Drabble: Leave Tomorrow Behind
Title: Leave Tomorrow Behind
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Henry VI, Part III
Character(s) / Pairing(s): Isabel Neville, George of Clarence, Edward IV, George/Isabel, implied Isabel/Edward
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 1249
Warnings: References to violence
Summary: It was only natural that Isabel Neville should fall in love with Ned York.
NB: Written for speak_me_fair, who requested Bella/George, Bella POV, during 'To Take Is Not To Give' any point during that time. Song choice was Dance, Little Lady by Noel Coward.
It was only natural that Isabel Warwick should fall in love with Ned York. Though she'd known him nearly all her life, it was only when she'd seen him three months after her fourteenth birthday when he'd just left Harrow that she truly saw him for the first time.
"Isabel. How nice you're looking." It was all he'd needed to say, with a slow, careless smile, and Isabel's heart began to hammer unsettlingly.
She supposed he'd always been nice-looking enough, but there was something quite deliciously dangerous about him now. While still being a perfectly suitable young man socially. It was a rare combination to say the least. Which made it all the more puzzling when her mother hesitated.
"Is something wrong, Mummy?" Isabel noted the lines sketched across her mother's forehead. "Isn't it just a splendid idea?"
"We'll find you a young man soon enough, Isabel. Why must you be in such a hurry? I didn't marry your father until I was nineteen at least." Reaching out, she squeezed Isabel's hand. "Enjoy your youth, sweetheart. You'll regret it otherwise."
Disappointed but far too well-bred to show it, Isabel put the thought of marrying Ned out of her mind when she returned to school. She didn't even tell Annie--not that her sister would understand; she had no interest in anything but books and was awfully morbid. But she still dreamt of him more often than she would admit even to herself. After all, she hardly knew him. His father was quite dashing for his age and even if his mother was a positive dragon, Mummy had told them about how Richard York had appeared in Society out of nowhere and married the most beautiful woman in their particular circle--not in all of London, naturally, Mummy would add with a sniff--after a whirlwind courtship. Surely she couldn't be all bad if she'd allowed herself to be swept off her feet during a waltz--or so the story went.
"Of course," Mummy had said, that peculiar half-frown on her face, "that was before the war."
Before the War (she couldn't think of it with anything but a proper name) was this odd, mythical time Isabel didn't quite understand. She knew, of course, that there had been a war, though she remembered little of it except the decidedly odd image of her father in a uniform. She had once asked her mother why there were so few gentlemen in London compared to the ladies, and her mother had shocked her out of her senses by bursting into tears.
The War was clearly quite horrible. Isabel resolved not to think on it any more than was strictly necessary. Her life was a contented pattern of school and London and the prospect of her debut, even if Annie insisted on reminding her that The War had wiped out an entire generation of young men and spoiling her mood.
When she did make her debut, it certainly didn't seem as though there was a shortage of men, even if most of them couldn't hold a candle to Ned. The only one who came at all close was his younger brother George--there was a third, people claimed, but nobody had ever seen him and rumour had it he had some sort of awful disease--who was only six months her senior and chatted excitedly about Shanghai Express and Marlene Dietrich, who he claimed Ned had met during a holiday visit to Berlin.
"Did he, now?" echoed Isabel, narrowing her eyes at the grin that prompted. Ned ought to have been here himself, not off charming German film stars, but she had yet to see him.
"Really, Bel, anyone would think you were jealous!" When she didn't answer, George frowned. "You aren't, are you?"
"Of course I'm not," she snapped. "Why would I be jealous of some silly actress?"
"You don't want Ned, do you?" He looked oddly stricken. "Why does everybody want bloody Ned?"
"I told you I'm not jealous and could we please talk about something else now?" Isabel sniffed.
The jazz quartet launched into a quickstep and Isabel let George lead her to the floor. It was then that she caught sight of Ned with a girl she knew from school named Elizabeth Lucy. They seemed to float across the tiles, Elizabeth's face all but glowing with joy. Isabel forced herself to smile back at George but he was already scowling.
"He doesn't care about any of them. I hope you know that. Ned wouldn't know how to treat a woman properly if his life depended on it."
"And you would?" Isabel asked, arching one brow.
George flinched as if stung. "Of course I would!" The dance came to an end and he relinquished Isabel's hand. "But you clearly know what you want."
Isabel sighed. "It's got nothing to do with you, George."
"Obviously." Turning on his heel, he stalked away.
For a few seconds, Isabel considered following him and, in retrospect, liked to tell herself she would have done so, had Ned not chosen that moment to ask her to dance. But Isabel followed him and George was forgotten.
Perhaps she ought to have known how it would end. She certainly hadn't let Ned take advantage of her--she wasn't that stupid, no matter what Annie thought--but there was something undeniably thrilling about a stolen kiss on the balcony, even if Ned had looked at her oddly afterward. He did not ask her to dance again, and Isabel watched in frustration as he spent that entire Season flirting with Elizabeth Lucy.
It would have been an even greater disappointment, Isabel suspected, had their world not turned upside down within a few months of the Season's official end. She had paid little attention to the Lancaster family, owing to its lack of eligible young men, but suddenly their names were splashed across the headlines and she had to enlist George to explain it all to her.
"You mean to tell me," she finally said, "that your father is rightful heir to Henry Lancaster's estate? But that doesn't make any sense, George. He's got a son of his own, hasn't he?"
George laughed. "You mean Margaret Lancaster's brat? Everyone knows who his real father is, and that it's not poor Henry."
"You mustn't say such things, George," she said frostily.
"It's true, Bel. I wouldn't make this sort of thing up." George's face was alight with excitement. "So Father's going to make his claim and who do you think can really stop him?"
Isabel did not speak her thoughts aloud, that Margaret Lancaster was possibly the most terrifying woman she had ever met, even more so than Cecily York. "I hope it all goes well, then, George."
In the end, she supposed it had, in spite of the horrors in between, the awful stories of what had happened to George's father and younger brother--and not even the ill one; darling little Edmund, killed by one of Margaret Lancaster's hired thugs. Isabel was never told exactly what happened either in Whitechapel on New Year's Eve or in Sussex on Palm Sunday and she realised she was quite content with that.
Ned returned to London, his smile sharper and his eyes unreadable. George had not changed at all. And it was as much for that as anything else that Isabel began to encourage his attention.
Was it so wrong to want things to go back to the way they were before?
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Henry VI, Part III
Character(s) / Pairing(s): Isabel Neville, George of Clarence, Edward IV, George/Isabel, implied Isabel/Edward
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 1249
Warnings: References to violence
Summary: It was only natural that Isabel Neville should fall in love with Ned York.
NB: Written for speak_me_fair, who requested Bella/George, Bella POV, during 'To Take Is Not To Give' any point during that time. Song choice was Dance, Little Lady by Noel Coward.
It was only natural that Isabel Warwick should fall in love with Ned York. Though she'd known him nearly all her life, it was only when she'd seen him three months after her fourteenth birthday when he'd just left Harrow that she truly saw him for the first time.
"Isabel. How nice you're looking." It was all he'd needed to say, with a slow, careless smile, and Isabel's heart began to hammer unsettlingly.
She supposed he'd always been nice-looking enough, but there was something quite deliciously dangerous about him now. While still being a perfectly suitable young man socially. It was a rare combination to say the least. Which made it all the more puzzling when her mother hesitated.
"Is something wrong, Mummy?" Isabel noted the lines sketched across her mother's forehead. "Isn't it just a splendid idea?"
"We'll find you a young man soon enough, Isabel. Why must you be in such a hurry? I didn't marry your father until I was nineteen at least." Reaching out, she squeezed Isabel's hand. "Enjoy your youth, sweetheart. You'll regret it otherwise."
Disappointed but far too well-bred to show it, Isabel put the thought of marrying Ned out of her mind when she returned to school. She didn't even tell Annie--not that her sister would understand; she had no interest in anything but books and was awfully morbid. But she still dreamt of him more often than she would admit even to herself. After all, she hardly knew him. His father was quite dashing for his age and even if his mother was a positive dragon, Mummy had told them about how Richard York had appeared in Society out of nowhere and married the most beautiful woman in their particular circle--not in all of London, naturally, Mummy would add with a sniff--after a whirlwind courtship. Surely she couldn't be all bad if she'd allowed herself to be swept off her feet during a waltz--or so the story went.
"Of course," Mummy had said, that peculiar half-frown on her face, "that was before the war."
Before the War (she couldn't think of it with anything but a proper name) was this odd, mythical time Isabel didn't quite understand. She knew, of course, that there had been a war, though she remembered little of it except the decidedly odd image of her father in a uniform. She had once asked her mother why there were so few gentlemen in London compared to the ladies, and her mother had shocked her out of her senses by bursting into tears.
The War was clearly quite horrible. Isabel resolved not to think on it any more than was strictly necessary. Her life was a contented pattern of school and London and the prospect of her debut, even if Annie insisted on reminding her that The War had wiped out an entire generation of young men and spoiling her mood.
When she did make her debut, it certainly didn't seem as though there was a shortage of men, even if most of them couldn't hold a candle to Ned. The only one who came at all close was his younger brother George--there was a third, people claimed, but nobody had ever seen him and rumour had it he had some sort of awful disease--who was only six months her senior and chatted excitedly about Shanghai Express and Marlene Dietrich, who he claimed Ned had met during a holiday visit to Berlin.
"Did he, now?" echoed Isabel, narrowing her eyes at the grin that prompted. Ned ought to have been here himself, not off charming German film stars, but she had yet to see him.
"Really, Bel, anyone would think you were jealous!" When she didn't answer, George frowned. "You aren't, are you?"
"Of course I'm not," she snapped. "Why would I be jealous of some silly actress?"
"You don't want Ned, do you?" He looked oddly stricken. "Why does everybody want bloody Ned?"
"I told you I'm not jealous and could we please talk about something else now?" Isabel sniffed.
The jazz quartet launched into a quickstep and Isabel let George lead her to the floor. It was then that she caught sight of Ned with a girl she knew from school named Elizabeth Lucy. They seemed to float across the tiles, Elizabeth's face all but glowing with joy. Isabel forced herself to smile back at George but he was already scowling.
"He doesn't care about any of them. I hope you know that. Ned wouldn't know how to treat a woman properly if his life depended on it."
"And you would?" Isabel asked, arching one brow.
George flinched as if stung. "Of course I would!" The dance came to an end and he relinquished Isabel's hand. "But you clearly know what you want."
Isabel sighed. "It's got nothing to do with you, George."
"Obviously." Turning on his heel, he stalked away.
For a few seconds, Isabel considered following him and, in retrospect, liked to tell herself she would have done so, had Ned not chosen that moment to ask her to dance. But Isabel followed him and George was forgotten.
Perhaps she ought to have known how it would end. She certainly hadn't let Ned take advantage of her--she wasn't that stupid, no matter what Annie thought--but there was something undeniably thrilling about a stolen kiss on the balcony, even if Ned had looked at her oddly afterward. He did not ask her to dance again, and Isabel watched in frustration as he spent that entire Season flirting with Elizabeth Lucy.
It would have been an even greater disappointment, Isabel suspected, had their world not turned upside down within a few months of the Season's official end. She had paid little attention to the Lancaster family, owing to its lack of eligible young men, but suddenly their names were splashed across the headlines and she had to enlist George to explain it all to her.
"You mean to tell me," she finally said, "that your father is rightful heir to Henry Lancaster's estate? But that doesn't make any sense, George. He's got a son of his own, hasn't he?"
George laughed. "You mean Margaret Lancaster's brat? Everyone knows who his real father is, and that it's not poor Henry."
"You mustn't say such things, George," she said frostily.
"It's true, Bel. I wouldn't make this sort of thing up." George's face was alight with excitement. "So Father's going to make his claim and who do you think can really stop him?"
Isabel did not speak her thoughts aloud, that Margaret Lancaster was possibly the most terrifying woman she had ever met, even more so than Cecily York. "I hope it all goes well, then, George."
In the end, she supposed it had, in spite of the horrors in between, the awful stories of what had happened to George's father and younger brother--and not even the ill one; darling little Edmund, killed by one of Margaret Lancaster's hired thugs. Isabel was never told exactly what happened either in Whitechapel on New Year's Eve or in Sussex on Palm Sunday and she realised she was quite content with that.
Ned returned to London, his smile sharper and his eyes unreadable. George had not changed at all. And it was as much for that as anything else that Isabel began to encourage his attention.
Was it so wrong to want things to go back to the way they were before?