Fic: 'Dalton Abbey' [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 8.1/?]
Title: Dalton Abbey
Author: xxrachiefishxx
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU Period fic. It's the year 1910. Blaine Anderson, son of Lord and Lady Dalton, is expected to find a wife of similar rank and fortune to himself in the coming few years in the hope that he will marry her, produce a male heir and pass on the Dalton estate after his death. However, bored by his dull life of manners and rules and expectations; he really has no interest in finding a wife. Enter Kurt Hummel. Kurt is about to begin work as footman and valet at Dalton Abbey, where he will serve the illustrious Anderson family. Kurt's work as valet involves spending a great deal of time with Blaine, and Blaine can't help but notice how much more he enjoys spending time with Kurt than in the clutches of his family...
Spoilers: None
Notes: Sorry about the long wait for this chapter... I hope the length (and the content!) make up for it :)
Chapter 08
Invitations were sent out not a week after Blaine’s visit to McKinley Manor, and at last the rumors were put to rest. The servants' quarters hummed with talk of eligible men and women; of which Lords and Ladies would be in attendance; of what the young ladies would be wearing - the maids, naturally, had little knowledge of what was considered the season’s fashion, and most of them talked of little else. Kurt would be lying to himself if he said that he wasn’t looking forward to it, too. It would be the largest event he had ever taken part in as a footman; he couldn’t wait to see the noblemen and women from all over the country, dressed up and dancing - real dances that Kurt had only ever heard about from his mother. He tried to tone down the excitement in his letters to his father - but Burt was able to see right through the façade, and his letters in return featured the same buzz of anticipation.
Orders had been given by Mrs Sylvester to prepare the house. An entire wing had been opened for the use of any staying guests: the maids had spent an entire week devoted to making beds, plumping pillows and dusting every imaginable surface, from closet doors to the individual crystals on every chandelier. Footmen had helped to move heavy furniture for the maids to sweep behind and under, until every room had been checked, rechecked and finally considered grand enough for guests to stay in.
Mrs Beiste was planning a buffet menu so extravagant that Kurt hadn't even heard of some of the ingredients. Nevertheless, it was with Sam (along with an exhaustive list) that Kurt went back and forth to the village, collecting various herbs and seeds and returning to find that the cook had thought of something else in their absence for which they would have to return the following day. Kurt had watched the cook painstakingly create a fruitcake that had to be matured in liquor for two weeks, helped along by Brittany who, despite initially being a hindrance in the kitchen, had actually become fairly helpful.
Beside the small jobs they were occasionally tasked with, the footmen had little to do in the way of preparation for the ball. Their job would come of importance on the evening itself, as Ryerson took the opportunity to remind them at every meal time.
“The family’s name and reputation will be very much at stake if anything goes wrong at this ball,” he would say, repeatedly, to a chorus of sighs from his bored audience. “I will be watching you all like a hawk and expecting nothing but the very best from each and every one of you.”
Kurt, in the absence of any other responsibility, had turned his attention to Blaine, who had been melancholy since his return from McKinley Manor. Through stolen glances at dinner, Kurt could see in Blaine’s demeanor that he was more upset than he usually was.
“Is something the matter, milord?” Kurt dared to venture one evening.
Blaine, who had been staring at Kurt’s fingers as he worked away the cufflinks at his wrist, snapped his head up and looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean, Hummel?”
Kurt placed the cufflinks in a drawer of the closet amidst many of Blaine’s other valuables. “You seem so withdrawn. So... down, milord.”
Blaine breathed a melancholy sigh, unfastening the buttons on his waistcoat, pulling it off to reveal the white evening shirt beneath, slightly taut over the muscles of his arms. “I could tell you any secret in the world, couldn’t I, Hummel? And you wouldn’t repeat it to a soul.”
“Of course, milord,” Kurt replied, without hesitation.
Blaine nodded and smiled humorlessly. “I would give so very much not to attend this ball.”
Kurt hesitated, before nodding his understanding. He took the waistcoat from Blaine’s hands and hung it back in its place. It took him a few silent moments to think of a response, but he smiled fondly when he did, the memory still clear in his mind.
“My mother used to tell me stories about the dances and balls that she had seen when she’d been a maid. Only a few times, but I remember them so distinctly. She’d play the piano and sing, ever so beautifully, to a song I’d never heard before - and then she’d teach me to dance.”
“No,” Blaine exclaimed, a real smile pulling at his features.
“Oh yes. She taught me them all. Foxtrot, waltz, one-step... she taught me to tango when I was seven.”
“I refuse to believe you,” Blaine toyed, his eyes lit up in fascination.
“I think I still remember some of the footwork,” Kurt laughed.
“Show me.”
The room fell quiet, tension burning and crowding between them as Kurt looked at Blaine in puzzlement.
“I beg your pardon, milord?” he asked, unable to believe what he knew beyond all doubt that he’d heard.
“Show me your dancing.”
Kurt struggled to keep his composure, and stumbled over his words. “Oh no, I - I can’t, milord, I-”
“Why not?” Blaine was still smiling, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.
“Because it would be inappropriate. For me, to... play around.”
“You wouldn’t be - Hummel, there’s nobody around to see you.”
“You’ll see me.”
Blaine chuckled at that; Kurt wondered if Blaine was enjoying seeing him so unsure and flustered, wondered if he found it amusing. “I’ll dance with you, if you need a partner. Would that make it easier?”
Kurt’s eyes widened further at that suggestion, and he did his best to calm himself so that the blush he could feel rising to his cheeks didn’t betray him.
“What if somebody...” Kurt trailed off, his mouth slightly agape as he looked at Blaine pleadingly.
“I won’t tell them if you won’t,” Blaine replied, cheekily. Kurt looked around the still room. It was just the two of them; Blaine’s parents had already retired to their respective bedrooms. “Come on, Hummel. Teach me how to dance.”
Kurt rolled his eyes, a weak smile pulling at the edges of his lips. “Milord, you know well enough how to dance, I’m sure.”
“Teach me how to dance the way your mother danced,” Blaine replied softly.
Kurt looked up to see encouragement behind Blaine’s eyes as he moved towards Kurt and held out his hands. Kurt, palms a little clammy with nerves, took Blaine’s hands in his own and began to move, slowly recalling steps he had not danced in more than eleven years. His mother’s voice rang in his head, singing the words to a song he just barely remembered, and he showed Blaine the steps, counting them out loud for the two of them to follow until they found themselves moving to a rhythm the silence had picked out for them. Blaine followed with ease, of course, knowing the dance by heart having been taught the steps at an early age. Still, he let Kurt lead the way, and eventually silence was overcome by Kurt’s soft humming, and that in turn by the string of lyrics that formed a long-forgotten song.
The room disappeared as Kurt concentrated on his steps and lost himself in his song. The solidity of Blaine’s hands in his seemed to be all that was keeping him vaguely aware that he was awake, alive. Their dance space seemed endless, stretching on for them, urging them to go on. Kurt continued to sing, and he was vaguely aware of Blaine picking up on the tune, humming it low and quiet.
Eventually Kurt trailed off, failing to recall the words of the song, and as he tried to remember them, he lost his footing. He collided with Blaine, their bodies crashing together, and he sprang back, tearing his hands away from Blaine’s and uttering a flustered string of apologies.
“Don’t be sorry, Hummel,” Blaine said, his laugh somewhat breathy. “You’re quite the dancer, it seems. I suspect you’d never find yourself in want of a partner at a ball. There’d be no end of the women who would wish to dance with you.”
Kurt laughed, diffusing whatever tension may have been left between them. “You’re rather good yourself, milord,” Kurt joked, eliciting a chuckle from Blaine, “though a few lessons probably wouldn’t go amiss.”
* * *
The day of the ball was approaching more quickly than Blaine had been expecting it to. He’d thought perhaps the wait for it would be agonizingly slow, each day picking at the flesh on his bones until, by the ball, he was little more than a skeleton; hopelessly without feeling and still trying to fit in. But that hadn’t been the case. Instead, the four weeks that had passed since their visit to McKinley Manor had gone by in such a whirlwind of activity that he’d barely registered the time at all; a blur of continuous motion that he was powerless to stop.
Seemingly out of the blue it was when he realized it was only another two days away and that he would soon be meeting every eligible girl in the country with the single agenda of finding one to make his wife. The more he thought on it, the more he wondered if perhaps he should have simply proposed to Miss Berry after all. It would have saved him the trouble of a social event of this scale - and at least he could be friends with the girl. She was still eligible, Blaine kept reminding himself. He could still ask her to marry him and put an end to all of the ridiculous fussing with which his parents had occupied themselves.
In the run-up to the ball, Blaine’s mother had taken pleasure in organizing every stringent detail of the way the ball would look. She’d furnished Blaine’s tailor with very specific instructions on his attire for the evening - as well as her husband’s and her own. She’d chosen all of the best spare rooms for their guests and had devised sleeping arrangements in order of rank; the Duke of Carmel with the largest and most luxurious room and descending in order of importance. Some of the staying guests had arranged to bring their own valets and lady’s maids, but those who hadn’t had been assigned some of the footmen and maids that the Dalton estate could spare. Everything was seen through to the last detail by Blaine’s mother, while his father dealt with any correspondence between Dalton and their guests.
Blaine had participated in little beyond allowing the tailor to take his measurements and walking or riding the grounds more than usual to keep out of the way. Conversation with his parents rarely stretched to any topic beside the ball; a notion which, although not unexpected, was immensely frustrating. Every morning, when the mail was delivered to their breakfast table, he was bombarded with updated information about who would be in attendance; every evening was a chance for his mother to discuss with him every excruciating detail about their progress. Blaine had listened to little of this information, most of it passing straight through him as he nodded and murmured and pretended he was as heavily invested as his parents wanted him to be.
Kurt was the only person in the house who seemed to have avoided the topic altogether, a fact for which Blaine would be forever grateful. His valet had, since the evening that they’d danced, ceased to mention anything relating to the ball. Blaine had taken to thinking up excuses to spend time with Kurt in order to elongate the time he wouldn’t be obliged to spend thinking about the evening. Thankfully, with his parents and the rest of the house staff so preoccupied, the list of excuses didn't need to be comprehensive, and it was all too easy for him to steal the footman away from his other duties.
* * *
The grand hall had been set up for the numerous guests that would shortly be in attendance, food prepared, the driveway lit up with gas lamps. Everywhere Kurt looked, house staff dashed about, fixing up the final touches to ensure the evening ran smoothly.
Kurt met with Blaine in his room late afternoon, and saw, for the first time, Blaine’s finished tailor-made suit. It was intricate, soft to the touch and undoubtedly one of the most expensive items of clothing Kurt had ever held betwixt his fingers. On Blaine, it looked even finer; broadening his shoulders and lengthening his body. No expense had been spared on Lord Dalton’s part to make his son as handsome as possible.
It was as Kurt added the final touches to Blaine’s evening suit - tightening his bow-tie - that Blaine raised his arm and rested his hand over Kurt’s, gently moving it away. Kurt watched, puzzled, as Blaine frowned to himself and let out a long, heavy sigh.
“Is something the matter, milord?”
“I don’t want to do this, Kurt.”
Silence consumed the room, and Kurt’s mouth fell open a little in surprise at Blaine's uncharacteristic use of his Christian name. He’d never said it before. Blaine looked up as the silence drew on, seemingly unaware at what had caused the lapse in conversation. His face contorted into a look of worry as he saw Kurt’s expression, perhaps only just realizing what he’d said.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry-”
“No,” Kurt said abruptly. “No, of course you haven’t, milord.”
“I just don’t think I can do this.”
“Do what, milord?”
The silence encapsulated them, stopping time for the longest of moments as Blaine reached for his response to the question - and the courage to voice it - until he eventually looked Kurt square in the eye.
“I can’t pretend anymore.”
Kurt’s brow creased a little, his mind still at odds with what Blaine was trying to articulate.
“I can’t pretend that I care about this ball, anymore. I can’t pretend that I care about the people attending and I really... I really can’t pretend that I care about finding a wife,” he said, the words leaving his lips in a tangle of frustrated, half put-together thoughts. “I don’t care anymore, Kurt. I don’t. And this-” he gestured toward his outfit “-is just pointless. It’s all pointless.”
Kurt was taken aback, watching Blaine as he stared earnestly back at him, his eyes pleading Kurt for some sort of respite or escape. Mouth agape, Kurt stammered over his next few words.
“This... this is not unlike the many events I’m sure you’ve attended before, milord. You needn’t treat it as such.”
“It is different. This ball is for me.”
“So you ought to enjoy it without worrying, milord.”
“How?” Blaine’s voice was small, vulnerable, and it was the first time Kurt had ever seen him behave in such a way. It was as if the class divide no longer mattered, and it made Kurt shiver uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to it. How was he supposed to answer Blaine’s question? As if he knew the first thing about formal social events.
“You greet the guests... you socialize with them, as you normally would. And don’t... just don’t think about it too much... milord.”
Blaine nodded, his mind seemingly occupied by thoughts or memories, his eyes staring into nothing. Then, with the faintest of smiles, he turned to Kurt. “You’ll be there, at least.”
Kurt fought the urge to laugh, deciding against expressing his doubt that he would be of much use, circling the room with drinks and food and unable to say a word to Blaine directly.
“Yes,” he said, with as comforting a smile as he could muster.
Blaine’s expression was more confident, and he chuckled to himself, shaking his head as if to rid it of his unstable thoughts. He straightened himself up again. “What would I do without you, Kurt?”
Kurt moved towards Blaine once again, fixing his bow-tie until he was satisfied that Blaine was presentable. “Oh, I’m sure you’d get along just fine, milord,” he replied, though as he turned to retrieve the clothes brush he’d left on the table behind him he smiled at the sound of his name on Blaine’s lips, and secretly hoped that Blaine kept him as his valet forever. Just to be safe.
* * *
Blaine wasn’t expecting the sheer glamor of the guests as they flooded through the grand entryway. His eyes were drawn, always, to the sparkling dresses that the women wore, their outfits differing in style and color from lady to lady in a way that male outfits never did and never had. On the perfectly polished floor of the grand hall danced ghostly reflections of the guests, their sketchy imperfection reminding Blaine of a silent movie. The thought was comforting; that the figures were imprisoned on film reels, unable to speak directly to him.
Of course, that wasn’t the case. Blaine had been introduced to more men and women than he could keep track of, though he’d barely had to say a word in return. For every family he met, he simply stumbled along the rehearsed and practiced few sentences that seemed to please the visitors, if not his mother, whose greeting was somehow unique for every guest.
Music echoed around the room, and each note the string quartet played was a well-known dance that had people making their way to the allocated dance floor. Blaine’s gaze wandered over toward it, watching couples take their places for the next dance, and he caught sight of Kurt, a flash of light brown hair and pale skin. Blaine smiled as he watched the boy, thinking back a few weeks to when he’d shown Blaine his own dancing. It hadn’t been perfect - it was obvious that he’d learnt the steps years previously from a woman who had, herself, probably only learnt through the observation of her superiors - but it had been fun. Carefree, almost; the way Kurt had lost himself in the footsteps and his singing. Blaine had lost himself in it, too, eyes trained on the pale face of his valet as Kurt had stared at his feet.
Looking at the dancers now, Blaine decided that it was obvious that none of them were having as much fun as he had had that night.
“Lord Carmel,” Blaine’s father’s voice pierced his thoughts, forcing him to bring his attention back to his parents. “How pleased we are that you could join us.”
“It’s my pleasure, Lord Dalton.” Blaine eyed the duke, taking in the taller man’s appearance. His hair was a shade of dark blond, and it fell just below his ears; a length Blaine’s father detested on gentleman, though Blaine supposed that, given his status, he’d be excused from the mental degradation to which Blaine was certain his father would subject every other guest who failed to meet his standards. He was still wearing his top hat, despite now being indoors, and his white gloved hands were clutched around a cane with a golden handle. Lady McKinley had been right when she’d implied that he was handsome - Blaine could almost feel the eyes of all the young ladies in the room boring straight through him and staring at the Duke in awe.
“Master Anderson,” Carmel greeted, hand outstretched. “Good to meet you at last.”
Blaine took his hand. “Lord Carmel.”
“I trust your journey was a pleasant one, your Grace?”
“It was bumpy,” the Duke said, his honesty taking Blaine’s father aback. People tended to forgo honesty in preference for politeness. Apparently that unspoken rule did not apply to the Duke of Carmel. Blaine had to bite back laughter as he caught sight of the bemused look on his father’s face.
“Allow our butler to take your coat and hat, your Grace,” Blaine’s mother suggested, attempting to fill the stunned silence that his father wasn’t able to. The Duke eyed the butler as he neared, and hummed at him suspiciously before clucking his tongue and allowing Ryerson to take both his hat and coat.
“What an adorable abode you have here,” he said as he walked out slightly into the hall and looked over the dancing couples. Blaine caught the slightest sneer in his voice and tensed, hoping that the urge to defend Dalton would subside. “I’m quite honored to be here.” His eyes were on Blaine when he turned back around. “You must feel quite a responsibility on your shoulders, knowing you’re to inherit all of this.”
Blaine stretched his hand, holding it firmly down by his side, pushing his fingers out of their urge to clench into a fist. He smiled. “Of course, your Grace. But I’m sure I’ll manage. It’s amazing what can be achieved through a little humility and some good manners.”
The Duke looked puzzled for a moment, before excusing himself with a sharp nod and walking toward the main hall of people, submerging himself into the crowed. Blaine couldn’t help but note how much the Duke and Lady McKinley would suit one another.
Another family followed instantly behind the Duke - people who instantly appeared a lot less standoffish.
“Lord Crawford, a pleasure,” Blaine’s mother said. She laid a hand on Blaine’s shoulder to win his attention back. Blaine turned his gaze to a tall, gruff man, whose forehead bore more wrinkles than Blaine thought he’d ever seen on a person. “Our son, Master Anderson,” his mother introduced.
Blaine shook the man’s hand and greeted him. Lord Crawford responded with politeness, though Blaine had the notion that he wanted to be there as little as his own father did.
Lady Crawford followed behind, petite and blonde and so unsuited to her husband in looks that Blaine found the contrast amusing. The girl who followed Lady Crawford, however, was not amusing in the slightest.
Miss Fabray was - without a shadow of a doubt - the most beautiful woman Blaine had ever seen; far prettier than Miss Berry had been, and far too pretty, surely, to be the offspring of Lord and Lady Crawford.
Her skin tone was pale; made paler by her dark blue dress, adorned with jewels that caught the light with every subtle movement. Her hair was a color of golden blonde that had clearly been inherited from her mother and she was a few inches short of Blaine’s height. Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Master Anderson,” she said, her voice low and steady in a way Blaine presumed was meant to be alluring.
“Miss Fabray,” Blaine replied in a tone quite the opposite - voice caught in his throat. She smiled; Blaine swallowed. This was the woman his parents intended him to marry - a lady any of the other men in the room would fight over; a face that looked as though she was good at getting precisely what she wanted. The very idea that Blaine should marry her was preposterous. He couldn’t envisage any version of such a reality which could be plausible.
“Miss Fabray,” a new voice entered their group, “you look well this evening.”
“Lady McKinley,” the young girl replied, her attention flitting from Blaine to the older lady, whose husband seemed to have disappeared somewhere into the crowd of guests. Blaine’s eyes darted toward where she stood, taking in the sight of her immaculate black and red dress. She was smiling at Miss Fabray with a look in her eye that Blaine was sure he’d seen in falcons before they swooped down onto their prey.
“Lord Crawford, how is your recently married daughter?” she asked, turning to the Marquess with a pointed expression.
“Well, thank you. Quite well,” Lord Crawford said, and then - with an air of superiority, added, “she very recently gave birth to a son.”
“Wonderful news!” Lady McKinley exclaimed, turning back to Miss Fabray. “Such wonderful news for your sister.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
Lady McKinley then rounded on Blaine, poised as though she were about to say something. Blaine’s mind stumbled from thought to thought, trying to think of a topic of conversation before Lady McKinley could do her best to embarrass him, but his thoughts were chased away by her piercing glare. He tensed a little, bracing himself mentally for what was about to come - but the next female voice he heard was that of Miss Fabray.
“Master Anderson, I feel we ought to get to know one another. Perhaps if you were to invite me to dance, we could talk together.”
Both Blaine and Lady McKinley appeared surprised by the girl’s forwardness but Blaine found himself about ready to chuckle his appreciation at having averted Lady McKinley’s conversation.
“What an excellent idea, Miss Fabray. Would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me?”
Miss Fabray smiled, and took the hand that Blaine had held out for her, allowing him to guide her through the hall to where the other couples were poised to begin the next dance.
Chapter 08 Continued Here
Author: xxrachiefishxx
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU Period fic. It's the year 1910. Blaine Anderson, son of Lord and Lady Dalton, is expected to find a wife of similar rank and fortune to himself in the coming few years in the hope that he will marry her, produce a male heir and pass on the Dalton estate after his death. However, bored by his dull life of manners and rules and expectations; he really has no interest in finding a wife. Enter Kurt Hummel. Kurt is about to begin work as footman and valet at Dalton Abbey, where he will serve the illustrious Anderson family. Kurt's work as valet involves spending a great deal of time with Blaine, and Blaine can't help but notice how much more he enjoys spending time with Kurt than in the clutches of his family...
Spoilers: None
Notes: Sorry about the long wait for this chapter... I hope the length (and the content!) make up for it :)
Chapter 08
Invitations were sent out not a week after Blaine’s visit to McKinley Manor, and at last the rumors were put to rest. The servants' quarters hummed with talk of eligible men and women; of which Lords and Ladies would be in attendance; of what the young ladies would be wearing - the maids, naturally, had little knowledge of what was considered the season’s fashion, and most of them talked of little else. Kurt would be lying to himself if he said that he wasn’t looking forward to it, too. It would be the largest event he had ever taken part in as a footman; he couldn’t wait to see the noblemen and women from all over the country, dressed up and dancing - real dances that Kurt had only ever heard about from his mother. He tried to tone down the excitement in his letters to his father - but Burt was able to see right through the façade, and his letters in return featured the same buzz of anticipation.
Orders had been given by Mrs Sylvester to prepare the house. An entire wing had been opened for the use of any staying guests: the maids had spent an entire week devoted to making beds, plumping pillows and dusting every imaginable surface, from closet doors to the individual crystals on every chandelier. Footmen had helped to move heavy furniture for the maids to sweep behind and under, until every room had been checked, rechecked and finally considered grand enough for guests to stay in.
Mrs Beiste was planning a buffet menu so extravagant that Kurt hadn't even heard of some of the ingredients. Nevertheless, it was with Sam (along with an exhaustive list) that Kurt went back and forth to the village, collecting various herbs and seeds and returning to find that the cook had thought of something else in their absence for which they would have to return the following day. Kurt had watched the cook painstakingly create a fruitcake that had to be matured in liquor for two weeks, helped along by Brittany who, despite initially being a hindrance in the kitchen, had actually become fairly helpful.
Beside the small jobs they were occasionally tasked with, the footmen had little to do in the way of preparation for the ball. Their job would come of importance on the evening itself, as Ryerson took the opportunity to remind them at every meal time.
“The family’s name and reputation will be very much at stake if anything goes wrong at this ball,” he would say, repeatedly, to a chorus of sighs from his bored audience. “I will be watching you all like a hawk and expecting nothing but the very best from each and every one of you.”
Kurt, in the absence of any other responsibility, had turned his attention to Blaine, who had been melancholy since his return from McKinley Manor. Through stolen glances at dinner, Kurt could see in Blaine’s demeanor that he was more upset than he usually was.
“Is something the matter, milord?” Kurt dared to venture one evening.
Blaine, who had been staring at Kurt’s fingers as he worked away the cufflinks at his wrist, snapped his head up and looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean, Hummel?”
Kurt placed the cufflinks in a drawer of the closet amidst many of Blaine’s other valuables. “You seem so withdrawn. So... down, milord.”
Blaine breathed a melancholy sigh, unfastening the buttons on his waistcoat, pulling it off to reveal the white evening shirt beneath, slightly taut over the muscles of his arms. “I could tell you any secret in the world, couldn’t I, Hummel? And you wouldn’t repeat it to a soul.”
“Of course, milord,” Kurt replied, without hesitation.
Blaine nodded and smiled humorlessly. “I would give so very much not to attend this ball.”
Kurt hesitated, before nodding his understanding. He took the waistcoat from Blaine’s hands and hung it back in its place. It took him a few silent moments to think of a response, but he smiled fondly when he did, the memory still clear in his mind.
“My mother used to tell me stories about the dances and balls that she had seen when she’d been a maid. Only a few times, but I remember them so distinctly. She’d play the piano and sing, ever so beautifully, to a song I’d never heard before - and then she’d teach me to dance.”
“No,” Blaine exclaimed, a real smile pulling at his features.
“Oh yes. She taught me them all. Foxtrot, waltz, one-step... she taught me to tango when I was seven.”
“I refuse to believe you,” Blaine toyed, his eyes lit up in fascination.
“I think I still remember some of the footwork,” Kurt laughed.
“Show me.”
The room fell quiet, tension burning and crowding between them as Kurt looked at Blaine in puzzlement.
“I beg your pardon, milord?” he asked, unable to believe what he knew beyond all doubt that he’d heard.
“Show me your dancing.”
Kurt struggled to keep his composure, and stumbled over his words. “Oh no, I - I can’t, milord, I-”
“Why not?” Blaine was still smiling, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.
“Because it would be inappropriate. For me, to... play around.”
“You wouldn’t be - Hummel, there’s nobody around to see you.”
“You’ll see me.”
Blaine chuckled at that; Kurt wondered if Blaine was enjoying seeing him so unsure and flustered, wondered if he found it amusing. “I’ll dance with you, if you need a partner. Would that make it easier?”
Kurt’s eyes widened further at that suggestion, and he did his best to calm himself so that the blush he could feel rising to his cheeks didn’t betray him.
“What if somebody...” Kurt trailed off, his mouth slightly agape as he looked at Blaine pleadingly.
“I won’t tell them if you won’t,” Blaine replied, cheekily. Kurt looked around the still room. It was just the two of them; Blaine’s parents had already retired to their respective bedrooms. “Come on, Hummel. Teach me how to dance.”
Kurt rolled his eyes, a weak smile pulling at the edges of his lips. “Milord, you know well enough how to dance, I’m sure.”
“Teach me how to dance the way your mother danced,” Blaine replied softly.
Kurt looked up to see encouragement behind Blaine’s eyes as he moved towards Kurt and held out his hands. Kurt, palms a little clammy with nerves, took Blaine’s hands in his own and began to move, slowly recalling steps he had not danced in more than eleven years. His mother’s voice rang in his head, singing the words to a song he just barely remembered, and he showed Blaine the steps, counting them out loud for the two of them to follow until they found themselves moving to a rhythm the silence had picked out for them. Blaine followed with ease, of course, knowing the dance by heart having been taught the steps at an early age. Still, he let Kurt lead the way, and eventually silence was overcome by Kurt’s soft humming, and that in turn by the string of lyrics that formed a long-forgotten song.
The room disappeared as Kurt concentrated on his steps and lost himself in his song. The solidity of Blaine’s hands in his seemed to be all that was keeping him vaguely aware that he was awake, alive. Their dance space seemed endless, stretching on for them, urging them to go on. Kurt continued to sing, and he was vaguely aware of Blaine picking up on the tune, humming it low and quiet.
Eventually Kurt trailed off, failing to recall the words of the song, and as he tried to remember them, he lost his footing. He collided with Blaine, their bodies crashing together, and he sprang back, tearing his hands away from Blaine’s and uttering a flustered string of apologies.
“Don’t be sorry, Hummel,” Blaine said, his laugh somewhat breathy. “You’re quite the dancer, it seems. I suspect you’d never find yourself in want of a partner at a ball. There’d be no end of the women who would wish to dance with you.”
Kurt laughed, diffusing whatever tension may have been left between them. “You’re rather good yourself, milord,” Kurt joked, eliciting a chuckle from Blaine, “though a few lessons probably wouldn’t go amiss.”
* * *
The day of the ball was approaching more quickly than Blaine had been expecting it to. He’d thought perhaps the wait for it would be agonizingly slow, each day picking at the flesh on his bones until, by the ball, he was little more than a skeleton; hopelessly without feeling and still trying to fit in. But that hadn’t been the case. Instead, the four weeks that had passed since their visit to McKinley Manor had gone by in such a whirlwind of activity that he’d barely registered the time at all; a blur of continuous motion that he was powerless to stop.
Seemingly out of the blue it was when he realized it was only another two days away and that he would soon be meeting every eligible girl in the country with the single agenda of finding one to make his wife. The more he thought on it, the more he wondered if perhaps he should have simply proposed to Miss Berry after all. It would have saved him the trouble of a social event of this scale - and at least he could be friends with the girl. She was still eligible, Blaine kept reminding himself. He could still ask her to marry him and put an end to all of the ridiculous fussing with which his parents had occupied themselves.
In the run-up to the ball, Blaine’s mother had taken pleasure in organizing every stringent detail of the way the ball would look. She’d furnished Blaine’s tailor with very specific instructions on his attire for the evening - as well as her husband’s and her own. She’d chosen all of the best spare rooms for their guests and had devised sleeping arrangements in order of rank; the Duke of Carmel with the largest and most luxurious room and descending in order of importance. Some of the staying guests had arranged to bring their own valets and lady’s maids, but those who hadn’t had been assigned some of the footmen and maids that the Dalton estate could spare. Everything was seen through to the last detail by Blaine’s mother, while his father dealt with any correspondence between Dalton and their guests.
Blaine had participated in little beyond allowing the tailor to take his measurements and walking or riding the grounds more than usual to keep out of the way. Conversation with his parents rarely stretched to any topic beside the ball; a notion which, although not unexpected, was immensely frustrating. Every morning, when the mail was delivered to their breakfast table, he was bombarded with updated information about who would be in attendance; every evening was a chance for his mother to discuss with him every excruciating detail about their progress. Blaine had listened to little of this information, most of it passing straight through him as he nodded and murmured and pretended he was as heavily invested as his parents wanted him to be.
Kurt was the only person in the house who seemed to have avoided the topic altogether, a fact for which Blaine would be forever grateful. His valet had, since the evening that they’d danced, ceased to mention anything relating to the ball. Blaine had taken to thinking up excuses to spend time with Kurt in order to elongate the time he wouldn’t be obliged to spend thinking about the evening. Thankfully, with his parents and the rest of the house staff so preoccupied, the list of excuses didn't need to be comprehensive, and it was all too easy for him to steal the footman away from his other duties.
* * *
The grand hall had been set up for the numerous guests that would shortly be in attendance, food prepared, the driveway lit up with gas lamps. Everywhere Kurt looked, house staff dashed about, fixing up the final touches to ensure the evening ran smoothly.
Kurt met with Blaine in his room late afternoon, and saw, for the first time, Blaine’s finished tailor-made suit. It was intricate, soft to the touch and undoubtedly one of the most expensive items of clothing Kurt had ever held betwixt his fingers. On Blaine, it looked even finer; broadening his shoulders and lengthening his body. No expense had been spared on Lord Dalton’s part to make his son as handsome as possible.
It was as Kurt added the final touches to Blaine’s evening suit - tightening his bow-tie - that Blaine raised his arm and rested his hand over Kurt’s, gently moving it away. Kurt watched, puzzled, as Blaine frowned to himself and let out a long, heavy sigh.
“Is something the matter, milord?”
“I don’t want to do this, Kurt.”
Silence consumed the room, and Kurt’s mouth fell open a little in surprise at Blaine's uncharacteristic use of his Christian name. He’d never said it before. Blaine looked up as the silence drew on, seemingly unaware at what had caused the lapse in conversation. His face contorted into a look of worry as he saw Kurt’s expression, perhaps only just realizing what he’d said.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry-”
“No,” Kurt said abruptly. “No, of course you haven’t, milord.”
“I just don’t think I can do this.”
“Do what, milord?”
The silence encapsulated them, stopping time for the longest of moments as Blaine reached for his response to the question - and the courage to voice it - until he eventually looked Kurt square in the eye.
“I can’t pretend anymore.”
Kurt’s brow creased a little, his mind still at odds with what Blaine was trying to articulate.
“I can’t pretend that I care about this ball, anymore. I can’t pretend that I care about the people attending and I really... I really can’t pretend that I care about finding a wife,” he said, the words leaving his lips in a tangle of frustrated, half put-together thoughts. “I don’t care anymore, Kurt. I don’t. And this-” he gestured toward his outfit “-is just pointless. It’s all pointless.”
Kurt was taken aback, watching Blaine as he stared earnestly back at him, his eyes pleading Kurt for some sort of respite or escape. Mouth agape, Kurt stammered over his next few words.
“This... this is not unlike the many events I’m sure you’ve attended before, milord. You needn’t treat it as such.”
“It is different. This ball is for me.”
“So you ought to enjoy it without worrying, milord.”
“How?” Blaine’s voice was small, vulnerable, and it was the first time Kurt had ever seen him behave in such a way. It was as if the class divide no longer mattered, and it made Kurt shiver uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to it. How was he supposed to answer Blaine’s question? As if he knew the first thing about formal social events.
“You greet the guests... you socialize with them, as you normally would. And don’t... just don’t think about it too much... milord.”
Blaine nodded, his mind seemingly occupied by thoughts or memories, his eyes staring into nothing. Then, with the faintest of smiles, he turned to Kurt. “You’ll be there, at least.”
Kurt fought the urge to laugh, deciding against expressing his doubt that he would be of much use, circling the room with drinks and food and unable to say a word to Blaine directly.
“Yes,” he said, with as comforting a smile as he could muster.
Blaine’s expression was more confident, and he chuckled to himself, shaking his head as if to rid it of his unstable thoughts. He straightened himself up again. “What would I do without you, Kurt?”
Kurt moved towards Blaine once again, fixing his bow-tie until he was satisfied that Blaine was presentable. “Oh, I’m sure you’d get along just fine, milord,” he replied, though as he turned to retrieve the clothes brush he’d left on the table behind him he smiled at the sound of his name on Blaine’s lips, and secretly hoped that Blaine kept him as his valet forever. Just to be safe.
* * *
Blaine wasn’t expecting the sheer glamor of the guests as they flooded through the grand entryway. His eyes were drawn, always, to the sparkling dresses that the women wore, their outfits differing in style and color from lady to lady in a way that male outfits never did and never had. On the perfectly polished floor of the grand hall danced ghostly reflections of the guests, their sketchy imperfection reminding Blaine of a silent movie. The thought was comforting; that the figures were imprisoned on film reels, unable to speak directly to him.
Of course, that wasn’t the case. Blaine had been introduced to more men and women than he could keep track of, though he’d barely had to say a word in return. For every family he met, he simply stumbled along the rehearsed and practiced few sentences that seemed to please the visitors, if not his mother, whose greeting was somehow unique for every guest.
Music echoed around the room, and each note the string quartet played was a well-known dance that had people making their way to the allocated dance floor. Blaine’s gaze wandered over toward it, watching couples take their places for the next dance, and he caught sight of Kurt, a flash of light brown hair and pale skin. Blaine smiled as he watched the boy, thinking back a few weeks to when he’d shown Blaine his own dancing. It hadn’t been perfect - it was obvious that he’d learnt the steps years previously from a woman who had, herself, probably only learnt through the observation of her superiors - but it had been fun. Carefree, almost; the way Kurt had lost himself in the footsteps and his singing. Blaine had lost himself in it, too, eyes trained on the pale face of his valet as Kurt had stared at his feet.
Looking at the dancers now, Blaine decided that it was obvious that none of them were having as much fun as he had had that night.
“Lord Carmel,” Blaine’s father’s voice pierced his thoughts, forcing him to bring his attention back to his parents. “How pleased we are that you could join us.”
“It’s my pleasure, Lord Dalton.” Blaine eyed the duke, taking in the taller man’s appearance. His hair was a shade of dark blond, and it fell just below his ears; a length Blaine’s father detested on gentleman, though Blaine supposed that, given his status, he’d be excused from the mental degradation to which Blaine was certain his father would subject every other guest who failed to meet his standards. He was still wearing his top hat, despite now being indoors, and his white gloved hands were clutched around a cane with a golden handle. Lady McKinley had been right when she’d implied that he was handsome - Blaine could almost feel the eyes of all the young ladies in the room boring straight through him and staring at the Duke in awe.
“Master Anderson,” Carmel greeted, hand outstretched. “Good to meet you at last.”
Blaine took his hand. “Lord Carmel.”
“I trust your journey was a pleasant one, your Grace?”
“It was bumpy,” the Duke said, his honesty taking Blaine’s father aback. People tended to forgo honesty in preference for politeness. Apparently that unspoken rule did not apply to the Duke of Carmel. Blaine had to bite back laughter as he caught sight of the bemused look on his father’s face.
“Allow our butler to take your coat and hat, your Grace,” Blaine’s mother suggested, attempting to fill the stunned silence that his father wasn’t able to. The Duke eyed the butler as he neared, and hummed at him suspiciously before clucking his tongue and allowing Ryerson to take both his hat and coat.
“What an adorable abode you have here,” he said as he walked out slightly into the hall and looked over the dancing couples. Blaine caught the slightest sneer in his voice and tensed, hoping that the urge to defend Dalton would subside. “I’m quite honored to be here.” His eyes were on Blaine when he turned back around. “You must feel quite a responsibility on your shoulders, knowing you’re to inherit all of this.”
Blaine stretched his hand, holding it firmly down by his side, pushing his fingers out of their urge to clench into a fist. He smiled. “Of course, your Grace. But I’m sure I’ll manage. It’s amazing what can be achieved through a little humility and some good manners.”
The Duke looked puzzled for a moment, before excusing himself with a sharp nod and walking toward the main hall of people, submerging himself into the crowed. Blaine couldn’t help but note how much the Duke and Lady McKinley would suit one another.
Another family followed instantly behind the Duke - people who instantly appeared a lot less standoffish.
“Lord Crawford, a pleasure,” Blaine’s mother said. She laid a hand on Blaine’s shoulder to win his attention back. Blaine turned his gaze to a tall, gruff man, whose forehead bore more wrinkles than Blaine thought he’d ever seen on a person. “Our son, Master Anderson,” his mother introduced.
Blaine shook the man’s hand and greeted him. Lord Crawford responded with politeness, though Blaine had the notion that he wanted to be there as little as his own father did.
Lady Crawford followed behind, petite and blonde and so unsuited to her husband in looks that Blaine found the contrast amusing. The girl who followed Lady Crawford, however, was not amusing in the slightest.
Miss Fabray was - without a shadow of a doubt - the most beautiful woman Blaine had ever seen; far prettier than Miss Berry had been, and far too pretty, surely, to be the offspring of Lord and Lady Crawford.
Her skin tone was pale; made paler by her dark blue dress, adorned with jewels that caught the light with every subtle movement. Her hair was a color of golden blonde that had clearly been inherited from her mother and she was a few inches short of Blaine’s height. Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Master Anderson,” she said, her voice low and steady in a way Blaine presumed was meant to be alluring.
“Miss Fabray,” Blaine replied in a tone quite the opposite - voice caught in his throat. She smiled; Blaine swallowed. This was the woman his parents intended him to marry - a lady any of the other men in the room would fight over; a face that looked as though she was good at getting precisely what she wanted. The very idea that Blaine should marry her was preposterous. He couldn’t envisage any version of such a reality which could be plausible.
“Miss Fabray,” a new voice entered their group, “you look well this evening.”
“Lady McKinley,” the young girl replied, her attention flitting from Blaine to the older lady, whose husband seemed to have disappeared somewhere into the crowd of guests. Blaine’s eyes darted toward where she stood, taking in the sight of her immaculate black and red dress. She was smiling at Miss Fabray with a look in her eye that Blaine was sure he’d seen in falcons before they swooped down onto their prey.
“Lord Crawford, how is your recently married daughter?” she asked, turning to the Marquess with a pointed expression.
“Well, thank you. Quite well,” Lord Crawford said, and then - with an air of superiority, added, “she very recently gave birth to a son.”
“Wonderful news!” Lady McKinley exclaimed, turning back to Miss Fabray. “Such wonderful news for your sister.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
Lady McKinley then rounded on Blaine, poised as though she were about to say something. Blaine’s mind stumbled from thought to thought, trying to think of a topic of conversation before Lady McKinley could do her best to embarrass him, but his thoughts were chased away by her piercing glare. He tensed a little, bracing himself mentally for what was about to come - but the next female voice he heard was that of Miss Fabray.
“Master Anderson, I feel we ought to get to know one another. Perhaps if you were to invite me to dance, we could talk together.”
Both Blaine and Lady McKinley appeared surprised by the girl’s forwardness but Blaine found himself about ready to chuckle his appreciation at having averted Lady McKinley’s conversation.
“What an excellent idea, Miss Fabray. Would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me?”
Miss Fabray smiled, and took the hand that Blaine had held out for her, allowing him to guide her through the hall to where the other couples were poised to begin the next dance.
Chapter 08 Continued Here