly just how much I would miss her calming, sweet presence while I was away. I hardly wanted to leave her.
“Promise me– promise me you'll be careful of him, Trotwood,” –referring to Steerforth again, as she pulled back and gazed at me–, “You are going to be alone now for many weeks, or months. You won’t be able to turn to me to help you if you find yourself in trouble. So be careful, Trot. Don’t put over much trust in a friend who has already proven… unfaithful, and false. Don’t let him over-influence you as he has in the past… As he thinks in his heart, so is he - even if he seems to be something else completely right now. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I will,” I promised, kissing her cheek several times and embracing her again.
“And, remember: draw near to God and he will draw near to you,” she added in a quieter voice in my ear. “It is better to trust in the Lord, than to put confidence in princes. Promise me you won’t forget that, Trot.”
I smiled affectionately at her added reproof; she was always wont to add Bible verses to everything. “I won’t Agnes. I promise.”
I kissed her again, and took my leave of her. When I had returned to Highgate, and was alone in my room, I unwrapped the present Agnes had given me. It was a Bible– it was just like her, I thought with a small smile. Opening the front cover, I found inscribed on the inside, in Agnes’ delicate script, a psalm:
──── ୨୧ ────
Psalms 119:9
How can a young man keep his way pure? (How can he stay on the path of purity?) By keeping watch [on himself] (and by living) according to Your Word.
──── ୨୧ ────
Even holding her present gave me a sense of peace, as though Agnes was with me; and I think that also gave me courage. I packed the little Bible Agnes had given me carefully into my carpet bag, resolving to use it specially on Sundays for chapel while abroad; then I drew up my knees and lapsed into dreams of all the ornate, the ruined, and the ancient places of worship we would come across on our travels, wandering the far off roads in my mind, until I stumbled across the seed of an idea for what felt to me like a brilliant new story…
A few days later was Barkis’s funeral. A doleful, solemn event it was– but how cheered we all were by the wedding of little Emily to Ham Peggotty the following week! I attended both events alone, without Steerforth, but didn’t feel his absence. Indeed, it didn’t feel like he belonged at either event, and I was glad to spend this time specially with the Peggotty’s, cheering their sorrows and rejoicing in their happiness, and feeling how much I would miss my surrogate family while I was away.
They had many well wishes for me, and to pass on to Steerforth– which, after my talk with Agnes reminding me of the circumstances of my travel, I felt more than a little awkward about– but promised to pass on anyway. Little Emily looked very wistful in hearing about our planned travels– it was all I could do to hold my tongue so that she may not know that she should have been in my place! Mr Peggotty promised to come down to see us off, for we would sail from Dover. I tried persuading him not to, knowing how different his sentiment towards Steerforth would be had he known anything– but he was determined to come, and so I relented.
I had an affectionate leave-taking of my old friends that I would leave in London, the Micawber’s, and of Traddles. Mr Micawber was, at that time, almost entering into a new role working for none other than— Uriah Heep! I was much disturbed by this, but somehow glad that my dear Agnes would have some friendly heart and face near her at the very least in my absence. To Traddles, I expressly committed the secret of my burgeoning authorship, and promised to send any stories I wrote while abroad to him; he promised he would endeavour to find publishers for me– the good fellow!
Of Dora, I had the most miserable leave-taking of all. I could hardly bear to depart from Miss Mills’ house, and only fled at the sound of Mr Mills’ returning horses, after stealing a last kiss from my beloved. After bidding an affectionate goodbye to Mrs Steerforth, and a less affectionate one to Miss Rosa Dartle- who I was privately relieved had been much mollified by my engagement to Dora, though she was still of a suspicious aspect towards her cousin due to the unchanged nature of his affectionate behaviour towards me- Steerforth and I left London with the indispensable Littimer (who was, of course, coming with us) and travelled with our luggage to Dover.
In Dover, my Aunt Betsey and Mr Dick received us with wonderful amiability, and were so hospitable to Steerforth that he wondered aloud to me as we repaired to our rooms for the night how it could be considered acceptable that he had never visited me in Dover before then: and said that when we were back, he would make them many, many visits.
The morning of our departure came; Steerforth was absent until the time to mount the gang-plank came, for he had run out on last minute errands. I thought it a little odd– having Littimer to run errands, why do them himself? But he had gone without a word, and returned full of smiles, bearing a package for me from Dora!; for he had met with none other than Miss Julia Mills, who had come down from London, and she had imparted it to him. I was overcome by the thoughtfulness of my sweet Dora, and heartily wished I had left her some other gift beside her engagement ring.
The ship was full, the plank was pulled up, we had waved and waved to our friends and family assembled on shore, and I had retired to our private cabin to mull over my happiness and to open Dora’s package.
I pulled the string, and with the falling paper, I felt my world shatter in slow motion and fall away too.
Inside was Dora’s ring.
***
Chapter 11: Cheerful
Summary:
David struggles with his emotions over 'losing' Dora as Steerforth reprimands him.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 11:
Cheerful
I did not, at first, quite believe my eyes.
Only after I had, with trembling fingers, lifted the ring from the nest of papers in which it sat, and had handled it, turning it over and over, did I begin to believe that it was the same ring I had had specially made for my fiancé.
My next thought was that something terrible had happened to Dora– she must be in dire circumstances! I must jump off the ship, swim back to Dover, and rush back to her immediately! Or, maybe she had died prematurely and I was already too late! – It was with a horrible shock that I noticed that the nest of papers her ring had been sitting upon were nothing less than the many lovesick letters and notes I had written to Dora over the past three weeks during our whirlwind courtship!
I received a second, dreadful shock in unfolding a very different, official looking piece of paper– only to find Mr Spenlow’s handwriting within!
What was my dismay to read his words of reproof and denouncement! What was my horror, to find that Jip– accursed Jip! – had seized one of my love letters to Dora and had run with it to Miss Murdstone! What was my terror, to find that she had taken it stony-heartedly from a sobbing Dora, despite her pleas, and had presented it to Mr Spenlow! What was my agony, to find that Dora had been made to recount the full story of our secret love and engagement– and what was my complete destruction to find that Mr Spenlow had with immediate effect annulled our engagement, sending every token of my love to Dora back to me!
I cast myself upon my bed, then, and wept aloud, heartbroken, uncaring who may hear.
My blessed Dora! My sweet Dora! My angel– no more!
I yanked at my hair in my grief and beat upon the bed, scattering the papers like confetti. Steerforth, or Littimer, or someone knowing that I was a party with one of the two, must have heard or been alerted to the sound of my agonised sobbing, for I wept alone for no more than five minutes before Steerforth himself entered the cabin.
“David!” he cried. “Whatever’s the matter?”
With a look of alarm at my prostration, he knelt and raised me up to look at him. I could hardly utter my complaint, so deep was the wound that had been inflicted! I tried to speak, pointed to Mr Spenlow’s letter, continued to sob aloud, and buried my face in his shoulder.
Steerforth was alternately patting me on the back, and reading the letter, having retrieved it from where I had cast it in my distress.
“Oh… Oh dear,” I heard him murmur. “This is … unfortunate. Dreadful.”
“He’s a dragon! He’s a monstrous ogre! He– o-oh!” I cried in a passion, pulling back with clenched fists and quickly descending into sobs again. “He can’t do this–!”
“Well, unfortunately, my poor, dear Daisy, he can, actually. He’s her father, ” Steerforth replied sympathetically, pulling my pocket handkerchief from my waistcoat pocket and dabbing at my face with it.
“Are you on his side?!” I cried again, my face agonised.
“No, David, of course not,” he shook his head reprovingly at me, his face hurt. “Would I have gone around her father and gotten you that first interview if I was?” He raised his eyebrows at me. I felt ashamed then, and shook my head mournfully, my eyes still damp with tears, little sobs still racking my throat. He sighed as he moved to sit on my bed– for he had been kneeling this whole time– and pulled me into his arms, where I sobbed freely while he showered me with sympathetic kisses, all the while murmuring, “Poor boy!”
“But, my dear boy,” Steerforth said at length, pulling away again, “-if it has all been discovered, well… there isn’t much you can do, you know. And crying over it–” -in response to a hiccupy sob from me– “–will only give you a headache, my dear boy. It won’t help her, you know.”
“I know, but it’s so unfair–!” I wailed.
“Now, David,” Steerforth said, more seriously. “This won’t do, you know.”
“What d-do you– mean?” I replied miserably between deep breaths.
“This is no way to handle bad news, my dear boy,” he continued, gently reproving me, his hands on my shoulders. “I know this… unpleasant discovery has been a shock to your system, I can appreciate that. But you can’t blub over it like a child, you know. Have some dignity, David,” he continued, righting my askew collar and cravat, looking very gravely at me.
“Must I?” I rejoined in a tiny, miserable voice, my face still screwed up with emotion.
Steerforth suppressed a smile, and nodded slowly and importantly. “My dear boy, you must remember– what you do reflects on me. What if the other sailors think I’m chaperoning a baby?” I blushed, stung by the reference, as he shook his head and tutted, displeased. “You said yourself that you aren’t a baby. Well. Prove it! I’m taking you on this tour to try to make a man out of you, Daisy,” he continued patting my cheek. “So you can be an independent, responsible, clear-headed, well-rounded man of society. I know I’m being very hard on you, but it's for your own good. You’ll be eighteen in four days - you must try to be more mature.”
I heard out his speech with a mutinous expression, but didn’t dispute it, swallowing down my rebellious replies. I wanted to cry, to wail, to knock Mr Spenlow’s head against–! Instead I sighed deeply, beginning to feel very ashamed of my tantrum, and tried to pull myself and my broken heart together.
“Besides, it’s not the end of the world,” Steerforth continued, wrapping a consoling arm around me while I dried the remnants of my tears. “Dora will still be there when you get back, and you will arrive back a well-travelled, experienced man, able to hold your own, and dare I say– a successful author to boot?” He grinned at me, and I couldn’t help smiling back. I laid my head on his shoulder, tiredness creeping over me as my head began to throb after my tears.
He pressed another kiss to the top of my head and rubbed my shoulder before continuing. “So you see, her father will have to reconsider– providing the old fellow is even still alive. ”
“Steerforth!” I gasped, lifting my head to look at him.
“Well,” he shrugged, a twinkle in his eye as he released me and stood up. “No one lives forever. So just buck up, old boy. Chin up, like a man. Good. Think of it like this: now you aren’t tied down. Now you’re free to go where you will and do as you please without compunction. And so, you’re going to be cheerful, and I'm going to make your aunt proud, we’re going to have a grand time on our grand tour, aren’t we?” He extended a hand to me with raised eyebrows and a smile.
“Yes, Steerforth…” I sighed heavily, feeling wretched but forcing a small smile as I took his hand and allowed him to pull me to my feet.
I was reminded by this conversation, of how I had had to pretend to be cheerful when Mr Mell, a poor schoolteacher from our Salem House days, had been forced to resign because of Steerforth; because of Steerforth’s contempt for his poverty. I had unfortunately revealed this accidental discovery to Steerforth on account of my not being able to keep a secret from him. Mr Mell had been extremely kind to me, and helpful, so when he was forced to leave in such an ignominious manner, I felt extremely guilty for occasioning it. However, I did not want to appear ungrateful to Steerforth, who had done so much for me, and who I felt I owed a great deal to. He said that it had been for all our sakes that he had gotten Mr Mell fired. Only Traddles had had the goodness to be upset over Mr Mell's departure, and Steerforth had been very angry with him, and had called him names all day. Steerforth had also kept looking at me to see what I would do, and so although I had felt wretched, I kept a cheerful face so as not to disappoint him.
“Good boy, Daisy,” Steerforth grinned approvingly, throwing an arm around my shoulder and ruffling my hair, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. I felt now more than ever, that nothing had really ever changed since those school days.
“Now, the view on deck is lovely, and after all that excitement, I could do with a glass of wine, couldn’t you?” he half-laughed, discarding the matter behind him as he led me back out into the sunshine.
***
Notes:
Don't you just hate it when Steerforth actually makes sense? .....(ᵕ—ᴗ—)
Chapter 12: The Grand Tour Begins
Summary:
David & James arrive in Paris!
Notes:
They're finally in Europe! Yay! I've been studying the Victorian craze for the 'Grand Tour' of Europe quite a bit to try to help make this feel more realistic. Young men of means and leisure used to make this trip a lot, always ending up in Italy (and Greece) one way or another. Let's see which route Steerforth takes Daisy... I hope I can do their journey justice (and inspire you to go travelling too!!) ❀
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 12:
The Grand Tour Begins
Although I was miserable, and felt absolutely dejected after my loss of Dora, I forced myself to be cheerful for Steerforth’s sake, as much as my own, after this. I kept Dora’s ring on a chain, and hid it in my waistcoat pocket like a good luck charm, determining to repropose to her whenever I finally made it back to England, even if it was years hence.
As downhearted as I was, I couldn’t keep a long face in Steerforth’s presence. Not that he was unkind to me, or very hard on me– he was quite the opposite. He watered his words by being sensitive to my doleful feelings, and by being very cheerful and charming himself. What he had said made sense to me, and I accepted it reluctantly. I realised that he was devoting himself to me, his time and energy to my development, and I didn't want to be a dolorous companion or make our time together unpleasant. It was a privilege for me to have him as my very own tour guide, so it had to be worth his while too.
We were going on our very own Grand Tour of Europe, just the two of us, and that was something to be cheerful about, after all.
And so Steerforth, steadily, by degrees, reignited my excitement about our travels, about the little surprises he had planned for me, and about the multitudinous exotic sights we were going to see when we had once landed on the Continent. I found myself smiling and laughing along with him, much to my surprise (and my private sorrow, that I could be so hardhearted as to forget my Dora so quickly–!) Yet, I could see that Steerforth was pleased that I was at least trying, and I counted that as being worth something.
It took only three hours to cross the Channel due to pleasant weather and smooth seas. We landed at La Havre in France, a busy little port town where I was thrilled to hear French being spoken as the predominant language. I had had lessons at school, but now I was to get a chance to practice conversational French with the locals!
Littimer procured a carriage for us and our luggage, and we were rolling into that famous city of Paris by nightfall.
By this point I was already feeling lighter at heart; I knew that was Steerforth’s doing, and I was truly grateful. All along the road he had pointed out different sights and scenes to me, and we had practised French phrases until my mind was dizzy with them. He had called out friendly greetings to the peasant people that we passed with an enviable naturalness, as though he himself were one of the locals, and I greatly admired him for it.
“Well, Daisy, old boy,” Steerforth smiled, walking up to where I now stood looking out of the windows of the twin-bedded hotel room we were sharing. “Here she is! Paris!” He said this with an impeccable French accent as he threw an affectionate arm around me with a laugh. “The city of love! City of culture– ville de la révolution, la mode, le romantisme–!”
He laughed again and began to sway, singing a French ditty as I wrapped a corresponding arm around him and smiled, feeling like one caught in reverie. His eyes sparkled as I looked at him.
“I have so much to show you. You really have so much to learn, Daisy! We'll start first thing tomorrow. But for tonight– let’s walk a little in this delightful French moonlight, see if we can find any good taverns, and mix a little with the locals. You can practice your accent and taste the French wine at the same time - it's the best of the best, old boy!”
We went out laughing, and when we staggered back to our beds hours later, singing loudly and cheerful hearted, I already felt that England, Rosa, Agnes, and Dora were all but a distant dream.
***
Notes:
Forgotten Agnes's warnings already, David? Oh dear (❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡
Chapter 13: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
Summary:
They travel, travel, travel ♡ Steerforth's campaign begins on David's birthday; David begins to fall...
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 13:
He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
“I would not have believed you nine years ago if you’d have told me I’d spend my eighteenth birthday like this,” I smiled blissfully, gazing at the panorama before me.
Four days had passed since we had arrived in France. We’d spent a day in Paris, and had spent half of it walking the old streets– somewhat narrow and dirty, I found them– and the other half we spent wandering around the Louvre, admiring all manner of artwork and sculpture. Steerforth, of course, knew everything about even the littlest objects we saw, and was a mine of the most interesting information. I don’t know how he knew so much, but I knew I could have listened to him talk all day.
We had then packed up and left the closeness of Paris for Bordeaux in the South of France. What a joy it was to leave the crowded streets for the dusky, verdant country road! Spring was coming on in full force then, and the air was sweetly fragranced by the freshly flowering blooms that tipped their heads into the dusty roads and along the shady pathways. Our horses were lively and we made good time; we had a hearty welcome at each little village we stopped at along the way; and at each new corner some new delight presented itself – a chateau peeking shyly from pines here! Sleepy lakeside villages there! It wasn’t long before we truly began to sink into the reverie of the trip, and revel in the idea that many such days were still ahead of us.
We landed, not in Bordeaux itself, but in a charming commune just before it called Saint-Émilion. After exploring the medieval streets at our leisure, we had visited the vineyards, and as Steerforth had promised, we were indeed toasting my eighteenth birthday with nectarean French wine to my untold delight.
The view that spread before us was a sunlit one of the richest hues of blues and greens, all melding into each other, as if to entice us to stay and linger among the vines a little longer. I was already finding France much warmer than England, and was glad we had come in the Springtime, so I would be able to have the leisure to adjust to this pleasant, temperate climate.
My birthday had coincided with Easter, so we had awoken that morning to bells pealing clearly in the crisp dawn air from the church spires that rose prettily all around the sleepy little town. Saint-Émilion was as most places in France were– predominantly Catholic.
As Protestants, we did not go for Mass (in actual fact, we overslept)– but there had been a parade through the streets; we had been caught in it, and were given bouquets of gorgeous smelling fresh flowers by smiling, colourfully dressed children. Steerforth, in his enjoyment of the scene and moment, had woven some of my flowers together to form a magnificent wreath that now adorned my blonde tresses. I had blushed when he had crowned me with it, but laughed happily on receiving multiple pleasing compliments from the friendly town folk.
We had given many bonjours to the pretty, buxom maidens of the little town, and their mothers, as they hung out washing or stood in doorways with checked teatowels watching tumbling children. They would blush, smile, and curtsey as we passed them, with mannerisms that I was absolutely charmed with. We often caught them whispering as we passed; Steerforth had listened keenly, and laughingly told me that they were complimenting the ‘handsome foreign boys’.
How they knew we were foreigners, I had no idea. By this point, we had also adopted a much less formal mode of dress than I would ever dream of sporting in England. Steerforth’s style of easy, tasteful negligence had affected me, and the French attitude of dressing had influenced us both. Maybe we still lacked a certain essence, a little je ne sais quoi that caused us to stand out, no matter how much we dressed to fit in.
Steerforth clinked his glass with mine, his face merry. “I think this birthday is a marked improvement to the last one I saw with you, Daisy!”
“Sans doute,” I replied, inhaling the fragrant, heady scent of the vineyard happily.
Due to our immersion in the culture, I had found my French rapidly improving; indeed, it was wonderful how being forced to communicate in the local language had prompted my remembrance of many little words and phrases that had otherwise lain dormant in my learned vocabulary. Steerforth grinned; he too was extremely pleased with my progress. Only Littimer, who was neither impressed or depressed by anything, remained as impassive to my flourishing language skills as ever.
He served us now, refreshing our glasses with fresh wine, which we were balancing with a few simple but delicious hors d'oeuvres. Steerforth watched me enjoying a brie and honey slice– the cheese, the honey, the pastries, the meals - all we had eaten and drunk I had found divine! My admiration for French produce and cookery had reached new levels of sublimity– before he spoke again.
“Daisy, I could look at you all day! Those flowers make you look devilishly— pretty? Is that an acceptable turn of phrase?” he asked laughingly, resting his chin on his hand as he smiled across the little, circular, white cloth-covered table at me.
“It’s as good a phrase as any other,” I laughed, blushing and rearranging my floral wreath. I caught up some of the flowers in the bouquet that lay on the table between us, broke off some of the smaller flowers, and reached over to him, deftly tucking them into various curls, laughing all the while. “If Rosa could see us now, she’d probably have a fit!”
“If Rosa could see us now, it probably still wouldn’t stop me from doing this,” he grinned mischievously, catching my hovering hand in his and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Daisy! If you were a flower, I'd pick you.”
I threw a reproving look at him and blushed when his grin widened. Withdrawing my hand, I glanced at Littimer, who pretended not to have seen Steerforth’s action with marvelously dogged blindness.
I felt now more than ever, that James’s ‘innate childish playfulness’ had given way to more expressly flirtatious behaviour than of late; or maybe now I only noticed it more. Having been warned so much against it, I was now keenly aware of it; but that I didn’t know what to make of it, or how to respond, was obvious to us both.
If I reproved Steerforth, it only encouraged him. If I accepted it, that also encouraged him. I felt my dilemma. In the end, I resolved to just be patient with him, inwardly hoping he would find a buxom French interest so that his somewhat intense gaze might wander from me. In the meantime, I decided to enjoy his attention, and make the most of it, for I didn’t find it exactly… unpleasant.
“You are ridiculous, Steerforth,” I laughed. “I’m more interested in our agenda than your flattery! My dear fellow, won’t you tell me where we are going next? As a little birthday gift?”
He had bought me, as a joke– it being Easter– an exquisitely crafted chocolate cockerel, and had Littimer hide a whole nest full of chocolate eggs for me to find around the vineyard.
Steerforth shook his head, his glossy curls catching the light prettily. “You’ll have to wait and see, Davy, my dear boy!” he winked. “One surprise at a time.”
We passed some of the most delightful days of my existence in travelling slowly from town to town as we traversed Southern France, on our way towards the Alps.
I was hard pressed to keep Agnes’s warnings in my mind when we walked together down the rows of budding lavender; when French musicians serenaded us by firelight; as we watched the full, pink French moon rising in the sky. Through Marmande, and Roquefort, down to Lourdes; we dipped our toes in Spain; up again, to Toulouse; to Montpellier where we stayed for days and days as Steerforth satisfied his love for seafaring, and I sat and dreamed on the beaches, and wrote and wrote and wrote.
I fell in love with France; I fell in love in France. To me, it was one and the same.
I was not surprised, under such an atmosphere, to find myself sweetening towards Steerforth. The romance of France lay thick and heavy on its cobbled streets, in its azure streams and rivers, on its mountains and dormant green-carpeted volcanic regions. Spring sighed with contentment as it flowed softly into the arms of summer. We walked, we rode, we wandered and lost ourselves. We hid from Littimer, to his frustration and our childish glee; we dived and swam in crystal clear, secluded pools, and spontaneously absconded on mini adventures. We laughed, and loved, and drank, and were gloriously happy.
Even as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, Steerforth continually proved to be an excellent tour guide. He seemingly knew everything there was to know about art, and antiquated objects, about landscapes and monuments, about scenery, and about people. Everywhere we went, people were charmed by him. He conversed in as many local dialects as there were at any given time with an ease that astounded me.
He delighted in surprising me; and each sweet little action drew me involuntarily to him. It was impossible not to fall in love with him, despite my efforts. I felt that I loved and admired him then more than I ever had; which indeed, I did– and he knew that I did, though sometimes he did not believe it.
By the time we made it to Venice, after passing over the Alps, through Switzerland, through the breathtaking Dolomites, and so into Italy, four full months had passed since we had departed from England. I felt myself lost in a vivid dream, and hoping I would never wake up, despite the predicament I found myself in.
Up to this point, I had just about managed to resist Steerforth’s evident deep desire to kiss more than just my blushing cheeks. I turned away whenever I saw his lips approaching mine, teasingly hiding my face, and anxiously cut down any private desire I had to kiss him. It was growing more difficult, with each lingering embrace and longing look; and I wondered nervously with each narrow escape who would break first.
Whenever I found myself giving in to this silent siege, Agnes would appear before me. I was surprised that it wasn’t Dora’s face I saw more, for I had kissed Dora many times over, and still remembered just how sweet and soft I had found her lips. But it was Agnes that I saw whenever I found myself studying Steerforth’s full, curving lips and wondering how soft they were. It was Agnes’s voice in my ear that caused me to turn my head; that caused me to resist Steerforth’s love-making; that caused me to pull out the little Bible she had given me and drown myself in it to keep my moral, Christian resolve from breaking into little pieces.
I now understood that the race James had referred to so many months ago, had meant me. I fully realised, not only that he wanted to win me, but that he was absolutely tireless in his campaign. Emily had long since disappeared from his thoughts, and he was now completely focused on one goal. At least, that was the way it seemed.
Sometimes he looked at me like he wondered if I loved him; other times he would throw his reserve and his questions to the wind, showering his hopeful love on me, willing me to accept all he had to give.
And on the night of the Venetian Masquerade Ball, I very nearly did just that.
***
Chapter 14: What Happens in Venice...
Summary:
...stays in Venice? After a Venetian Ball, David, realising things are not as innocent as they first seemed to him, finds his problems coming to a head. Morality clashes begin, David's inner turmoil and identity crisises continue - and lingering manipulation issues begin to be more apparent to him.
Notes:
Ah, this chapter made me sad... (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ) Also, I keep updating the tags and have updated the audience to Teen and above (although it won't ever become smutty, because I don't write smut - I'm a fluff writer!) I still don't exactly know where this story is going to go, but I think I'm doing OK with keeping it somewhere in the original storyline sequence of events (albeit we're following David in Emily's route now!) Also - anyone get the Brideshead Revisited reference? (❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ (Had to do it!) ♡ Also - David was reading from 1 Corinthians 6:9-20 ♡
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 14:
What Happens In Venice...
Venice was like no place I had ever been.
A city of floating marble palaces, and more bridges than I had ever seen at one time, Venice bewitched me with its changing faces, its canals, its shifting character; its palazzos, its basilicas, its gardens and its gondolas. In the baking heat of those early August days, it was delicious to swoon through her maze of streets, and cool ourselves by floating down her waterways; at night, we found ourselves drifting into licentious territory– or, in any case, Steerforth did.
Perhaps it was because I had thus far resisted Steerforth's advances– Rosa's sneer, and her acerbic words, “You don't have the power to resist him. If he wanted you, you'd give yourself to him,” were pretty well seared into the back of my mind– but it was here, in Venice, that I thankfully found momentary bouts of relief from his burning gaze.
There were women, there were cicisbeo, there were gambling houses, there was wine (there was always wine, but now there was more of it), and this combined was a cocktail he could not resist. He tried, at first, to bring me along with him, but I thought of Dora waiting for me back in England, and drew the line. He had hoped I would forget her, I knew now, but as I hadn’t, he had to be content to only wander with me during the day. At night he left me in Littimer's charge so that he could seek and satisfy his unbounded desire for passion and pleasure.
I was troubled by this– I didn't like to see this shift in him– and so I tried to admonish him for this insatiable sensuality, and to reason with him, but he would only smile at me, kiss my hand and go on his way.
Far from coming back from his pleasure driven nights satisfied, I realised, with a pang of nervousness, that he looked at me more hungrily than before. But I found that the more he desired me, the more he drove me to find refuge in reading Agnes's little Bible; and the more I read, the more troubled I became by what we were doing– and were seemingly about to do.
“Steerforth, please!” I said to him one evening as he was going out, catching a hold of his arm. “‘I have the right to do anything,’ you say—but not everything is good or helpful! Just because you can doesn't mean you should. I read this morning that– that fornication is a sin against your own body, and the body is not for sexual immorality, but that we're ‘bought with a price’–!”
“And so? What should I do, Daisy?” he smiled, turning to me, placing a hand on my waist.
“And so we ought to honour God in our bodies,” I continued earnestly. “Whoever joins themselves to a prostitute is one with her, or him!”
“You sound just like our dear Saint Agnes!” he laughed, folding his arms loosely around me and drawing me nearer. “I'm going to have to take that Bible away from you,” he murmured.
“James, what if you get some kind of– of social disease? I don’t want you to get sick. I want you to live a cleaner life–”
“I don't want to live a cleaner life, my dear Daisy,” he replied, his face impish, his eyes sparkling with humour.
“–for the sake of your soul!” I argued, rapping him on the chest. “We can't inherit the kingdom of God if we live unrighteous, or sexually immoral, or –” I flushed, but steadied myself– “-or homosexual, or effeminate lives!”
“David, my darling, my soul and my body will be just fine,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to the side of my head, then releasing me, he walked out of the apartment. “Don't worry your pretty little head over my temple!”
I had slowly realised that I had an astonishing lack of influence over him; he himself told me that ‘he liked pretty things’ –meaning me, I guessed, shamefaced–, but those pretty things were only his chief amusements; they didn’t hold any actual power with him. I continued to wonder what I could do, if anything– and in the meantime, I let him go night after night, lest he should decide to take out his frustration on me instead.
We had arrived in Venice at a time when the city was making its final preparations for the legendary Carnival. As we walked the streets during the day, we debated buying tickets and costumes, and joining it; I was certainly intrigued by the dreaminess of such an event. Chance happily threw the opportunity into our laps.
Four days after our arrival, we crossed paths with an old Oxford acquaintance of Steerforth's. He was a young English lord, called Sebastian (who was, like us, travelling with a close companion; his was a young man named Charles), who invited us to join an exclusive Masquerade Ball happening at the Royal Palace the next night where we might meet some Venetian nobility.
I was dazzled by the notion of mingling with royalty at such an exciting event. It painted glorious pictures in my mind, and so I made Steerforth accept, and began dragging him into costume shops immediately to search for suitable outfits.
What queer places the Venetian costumeries were!
Overflowing with hats, capes, and masks of every description, dresses, walking sticks, and precious accessories – all very fine, and all handmade. The glitter, the ruffs, the feathers, the queer objects of every shape, colour, style; my senses were fairly overwhelmed as we passed from shop to shop.
Eventually, we entered the strangest little hole-in-the-wall of costumery; a wooden-beamed, ancient looking place that overhung the river. It was much bigger inside than it looked at first glance, although it was heaving with fabric, masks, and all kinds of accessories that made the space feel close. A wizened, browned, good-humoured old Italian woman, who looked as though she must have always been part of that ancient scene, greeted us as we entered. After taking one look at us, she clapped her hands and bustled us into a large dressing room hidden behind layers and layers of cloth without a word, then disappeared again. I looked at Steerforth, bemused, and he shrugged and laughed.
She was back in an instant, burbling in Italian, her hands full of costumes she had brought out for us to try. What a hilarious hour or two that followed! We must have tried on dozens of ruffled shirts, absurdly wide ruffs, old-fashioned shoes, capes, and masks of all kinds. When Steerforth, trying on a plague doctor outfit, once pulled the hooked mask over his face, I couldn’t help descending into helpless laughter.
“No, no, non per te,” (–not for you), the old lady smiled, taking the mask from him. “Devi vestirti come un– un principe!” (–You must dress like a– a prince!) she exclaimed, clapping her hands and disappearing again, repeating this sentiment. She returned with a costume of royal blue with gold and white details and accents; a marvelously ornate dress coat and inner waistcoat, large buckled shoes, knee-length breeches, a floorlength cape, a plumed hat, a half-face mask, a great ruby ring, a carved, golden walking staff, and a variety of other trappings. It was a costume that should have looked ridiculous on anyone else; on Steerforth it looked incredible. He was transformed into Venetian royalty, and I couldn’t help admiring him.
The old lady then turned her attention to me, with a twinkle in her eye.
“Ah,” she smiled. “Ora lo so.” (–Now I know.) She took herself away and returned, her arms full of a matching fabric to Steerforths’s– but not of breeches and dress coats. “Un principe ha bisogno di una principessa!” she declared, unfolding the dress she held in her arms. (–A prince needs a princess!)
My eyes widened in shock and I shook my head violently as Steerforth doubled over with laughter. “No, no!” I cried, reddening in embarrassment, waving my hands.
“Sí, sí,” the old lady nodded calmly. She started burbling in Italian that– we must match! We must! It was OK, no one would know or care that I was a boy (showing me the eye mask she had taken for the purpose); even if they found out, this was Venice, I had a soft face, and they would find it a funny joke; my hair was long and pretty and could be easily mistaken for a woman’s–
(My hair, which always needed cutting, had grown long during the past five months, and flowed about my shoulders. Steerforth had forbidden me to cut it, stating that he liked the way it looked on me now. His curls had also grown, and the soft, golden brown ringlets framed his face and gave him an even more handsome aspect.)
–I still shook my head, trying to remain firm in my resolve, and so the old lady looked to Steerforth for help.
“Daisy,” he interposed laughingly, placing a hand on my arm. “Will you wear it for me? Just this once– we’ll find you another outfit for tonight if you like. But I’d love to see you in it– please?”
He smiled at me so charmingly that I sighed, and reluctantly acquiesced, on the condition that she briefly close the shop, and that he left the room while I dressed, and told no one. I felt my struggling masculinity take a critical hit with this concession; I thought of Rosa’s emasculation remarks, and I shrivelled up inside.
The old lady helped me on with the dress, my face burning all the while, and made me sit down so she could fix my hair and the mask over my eyes. She handed me an ornate fan, then stepped away to admire her handiwork before calling James back in. I peeked at him over the top of my fan, abashed. He looked at me as though he didn’t recognise me, took a step forward, then two steps back. I could see the genuine surprise in his eyes as I watched him. He held out his hands hesitantly and raising his eyebrows, asked, “Daisy? Is that you?”
“I look foolish, don’t I? Can I please take this off now?” I asked, dropping the fan from my face, exasperated and uncomfortable.
He didn’t speak for a moment, then crossed the space and took my hands gently. He spun me slowly round to look at the outfit, a curious smile on his lips. I was unprepared for his next move, and didn’t have time to back away before he suddenly leaned forward and kissed me softly on the lips.
I jerked my head back and sucked in a shocked breath, freezing. I felt myself blush into my roots, my eyes widening; did he really just do that? I glanced at the old woman, horrified, but she began bustling about– pretending not to see, but with a knowing smile on her wizened old face.
“Sorry, Daisy,” Steerforth breathed, still hovering close to my face as I stared back at him, mute. He smiled the curious smile again.
“You reminded me of little Emily.”
The mention of her name caused me to snap out of my shock, and I turned away, mortified, rubbing a hand over my mouth. Turning my back on Steerforth, I began to pull the dress off with a growing sense of my humiliation. “What am I doing?” I muttered, struggling with the ties that held the dress in place.
“Wait, David, let me help you,” Steerforth rejoined, his voice quiet. I stopped struggling and let him unlace the ties, while I pulled accessories and pins out of my hair, letting it fall around my face to hide my discomfort and chagrin. I threw the mask onto a nearby sofa. I was annoyed with myself for letting him lead me into this role-playing situation; when would I learn to stand up for myself? I couldn’t help becoming stiff and silent after this. Steerforth could plainly see that I was displeased.
At length, the old lady bustled away with the princess outfit, and as we waited for her to reappear with a jester’s costume, he turned to me with an apologetic expression. Taking my hand he asked quietly, “You aren’t angry with me, Davy, are you?”
I pursed my lips and looked at the floor. “I’m angry with myself, not you,” I replied a little tersely.
He squeezed my hand and released it as the old woman reentered the room. We spoke no more of the incident; of the dress, of the kiss, or of little Emily that day. He didn’t bring it up again until we had returned to our apartments following the Venetian Ball in the early hours of the next morning.
I had chosen a trim white Casanova costume in the end– with long ruffled sleeves, a bright blue coat, and a full-faced mask, just in case Steerforth should feel disposed to try kissing me again at any point during the evening.
As evening had fallen, I had taken his arm, and we had joined a procession of others in ornate historical Venetian costume moving with synchronised elegance through the streets of Venice. We had climbed into a waiting gondola; been maneuvered through the dark, rippling water down the canals to the Royal Palace; been helped out onto lantern-lit steps lapped in the water by masked courtiers, and invited by magicians through the large, ornamented doors. Enchantment surrounded us at every turn; the atmosphere was both otherworldly and romantic. We had met with lord Sebastian and Charles; and been introduced to– it made my head spin to think of it!– Venetian noble families, with whom we courted and conversed and danced the night away.
When we finally returned to our rooms, in the dreamiest state of mind possible, we flung open the balcony doors and watched the gondolas float by on the moonlit canal in hushed contentment.
“Ah, Venice…” Steerforth breathed, leaning his head on his hand as he gazed out at the scene before us. I smiled but made no response, instead removing the more cumbersome parts of my costume and laying them down on a nearby sofa where we had tossed our masks, hats and canes upon entering the room. Steerforth watched me, then turned away again to the moonlit scene.
“Daisy, of all the wonderful things I’ve seen tonight… And yet I’m still thinking about how lovely you were in that dress yesterday morning,” he sighed. I glanced at him, then shook my head.
“It's Emily that you want,” I replied quietly, looking away and down at the passing revellers.
“No. It's you, Daisy.”
I felt his arms slip around my waist and felt him press several kisses to the back of my neck. I tried to move away but he turned me around. I found my back against the railings and his arms wrapped around me, pinning me in place. We were face to face before I could even blink.
“Don’t, please,” I turned my head, trying to avoid his mouth.
“I don't know what you're scared of, Daisy. We've kissed before yesterday, you know,” he murmured, laughing as he kissed my cheek.
I trembled and shook my head in denial, but he nodded with a slight smile on his lips.
“When?” I whispered, my heart hammering.
“The night you clung to me and wailed because I had to go, Daisy. You were drunk as a lord, remember?" he replied, his smile widening as my eyes widened with shock. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t. Well, Daisy. You wrapped your sobbing, half-naked body around me, and forced me to kneel so I could put you down, you pulled me to yourself as I got up to go, you kissed me right on the lips, then you fell asleep and forgot about it. But I didn't.”
I stared at him, horrified by this revelation.
“David,” he murmured, his breath hot on my lips as he leaned closer. “Kiss me again, and gladden my heart won't you?”
Before I knew what we were doing, his mouth was pressed against mine and I was periodically coming up for air.
I felt him press and bulge against me. My skin felt like it was on fire where he touched it.
My shirt was gone– his shirt was gone. Somehow, we were on the floor.
It was only when I felt his hand begin to slip into my breeches that I snapped back to myself and gathered the strength to push him away.
“Stop– stop!” I gasped, struggling to restrain him, dragging myself out from under him.
“But we're only just getting started,” he groaned, grabbing me and trying to hold me down.
My fear gave me strength then and I grew wild in being restrained. I punched him and threw him off, staggering to my feet, my face red with humiliation and anger. He stared at me and seemed to come to himself.
“I’m not Emily!” I screamed at him.
“David, wait–! I'm sorry!”
I didn't linger to hear any more, I couldn't look at him– I grabbed my shirt from where it lay and ran from the room, tears beginning to blur my eyes.
This wasn't what I wanted. This wasn't the James Steerforth that I trusted. I was losing myself. I was becoming someone I didn’t recognise.
I burst out onto the street and lost myself among the carnival goers, wandering among them and along the shadowy streets, over bridges and canals, until at last I curled up in a hidden, forgotten corner and sobbed myself to sleep.
***
Chapter 15: Lost and Found
Notes:
This was an unexpected chapter - I thought it would go one way, but it went a *completely* different route, and threw me. (˶˃⤙˂˶) So we'll leave the boys here for now (while I take a short holiday!) Enjoyyyy (๑>◡<๑) 𖹭 𖹭 𖹭
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
❀ ꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂ ❀
Chapter 15:
Lost and Found
I awoke early in the morning with a jolt, and a crick in my neck.
Rays of sunlight had filtered down the chinks in the alley that I found myself in to alight upon me in the gutter where I lay; their brightness had awoken me.
As I squinted and shivered, I looked around myself blearily, and wondered where I was and why my bed was so cold and hard. How unwelcome was my sudden remembrance of the events of the previous night! I trembled as they came tumbling into my head one by one, and I had to fight back fresh tears.
My best, my most intimate, my dearest friend, Mr. James Steerforth, Esquire, had almost forced me to have sex with him.
And... I had almost let him.
How long had he been planning this? Keeping secrets to use against me? If only I hadn’t gotten so drunk trying to impress him months ago. If only I hadn’t kissed him back then. If only I had listened. If only… Why didn't I listen to Rosa? She knew. Why didn't I listen to Agnes? She saw it coming. This was all my own doing…
It was my own fault I was lying in a gutter.
I hugged my knees to my chest miserably as I sat up. I didn't even have shoes on. I was cold, I was lost, I was alone in a strange city, I didn't ever want to see James Steerforth again; and more than anything, I just wanted to go home.
Getting up slowly and stiffly, I began to walk towards the early morning light, trying to warm myself by putting as much distance as I could between myself and Steerforth. I needed to get out of this interminable maze.
Well - it took less than two hours for Littimer to find me.
I had slowed my pace, knowing that I was hopelessly lost. The August morning was already becoming warmer, and so I had stopped to wash my face in a fountain and drink some of the water. I was getting very hungry, but a quick search of my pockets showed me I was penniless, to my dismay. The area I had stumbled into had a somewhat seedy, run down appearance, and I didn't want to linger there longer than necessary, for I had caught my reflection in the water and I looked the way I felt - what a half-dressed, pale, scared-looking creature I was! I didn't want to go back to Steerforth, but I was beginning to regret my decision to run away.
Sitting on the fountain edge, I was chewing my lip and thinking hard about my next move, when a small, dark, middle-aged Italian man approached me from a nearby shop, his face full of concern, and began to persuade me to come into his house to get something to eat. There weren't many people around, as it was still early morning, and most of the city was slumbering after the Carnival.
I hesitated at first, but he continued to persuade and smile kindly at me, encouraging me to come with him. When I was on the point of entering the shop, a firm hand suddenly restrained me.
“Mister Copperfield.”
I turned to see the second to last person I wanted to see: Littimer. He threw a sharp look at the man behind me, then pulled me with considerable force away from the shop.
“Littimer!”
“Vattene! Vattene!” (–Go away!), he said sharply, not to me, but to the man behind us, making gestures to shoo him away as he steered me back towards the fountain. As the man frowned and disappeared, Littimer watched him with a considerably displeased expression, then turned to me and said coolly, “A male prostitution house, sir. You wouldn't have come out so easily as you were going in.”
I started and threw a quick, trembling glance back across the square– but the man was now nowhere to be seen. My legs gave way and I sat down heavily on the fountain edge again, shivering, and wondering if I had the word ‘VICTIM’ strung in large letters across my person.
Littimer was holding a thick blanket, which he now wrapped around my shoulders. I pulled it around me, grateful for the warmth it imparted. He regarded my shaky, fearful aspect with something akin to pity as he spoke in his soft, clipped voice, sitting down next to me and laying a gentle hand on my arm.
“Mister James extends his sincere apologies for the events of last night,” he said, his detached, professional tone making what had happened sound as if it was nothing more serious than an awry business transaction. “He wishes that you return safely, and sent me to seek you and ensure you have an unmolested carriage back. There is a warm bath and breakfast waiting for you, sir. Will you come, sir? Mister James is anxious to apologise.”
I didn't respond; I didn't know what to say. I sat twisting my hands and wondering what to do. Clearly I couldn't stay here to be taken advantage of by every Tom, Dick and Harry. I was hungry. I was tired. I was very cold. I didn't have to be so hasty…
And Littimer knew that I didn't really have any choice.
“...I'll come, but I don't want to see him,” I said slowly as I stood with reluctance, and followed Littimer to an awaiting gondola.
“Very good, sir,” was his unemotional reply as he helped me into the rocking boat.
The closer we got to the hotel, the colder I felt inside.
I didn't want to see him. I didn't want to see him. I couldn't face him.
My anxiety must have shown on my face, because Littimer paused and bade me stay where I was when we alighted from the gondola, and then went ahead of me into the hotel. He retrieved me ten minutes later; and an hour later I was clean, warm, full, and falling asleep in my room, deeply swaddled in the bedclothes.
***
“Daisy. Daisy, wake up.”
The familiar voice was accompanied by a hand gently shaking me.
It was now late afternoon; I had been asleep for at least six or seven hours.
“Daisy,” came Steerforth's voice again.
I tensed, shuddering away from his touch as I recognised his voice. I squeezed my eyes even more tightly closed, and held my breath. The shaking stopped immediately; he knew I was awake. I waited anxiously for him to speak again, my stomach twisting into a horrible knot; but he didn’t.
At length, the silence stretching on, I ventured to crack open one eye. He was sitting on the floor, about a foot away from the bed, his arms resting carelessly on his upturned knees. His head tilted as he looked at me intently. He caught my gaze and shifted forward slightly, and I quickly shut my eye again, wishing he would leave.
“Daisy,” he began, his voice quiet and low. “You’re not still angry with me, are you?”
I didn’t respond.
Please go away. Please go away.
I heard him sigh, and felt his hand again, this time brushing my hair out of my face.
I shuddered and flinched away, pulling myself further under the covers to get away from his touch.
Please go AWAY!
I wanted to shout the sentiment rushing around my mind, but felt like I had hardly any breath to do so with. I felt my heart rate quicken as a sudden, vehement fear gripped me. As soon as I had flinched away, he had withdrawn his hand in silence. After a moment or two, he spoke again.
“David… I’m sorry.”
I could hear the notes of repentance in his voice, but now I didn’t believe him.
Crocodile tears. Duplicitous liar. I can’t trust him.
“You probably don’t believe me when I say that. But I am. I’m sorry.”
I remained mute, wondering how he had read my thoughts.
“I’ve been awful, I know. I understand if you don't want to speak to me, or even look at me…” he continued, his voice quiet and gentle. I shivered, wondering how much of this was real.
“Last night… I wasn’t going to… I thought you wanted–” He stopped, struggling to find the words.
You thought I wanted you to rape me? I thought, my blood beginning to boil, even as my breathing quickened. I forced myself to calm down, taking deep breaths as I continued to lie still and silent.
“I was out of order,” he mumbled at last. “And I’m sorry.”
I remained silent.
“I love you, David.”
Fifteen minutes must have passed without another sound or word from either of us. I eventually ventured to crack open one eye again. He was sitting in the same place, now hunched up, with his face buried in his knees. His curls tumbled down around his arms which were wrapped loosely around the tops of his knees.
He loves me?
I don’t know whether it was what he said last, or seeing him sitting like this– in a posture so unlike him– that worked on my tongue.
“James,” I whispered, my voice muffled through the covers. His head snapped up as he looked at me, startled. I regarded him silently for a moment, trying not to flinch away again.
I never knew that I could be so afraid of him.
“I want to go home.”
His handsome brow creased and his face, already miserable, visibly lengthened. He seemed to hesitate, his eyes locked on mine. I felt an edge of desperation creeping into my overloaded, anxious heart.
“Please,” I added, clearing my throat a little, but keeping my voice a whisper, my eyes pleading with his.
“Please, let me go home.”
He looked away then, his lips twitching, pressing into a hard line.
“I’m not a monster, David. I’m not going to hold you against your will,” he mumbled, glancing at me, his eyes suddenly wet with tears. He wiped them from his eyes with a quick hand and took a deep breath, drooping as he assumed a cross-legged position. His shoulders hunched as he stared at the floor.
I felt a lump forming in my throat and my eyes dampening at the sight of him so upset, although I felt angry with myself for feeling sorry for him at all. My heart was already broken - wasn’t that enough? Was he just playing with my feelings again? How much of this was real?
Crocodile tears!
It was me that should be crying!
But I had wept for myself last night.
“We’ll set out for home tomorrow,” he said finally, jerking his head to the left and swiping at further tears with his arm, swallowing thickly.
I pulled the covers over my face at this news to stifle the sudden sobs of relief that escaped me. I felt the knot in my stomach unravelling; I hadn’t realised just how anxious I had felt over this question.
I was going home.
But why did it have to end like this?
We had been so happy before Venice.
Pulling the covers away from my eyes I looked at him through my tears, and whispered, “Thank you.”
He studied my bleary, damp eyes sorrowfully, then looked away and nodded slightly.
“Where did you sleep last night?” he asked after another pause, glancing at me miserably. He kept looking at me and away again, as if he couldn’t bear to make eye contact for more than a few seconds.
I hesitated, my mind involuntarily returning to the week of homelessness I had endured as a child. I had left London in desperation to find my aunt, after a season of being forced to work in my stepfather’s bottling factory after my mother had passed away. All I knew of my aunt was that she lived in Dover. After a gruelling week of almost non-stop walking, I turned up on her doorstep, dusty, exhausted, frightened, and in tears.
How was I always getting into these situations?
“O-on the street,” I whispered, sniffing deeply. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been homeless.”
He looked at me then in shock, his eyes widening briefly. His brow creased and he turned up his knees again, laying his head on his arms against them.
“You’ve been homeless before?” he asked softly.
I nodded again, and hid my face, balling the covers before it as sudden tears sprang to my eyes. He didn’t move to touch me - it seemed like he was now trying to avoid doing that - and so he waited in silence for me to regain control of myself and speak again. I took several deep breaths and moved the covers away from my eyes. My voice was muffled when it finally came.
“I was eleven. It was after you lost track of me. After mother died, Mr Murdstone sent me away to– to work in his bottle factory in London. I hated it.” I swallowed.
He had never heard this. He didn’t know. How would he react?
“I was there for more than a year before I got so fed up that I thought I’d take a chance and go and look for the aunt I’d only heard about a few times from Peggotty. So I walked– I walked from London to Dover. It was… just about the hardest week of my life.”
He blinked several times, his lips twitching and his eyes growing damp. Now that my voice had somewhat warmed up, I carried on after a pause, gathering my recollections.
“I tried to hire help, but I was robbed, and my box was stolen. I had very little money. I had to sell my clothes to get enough to eat. I was starving. I was beaten, cheated, bullied, chased, and so, so scared all the time.” I paused again to rub at my tears, which didn’t seem to want to stem at the reopening of these deep, private wounds. He had started to cry. I watched the tears running down his face, my heart swelling.
“I had to sleep outside, because I had nowhere else to go. I even slept outside of Salem House… and wished I could go inside and find you, but you had long since left, I know,” I whispered. He covered his face with his hands.
“When I got to Dover, my shoes were all rags, and my clothes were not much better. Some kind soul directed me to my aunt’s house; everyone else was horrid to me. My aunt–” I broke into a small laugh despite my tears on remembrance of the memorable event, “–my aunt, very rightly thought I was a small, dirty beggar, and tried to chase me away. She almost fainted when I called her ‘aunt’ and told her my name. I’m named after her late brother, you see.”
I paused again, my eyes wandering to the further part of the room as I reminisced.
“Aunt said he and my mother were nothing but babies too. I guess I take after him…”
A moan from Steerforth caused my attention to snap back to him worriedly. He was looking at me again, his eyes red and his face wet with tears, a hand pressed over his mouth.
“David, I’m sorry,” he said thickly. “I’m sorry for making you go through that again. You trusted me, but I’m no better than the Murdstones,” he sobbed suddenly, hiding his face in his hands again and bending forward. “I thought I was, but I’m not. God forgive me! I’m sorry, Davy, I’m so sorry.”
I was so choked up that I couldn’t speak for a few moments.
I wanted to embrace him.
I wanted to wrap him in my arms and to sob with him.
But new fear held me where I was.
Instead, I took a deep breath, and whispered, “Steerforth. I… I forgive you.”
***
For several days, we seemed to tiptoe around one another. Steerforth was careful not to touch me again; but I couldn’t seem to stand this. I was the one to break first. I still remembered when his touch was affectionate and kind, and I longed to be embraced by him again.
Even after all that had happened, I didn’t, I couldn’t hate him.
No, I still loved him. I loved him even more, if that were possible.
I didn’t know if I could ever trust him again… But I loved him.
And I knew, now, that he loved me.
By the third day, I had had enough. I realised then just how used I had become to his friendly arm around my shoulder, or his arm drawn through mine. He had conditioned me to become used to his touch, and as much as I had flinched from him after the violence of Venice, my desire to be embraced by him soon overwhelmed my fear of him.
At first he seemed reluctant, and unsure of himself.
But when he realised that my fear had abated, and that I no longer flinched from him, he decided to acquiesce to my neediness; to respond to my need for a gentle, loving touch. He became polite to the point of excess, very watchful, and attentive. He never kissed me now, even in jest, and always spoke quietly to me. He was more subdued in manner than I had ever known him to be.
I began to feel safe around him again.
I began to trust him again.
Or, to trust this altered version of him. He had so many different faces, I didn’t know which one was the real James Steerforth. And somehow, I still wanted to. So, rather than going directly back to England, which I had so much wanted to do in my initial anxiety over the turn of events, we decided to travel slowly towards Rome, so as not to miss some of Italy’s other sights.
First to Verona, and Milan we went; then down to Bologna, to Florence, and then to see Pisa.
As we continued to travel, the mid-August Italian weather worked its pleasing, soothing influence upon us, easing us back into familiarity, and light amiability. Seeing that Steerforth wasn’t trying to force a romantic ideal onto me anymore led me to believe he had dropped the idea altogether. My heart grew lighter each passing day, and I began to be playful and warm towards him again.
“Who are you, and what have you done with James Steerforth?” I asked one day, tilting my head to look at him and giving him a slight smile.
We were travelling in the open air on the road to Sienna, enjoying the sounds of the evening and the glow of the slow sunset. I had glanced across at Steerforth, who was leaning back on his arms, a contemplative look in his eyes, a grass reed in his mouth, a straw hat at a careless angle on his head. He looked more Italian than English at this point, having been sunburnt to an attractive golden brown hue, with his long ringlets hanging freely about his face and neck.
This man of the changing faces.
He glanced back at me, a twinkle of his old mirth in his eyes as he smiled briefly back, sitting forward with a sigh.
“I hardly know, Daisy. I don’t think I ever really knew him,” he mused, gazing across at farmers busy in the fields.
“And now?” I asked after studying him for a moment.
“He’s still figuring it out,” was the quiet reply.
“Do you think you might find him in Italy?” I asked, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. He looked at me with a sad smile, then away again, his eyes growing distant.
“I think I did… But I didn’t like him.”
His reply left me so downcast that I lay my head down on his shoulder without a word, and wrapped both my arms around his lithe, muscular arm.
“I... I hope you’ll find someone– a ‘James Steerforth’– that you like one day,” I whispered.
He half-laughed. “Me too. With luck, all the other worthless versions will have died and left only the best version of him.”
“You have no best and no worst with me, Steerforth. Whoever you choose to be, you’ll always be equally loved and cherished in my heart.”
He didn’t reply to this, but I felt a soft kiss on my crown, the first for many days.
We travelled silently after this, the dusk falling around us. Even after the colours of sunset had given way to the night, and the moon had risen, we remained wrapped in our contemplations of who we were, where we had been, and where we were going next. The past was unerasable, the future was unclear. But where we were, in the present, there was once again only peace, no matter how fragile.
My eyes fixed on the North Star and I wished with all my heart that only goodness would follow; that mercy would rest on us; that grace would give us the best versions of ourselves.
And now, only time would tell what we would find.
***
FIN.
Notes:
We made it!!! ( ≧ᗜ≦) The second part of this series is done! Thank you so much for reading. (∩˃o˂∩)♡ I'm not quite done with this story - at least, I don't think I am! I still have so many ideas for how to end it, but if that ever comes, it will come as a third and FINALLLL instalment - and only when I'm sure about which direction to take - it's still very up in the air at the moment! But this feels like the right place to end (although it's a little bit of a cliff-hanger - sorry, haha!) (❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ I enjoyed writing this slightly altered sequence of events but it was QUITE difficult to keep the chapters in the theme and style of the original book - as I'm basically trying to make David take Emily's route!! I've tried to still weave some of Dickens' original text in, and rewrite some of the events into David's storyline (such as Emily almost being trapped in a brothel, but being saved by Martha just in time...!) We'll just have to see what ending I come up with, if I can manage it!! Right now though - I'm SO ready for a break. So, huge thanks again for reading!! And I'll see you after the break! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡ 𖹭 𖹭 𖹭
RenLeed on Chapter 1 Sat 05 Jul 2025 10:14PM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 1 Sun 06 Jul 2025 10:15AM UTC
Last Edited Sun 06 Jul 2025 10:23AM UTC
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RenLeed on Chapter 2 Sat 05 Jul 2025 10:35PM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 2 Sun 06 Jul 2025 10:25AM UTC
Last Edited Sun 06 Jul 2025 10:26AM UTC
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RenLeed on Chapter 3 Sat 05 Jul 2025 10:42PM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 3 Sun 06 Jul 2025 10:31AM UTC
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RenLeed on Chapter 4 Tue 08 Jul 2025 01:48AM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 4 Wed 09 Jul 2025 08:44AM UTC
Last Edited Wed 09 Jul 2025 08:55AM UTC
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RenLeed on Chapter 5 Tue 08 Jul 2025 03:01AM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 5 Wed 09 Jul 2025 09:02AM UTC
Last Edited Wed 09 Jul 2025 09:02AM UTC
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RenLeed on Chapter 6 Sun 13 Jul 2025 03:42AM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 6 Mon 14 Jul 2025 05:14PM UTC
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RenLeed on Chapter 7 Sun 13 Jul 2025 04:24AM UTC
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AnnaDominoes (Guest) on Chapter 7 Thu 07 Aug 2025 06:30PM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 7 Sat 09 Aug 2025 03:15PM UTC
Last Edited Sat 09 Aug 2025 03:27PM UTC
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RenLeed on Chapter 8 Mon 14 Jul 2025 01:46AM UTC
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RenLeed on Chapter 9 Mon 14 Jul 2025 04:06AM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 9 Mon 14 Jul 2025 05:23PM UTC
Last Edited Mon 14 Jul 2025 05:27PM UTC
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AnnaDominoes (Guest) on Chapter 10 Fri 08 Aug 2025 10:55PM UTC
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AnnaDominoes (Guest) on Chapter 11 Fri 08 Aug 2025 11:04PM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 11 Sat 09 Aug 2025 07:50PM UTC
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AnnaDominoes (Guest) on Chapter 13 Thu 07 Aug 2025 01:23PM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 13 Thu 07 Aug 2025 04:01PM UTC
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AnnaDominoes (Guest) on Chapter 14 Thu 07 Aug 2025 01:30PM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 14 Thu 07 Aug 2025 04:03PM UTC
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AnnaDominoes (Guest) on Chapter 15 Thu 07 Aug 2025 01:34PM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 15 Thu 07 Aug 2025 04:06PM UTC
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Kruger (Guest) on Chapter 15 Wed 03 Sep 2025 09:39AM UTC
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salomeydraws on Chapter 15 Thu 04 Sep 2025 12:06AM UTC
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