05: Untitled: Seward/Victoria
By silverdragon262, for eremon_lass
The dinner where they'd first been introduced had been an insufferably boring affair. As a doctor, John Seward didn't see many high-society events. As a wealthy man's wife and a wealthy woman in her own right, Lady Victoria Wotton saw as many as she pleased, which happened to be quite a few.
Dr. Seward was introduced to Lord Henry as a mere courtesy, and to Lady Henry as a means of escape for her conversation-deprived husband. He'd always remember the segue - a hastily asked "Do you care for women with straw-coloured hair, doctor?" and then a laugh and a nervous hand in his. She wasn't quite beautiful, but he wasn't quite handsome. They soon found that despite, or perhaps because of, all of their wasn't-quites, they got along quite well.
By the early evening, he'd noticed that upon discovering he owned an asylum, the socialites were either appalled or fascinated, and more often were they both at once. Victoria happened to be no exception. While her fingertips were busied at dainty bracelets or at the fabric of her dress, her eyes were on him, a little wide, a little more than politely interested. He never shared any of the more terrible details, of course, but told just enough to make her laugh, to make her grimace, to make her touch his arm and through a smile, exclaim how horrid a man he was.
When he asked about her, she told him about her husband. He let her, finding himself waiting anxiously for the moments when her opinions slipped through the barrage of things Henry had said over the years.
At the end of the evening, when Seward looked up to find that several hours and a few polite glasses of sherry had gone by since dinner, they exchanged polite goodbyes and a few too many smiles, something for which Seward would spend a sleepless night blaming himself.
Victoria left on the arm of Lord Henry and in a fine carriage. Seward walked back to the asylum in the rain. With only a syringe to keep him warm, and only a phonograph to talk to, he fell asleep in his office that night, among his papers and unanswered correspondences from old friends. They gave him bad dreams. So did the morphine, but the dreams were worse without it. Without it, they were memories.
The next afternoon, Victoria Wotton's private calling card arrived, an invitation to tea perfectly penned. He sent a reply, an acceptance, and quickly readied himself. At two o'clock exactly Seward stepped up to the door of the Wotton residence, a rather imposing old home in Mayfair, and was greeted by a young maid.
He was then shown into the parlour, where Victoria was waiting, her dress and hair painstakingly arranged but still quite far from perfect. He held his hat in a manner that he hoped betrayed none of the awkwardness that he was feeling. "Lady Henry," he said with a smile, but not too much of a smile, "it is very kind of you to see me."
"Why, how could I refuse such a charming guest?" He watched her fingers as she spoke, as they touched the little objects on the table by the door. Her eyes were downcast, demure, and perhaps she too watched them. She paused on one object in particular, and when Seward looked closely, he recognised his calling card. "I was absolutely delighted when your message came. I barely slept at all, after the number of terrible things you told me. I thought I'd never have a chance to tell you." She was smiling, though, and looked perfectly well rested.
Seward didn't wish to comment on the message that he'd sent, though unless his memory failed him, he'd not sent one, and he'd certainly not sent his card. He'd merely passed along a reply to her invitation. "You flatter me. Now I'm sure nothing I'd mentioned was so worrisome as to keep you from rest."
"It was, and you ought to be ashamed." Victoria laughed, a high-pitched giggle that put him on guard in a way he didn't necessarily dislike, sat, and motioned to the seat beside her. "Mustn't one take an oath to be a doctor?"
"One must," he answered with slight emphasis, "and I have. Primum non nocere. First, do no harm." He took the cue and joined her on the floral-patterned settee, then paused and then leaned forward to again engage her. "Did you know that's not actually in the oath?"
"Oh, don't be silly!" Yet Victoria smiled still. "Is that true? You know I wouldn't have any idea if it weren't true."
"It is. Quite true." He leaned back, shifted a little, and then cleared his throat. "But I don't mean to bore you by talking medicine. And I certainly would hate to put you off sleeping for a second night in a row. Perhaps there's something a bit more palatable that we could speak on?"
"Well--" That seemed to be what she was waiting for, at least judging by her barely-contained excitement. "Lady Grey-- do you know her? She's such a close friend of the Duchess --was just telling me that they're opening a new opera tomorrow evening. A brand new opera, can you believe it?" Then she seemed to remember why he'd come calling in the first place. "Oh, I imagine you'd like some tea, doctor. Dreadful, isn't it, that it's not been served yet? I'll just be out for a moment, and see what the help is up to."
He nodded, murmured a polite and nearly shell-shocked assent, and then watched as she stood and strode out of the room. Somehow it was all too familiar. After a moment, he could hear Victoria laughing softly. Almost immediately following, he recognised her footsteps leading away and Lord Henry walked into the parlour. When he saw Seward, merely offered a cigarette. "I suppose you don't smoke?" he asked, unsurprised and as if it didn't matter.
"Not in the company of a lady," Seward answered, and then glanced in the direction of Victoria's shrill directions to the servants.
"Of course, of course." Lord Henry did not hesitate to light his own, although it being his house made this excusable on all counts. "I would just like to extend my gratitude, doctor, that you were able to entertain my dear wife this afternoon. And last night, for that matter." He smiled as he stopped to contemplate the face of the man who sat across from him. "She does seem to have taken to you."
"I must say, I don't understand," was the reply, a bit too quick. "It is no favour to you, sir. She's a very charming woman, though I'm sure I needn't tell you."
Henry ignored the latter comments and laughed. "I don't understand, either." He watched a trail of smoke for a few seconds and then continued, "It's usually pianists, you know. But then you have to wonder if it's their music over their personalities. Not that there isn't something to be said for a flawless melody."
Seward only looked even more confused. "I don't play, I'm afraid."
"Even better, Seward. You're a doctor. They have the same hands, I'm sure you've been told." Henry chuckled. "No, no, she doesn't seem to be concerned at all. She was so anxious to see you, after all. I don't believe any of the pianists were ever invited over for a private tea."
"It's quite strange, though. She does seem to be under the impression that I initiated today's appointment. I was quite sure that she had."
Henry merely shook his head. "I'm afraid, dear fellow, that last night's hostess will find herself rather inexplicably lacking your card." For a man confessing such a thing, Lord Henry didn't look at all ashamed, or at all concerned. It was all nearly apathetic, dry. "And as for my wife's, well, I do know where she keeps them, after all."
"You--" Seward stopped, took all of this in, and then went on. "What exactly do you think my intentions with your wife are, Mr. Wotton?"
"I don't particularly care about your intentions. As long as she seems quite happy, so am I. I tend to think it works out well for all involved, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't believe I quite follow you."
"No, I don't suppose you do. But if I am not mistaken, that's Victoria now, along with the poor serving creature who had to sit another lecture. Do give her my regards, doctor. I shall be off." He nodded to Seward, who nodded back, and reached for his hat. He stopped before he'd turned completely from the seated guest. "Oh, and I do believe," he added as he put out his cigarette and moved toward the door, "that you should accompany her to the opera. You won't see a bit of the show, but as you do seem fond of listening to her speak, you likely won't be disappointed."
"Yes," said Seward, still a bit shocked. "Yes, of course. I shall. Thank you, I suppose I should say?"
"No, doctor. Thank you." Henry smiled, tipped his hat, and then was gone, off to meet some charming young man, or perhaps some solitary artist. Seward had heard about the sort of company he tended to keep.
His timing proved impeccable-- Victoria bustled in, followed by a red-faced girl who carried a tea tray. Seward stood and reached to help the girl, who quickly took her cue to flee back to the kitchen. As they sat again, he spoke slightly more surely, with a confidence that was in truth, somewhat forced. "Now, Lady Henry--"
"Victoria," she chided in sly, shrill tones. "No one shall hear you but me, and there's no need to be formal, is there, when we're going to be such good friends?" That said, she didn't quite meet his eyes, and instead began to ready a cup of tea for her guest.
"In that case, Victoria, I do believe there is something you may do for me." She handed him a teacup in the pause. "Would you accompany me to the opera?" Their hands touched, just slightly, just a brush of fingertips. Victoria smiled and slowly, Seward did too.
The dinner where they'd first been introduced had been an insufferably boring affair. As a doctor, John Seward didn't see many high-society events. As a wealthy man's wife and a wealthy woman in her own right, Lady Victoria Wotton saw as many as she pleased, which happened to be quite a few.
Dr. Seward was introduced to Lord Henry as a mere courtesy, and to Lady Henry as a means of escape for her conversation-deprived husband. He'd always remember the segue - a hastily asked "Do you care for women with straw-coloured hair, doctor?" and then a laugh and a nervous hand in his. She wasn't quite beautiful, but he wasn't quite handsome. They soon found that despite, or perhaps because of, all of their wasn't-quites, they got along quite well.
By the early evening, he'd noticed that upon discovering he owned an asylum, the socialites were either appalled or fascinated, and more often were they both at once. Victoria happened to be no exception. While her fingertips were busied at dainty bracelets or at the fabric of her dress, her eyes were on him, a little wide, a little more than politely interested. He never shared any of the more terrible details, of course, but told just enough to make her laugh, to make her grimace, to make her touch his arm and through a smile, exclaim how horrid a man he was.
When he asked about her, she told him about her husband. He let her, finding himself waiting anxiously for the moments when her opinions slipped through the barrage of things Henry had said over the years.
At the end of the evening, when Seward looked up to find that several hours and a few polite glasses of sherry had gone by since dinner, they exchanged polite goodbyes and a few too many smiles, something for which Seward would spend a sleepless night blaming himself.
Victoria left on the arm of Lord Henry and in a fine carriage. Seward walked back to the asylum in the rain. With only a syringe to keep him warm, and only a phonograph to talk to, he fell asleep in his office that night, among his papers and unanswered correspondences from old friends. They gave him bad dreams. So did the morphine, but the dreams were worse without it. Without it, they were memories.
The next afternoon, Victoria Wotton's private calling card arrived, an invitation to tea perfectly penned. He sent a reply, an acceptance, and quickly readied himself. At two o'clock exactly Seward stepped up to the door of the Wotton residence, a rather imposing old home in Mayfair, and was greeted by a young maid.
He was then shown into the parlour, where Victoria was waiting, her dress and hair painstakingly arranged but still quite far from perfect. He held his hat in a manner that he hoped betrayed none of the awkwardness that he was feeling. "Lady Henry," he said with a smile, but not too much of a smile, "it is very kind of you to see me."
"Why, how could I refuse such a charming guest?" He watched her fingers as she spoke, as they touched the little objects on the table by the door. Her eyes were downcast, demure, and perhaps she too watched them. She paused on one object in particular, and when Seward looked closely, he recognised his calling card. "I was absolutely delighted when your message came. I barely slept at all, after the number of terrible things you told me. I thought I'd never have a chance to tell you." She was smiling, though, and looked perfectly well rested.
Seward didn't wish to comment on the message that he'd sent, though unless his memory failed him, he'd not sent one, and he'd certainly not sent his card. He'd merely passed along a reply to her invitation. "You flatter me. Now I'm sure nothing I'd mentioned was so worrisome as to keep you from rest."
"It was, and you ought to be ashamed." Victoria laughed, a high-pitched giggle that put him on guard in a way he didn't necessarily dislike, sat, and motioned to the seat beside her. "Mustn't one take an oath to be a doctor?"
"One must," he answered with slight emphasis, "and I have. Primum non nocere. First, do no harm." He took the cue and joined her on the floral-patterned settee, then paused and then leaned forward to again engage her. "Did you know that's not actually in the oath?"
"Oh, don't be silly!" Yet Victoria smiled still. "Is that true? You know I wouldn't have any idea if it weren't true."
"It is. Quite true." He leaned back, shifted a little, and then cleared his throat. "But I don't mean to bore you by talking medicine. And I certainly would hate to put you off sleeping for a second night in a row. Perhaps there's something a bit more palatable that we could speak on?"
"Well--" That seemed to be what she was waiting for, at least judging by her barely-contained excitement. "Lady Grey-- do you know her? She's such a close friend of the Duchess --was just telling me that they're opening a new opera tomorrow evening. A brand new opera, can you believe it?" Then she seemed to remember why he'd come calling in the first place. "Oh, I imagine you'd like some tea, doctor. Dreadful, isn't it, that it's not been served yet? I'll just be out for a moment, and see what the help is up to."
He nodded, murmured a polite and nearly shell-shocked assent, and then watched as she stood and strode out of the room. Somehow it was all too familiar. After a moment, he could hear Victoria laughing softly. Almost immediately following, he recognised her footsteps leading away and Lord Henry walked into the parlour. When he saw Seward, merely offered a cigarette. "I suppose you don't smoke?" he asked, unsurprised and as if it didn't matter.
"Not in the company of a lady," Seward answered, and then glanced in the direction of Victoria's shrill directions to the servants.
"Of course, of course." Lord Henry did not hesitate to light his own, although it being his house made this excusable on all counts. "I would just like to extend my gratitude, doctor, that you were able to entertain my dear wife this afternoon. And last night, for that matter." He smiled as he stopped to contemplate the face of the man who sat across from him. "She does seem to have taken to you."
"I must say, I don't understand," was the reply, a bit too quick. "It is no favour to you, sir. She's a very charming woman, though I'm sure I needn't tell you."
Henry ignored the latter comments and laughed. "I don't understand, either." He watched a trail of smoke for a few seconds and then continued, "It's usually pianists, you know. But then you have to wonder if it's their music over their personalities. Not that there isn't something to be said for a flawless melody."
Seward only looked even more confused. "I don't play, I'm afraid."
"Even better, Seward. You're a doctor. They have the same hands, I'm sure you've been told." Henry chuckled. "No, no, she doesn't seem to be concerned at all. She was so anxious to see you, after all. I don't believe any of the pianists were ever invited over for a private tea."
"It's quite strange, though. She does seem to be under the impression that I initiated today's appointment. I was quite sure that she had."
Henry merely shook his head. "I'm afraid, dear fellow, that last night's hostess will find herself rather inexplicably lacking your card." For a man confessing such a thing, Lord Henry didn't look at all ashamed, or at all concerned. It was all nearly apathetic, dry. "And as for my wife's, well, I do know where she keeps them, after all."
"You--" Seward stopped, took all of this in, and then went on. "What exactly do you think my intentions with your wife are, Mr. Wotton?"
"I don't particularly care about your intentions. As long as she seems quite happy, so am I. I tend to think it works out well for all involved, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't believe I quite follow you."
"No, I don't suppose you do. But if I am not mistaken, that's Victoria now, along with the poor serving creature who had to sit another lecture. Do give her my regards, doctor. I shall be off." He nodded to Seward, who nodded back, and reached for his hat. He stopped before he'd turned completely from the seated guest. "Oh, and I do believe," he added as he put out his cigarette and moved toward the door, "that you should accompany her to the opera. You won't see a bit of the show, but as you do seem fond of listening to her speak, you likely won't be disappointed."
"Yes," said Seward, still a bit shocked. "Yes, of course. I shall. Thank you, I suppose I should say?"
"No, doctor. Thank you." Henry smiled, tipped his hat, and then was gone, off to meet some charming young man, or perhaps some solitary artist. Seward had heard about the sort of company he tended to keep.
His timing proved impeccable-- Victoria bustled in, followed by a red-faced girl who carried a tea tray. Seward stood and reached to help the girl, who quickly took her cue to flee back to the kitchen. As they sat again, he spoke slightly more surely, with a confidence that was in truth, somewhat forced. "Now, Lady Henry--"
"Victoria," she chided in sly, shrill tones. "No one shall hear you but me, and there's no need to be formal, is there, when we're going to be such good friends?" That said, she didn't quite meet his eyes, and instead began to ready a cup of tea for her guest.
"In that case, Victoria, I do believe there is something you may do for me." She handed him a teacup in the pause. "Would you accompany me to the opera?" Their hands touched, just slightly, just a brush of fingertips. Victoria smiled and slowly, Seward did too.