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fayes-fics · 1 year

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(Be)Longing

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Mutual rescue, mutual jealousy, longing and belonging.

Warnings: None, really. Angst, jealousy, fluff. Shyness and insecurities. Minor character injuries. Time jumps.

Word Count: 5.2k

Authors Note: This is an anon request fill here (request: Benedict x shy!insecure reader, with some angst, jealousy fluff, and all the good stuff. Happy ending, of course.). Sorry it took so long to get to this Nonny; I have no idea if this is what you wanted, and I'm really not sure about it, but I hope you enjoy <3

I: Saved

“Unhand her at once!”

The smooth, confident, older voice rings out across the village green, and suddenly the pack of nasty bullies who have your arms in a grip seem to melt away from around you.

You don’t even think to pause and thank the person who broke up the mob. No, your fight-or-flight response is in full-on flight mode. The minute your arms are released, and you see the break in the circle, you run. Run as fast as your legs will carry you. Bolting down the road and into the safety of the churchyard near your house. You do not want to run home upset and worry your mother, so you do the next best thing, the thing you are becoming increasingly good at, hiding. You climb a crabapple tree. And then you let the tears flow—just flooding down your cheeks.

You hate this new village your parents have moved you to. Your father, a doctor, had been offered the position as village physician, and now here you are, moved from Surrey to Kent, but it might as well be the other side of the world. You miss your friends. You miss your old village. You are not the most outgoing of people, and the upheaval in your life has been immense. You yearn to be back in your old, familiar, comfortable home.

You are sniffling, taking deep breaths, angrily wiping tears, and preparing to face your family when he appears.

“Are you alright?”

You startle. Beneath you, squinting up into the tree, is the owner of the voice who rescued you. Seeing him now, you feel an odd warmth in your ribs. He looks older, maybe fifteen, if you had to guess. He seems benign with a calm face, and his expression is one of sympathy and concern.

“Yes,” you squeak quietly.

“It is safe for you to come down,” he says gently, “should you wish.”

“Are they gone?” you query, wishing you could hide the tremble in your voice.

“They will not bother you again; I can assure you,” he states with absolute certainty.

Your eyes go wide, “What did you do? I don't want to make it worse for my brother,” you fret.

“I told them if they mess with you again, they will have the Bridgerton brothers to contend with,” he nods, with an air that suggests the name is of some local import.

“Is that you?” you ask timidly, not wanting to get down from the tree just yet.

He chuckles. “You must be new here?”

“Yes… we just moved here two weeks ago. Those boys have been tormenting my brother since his first day at school. They appear to have chosen me to pick on as he is not around,” you frown, dusting a twig from your skirt.

“Well, that ends now. Now, do you need help down?” he asks.

“No,” you sniffle, “I am capable.”

“I wouldn't doubt it,” he nods politely and steps aside to allow you space to jump down.

With a quick swing, you do so, landing neatly on your little brown boots. You unfurl to your full standing height, but even then, you have to crane your neck to look up at him.

“Very impressive,” he smiles warmly. “I am Benedict. Benedict Bridgerton. Welcome to Kent.” he thrusts out a hand to shake and, bemused at the formality, you take it and shake as if a businessman, not a ten-year-old girl.

“Thank you, Benedict. I am y/n y/l/n. My father is the new physician,” you gesture vaguely over the church wall towards your home next to the rectory.

“Ahhh,” he nods in understanding.

“And thank you,” you curtsy.

“Whatever for?” he frowns.

“For rescuing me,” you clarify.

“Oh please, that was nothing,” he waves dismissively. “I cannot abide bullies. Or any injustice really,” his eyes appear briefly unfixed, and he looks thoughtful, as if what he said just occurred to him as truth. Then he shakes his head and brings his attention back to you. “You are alright, though, correct? Able to get home?”

“Yes,” you confirm shyly.

“Then I shall be on my way” he tips an imaginary cap at you that makes you giggle, and he smiles goofily before turning away and walking out of the churchyard.

A little part of your heart yearns to follow him, the boy with the hazy, kind eyes and the pleasing smile, who just made your transition into life in the area much more bearable.

You and your brother are never bothered by that gang of boys again.

II: Envy

“Y/n, this is Miss Clarissa Worthing.”

Benedict introduces you to the willowy blonde whose hand is looped through the crook of his arm.

“Clarissa, this is Miss y/n y/l/n. She will beat half of my family at Pall Mall once you can coax her out of her shell,” he teases delicately with a friendly glint in his eye that makes your heart flutter against your ribcage.

Clarissa nods in cool acknowledgement, then cranes her neck to whisper something, her lips brushing his earlobe, her regard for you already gone. You curtsy politely, smile weakly and scurry away, feeling clumsy and out of place, unsure of what else to say to this swan-like beauty.

It's the summer after your fifteenth birthday, and he is back from his second year of university. It doesn't take much to deduce that this is the lady he is currently courting, accompanying him as she is to a garden party at Aubrey Hall. Jealousy clings to your skin like an invisible oily substance and taints your every thought.

Ever since that fateful day when he chased away your bullies, you have carried a torch for Benedict. The year after that incident, you sadly have to attend his father's funeral. Your own father unable to save the Viscount’s life. The forlornness on Benedict’s face as he stood there in the chilly church made your chest ache. You didn’t fully understand why at the time, but your impulse was to go up and wordlessly hold his hand. He looked so utterly unmoored and sad. You didn't, of course; you would never be so bold, but the impulse was so strong, a tingle on your palm that needed to touch him. It was all you could think about for days.

Over the intervening years, your soft spot for him grew with every encounter, the childish admiration morphing into something stronger, a deep-rooted longing. He always seemed to be the one who cared the most—about his siblings, his mum, and even the problems of the wider world. And as your body started to change and you began to feel differently about boys, your feelings for him had another layer of confusing complexity. His was the first face that popped into your head when your friends giggled about boys and talked of marriage.

Even now, it seems ridiculous to entertain that he would ever pursue you… you are stuck in small village life, the daughter of a doctor, not from a noble family, and he is off in the world, experiencing things you have no notion of. And yet he is the only man you have ever met who intrigues you that way. The idea of marriage not being entirely abhorrent, provided it is to him.

And so you just watch—the perpetual wallflower. Watch as Benedict and Clarissa make the circuit of the party. Effortlessly chatting among various members of the Ton, looking like the picture-perfect young couple.

“Makes you sick, doesn't it?” Eloise’s dry tone pops over your shoulder.

You smile at Benedict's little sister, just a couple of years younger than you and a kindred spirit at these events, mostly wanting nothing to do with them.

“She is very beautiful,” you offer politely, sipping your lemonade.

“She steals,” Eloise states plainly, making you splutter your drink all over your face and dress, the little immediate crowd of attention it draws to you mortifying. Luckily Benefict is far enough away and otherwise engaged that he does not see it. You are not sure you could live that down.

“That's a scandalous thing to say,” you hiss softly as you blush under the attention of a few strangers and furtively clean yourself with a serviette as best you can.

“Tell that to mother’s silk gloves,” Eloise volleys back, her disgust evident. Apparently oblivious to your embarrassing predicament or perhaps just uncaring of what others think. “She will be gone before the weekend is out, mark my words.”

You don't doubt it, knowing how spirited Eloise is. And how well she has her brother's ear. You know he will instinctively trust what she says as truth. As she marches up to grab his arm and pull him away, mostly, you wish you had more of her bravado, her fearlessness. While you agree with her outlook on many things, you are not built of the mettle she is—not one who draws attention. Still, you watch with a twisted, guilty, but victorious smile as Eloise pulls Benedict aside and has words with him.

You never hear of Miss Clarissa Worthing again.

III: Jealousy

“Lord Boswell would be a wonderful match, my dear,” your mother smiles encouragingly, handing you a slice of lemon drizzle cake.

You can't hide the curl of your lip at the mere thought.

It's the morning after the first ball of the season, just after your twentieth birthday, and you are in the London townhouse your parents have rented for the season, awaiting any suitors to call. Less than three days into your first season, you want the merry-go-round to stop. A dizzying whirl of social engagements you feel unequipped to deal with, wanting nothing more than to be back in Kent, stealing into the grounds of Aubrey Hall with a good book. Perhaps even spend time with Benedict.

Just the very thought of him causes a flare in your belly. Since his return from his studies in Cambridge, he has seemingly moved to Aubrey Hall full-time, spending his days painting the Kentish countryside with hopes of establishing himself as an artist. You have spent more time together in the last year or so than ever before, often finding yourself reading quietly in the shade with Eloise as he paints nearby, his company always somehow a balm as much as a thrill. And it feels as if there has been a subtle shift in how he regards you, giving you the unbearable lightness of hope. Perhaps he sees you in a different light now that you have come of age, no longer the child you were. There have been some moments where he has looked at you and felt it, like a weight on your skin; even as you doubt many other things about yourself, you don't doubt there is something there—a most wondrous and perplexing development.

Your butler bustles in and announces something that makes your heart leap into your throat.

“Mr Benedict Bridgerton has arrived.”

Your mother's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, giving you a sideways glance. A Bridgerton, even if not the Viscount, would be more than sufficient in her eyes. Especially one known so well to your family.

“To call on Miss y/l/n?” your mother asks, excitement evident in the breathy question.

“Oh no, ma’am, apologies. To see your husband. His brother, the Viscount, has dispatched him here to talk about some business in Kent,” your butler explains, somewhat apologetic as he realises the misconstrued intent.

Your mother’s disappointed face is only a match for your roiling stomach.

Your father folds his newspaper and jumps up. “I shall meet with him in my study, Jenkins. Please show him there,” and with a nod to you both, he leaves.

It has been just two days since your presentation to the Queen. That had been a waking nightmare. Parading down a long hallway at the Palace to be presented to her majesty filled you with utter dread. All eyes upon you, your every move and inch of appearance judged, and you are certain you were found lacking. Your status is unknown in the Ton; your parents pushing you into the season, hoping for an advantageous match. But you feel they could tell from one look where you belonged—almost invisible, on the periphery, a wallflower. Quiet, reserved, bookish, watching more than participating.

“Lord Boswell is here,” your butler reenters the room moments later.

Your stomach clenches. Your mother can barely contain her glee. You are so confused; you barely spoke two words to the man as you danced the previous night. Your conversation skills were utterly lacking, and he seemingly could not find an engaging topic to broach. You were keen for the music to end so you could return to standing and observing. You cannot believe that awkward interaction would be enough to propel the man to call on you, having said so little to each other just a few hours earlier. And yet here he is, a bunch of flowers in hand and a slightly vacant smile. The fleeting thought of marrying such a dull person makes you mildly nauseated.

Your mother hurries to the other side of the parlour and leaves you to converse, wearing a happy, hopeful expression that you hate to dash. And so you stumble the best you can through small talk. He talks of the weather, his property, and his interests but never asks anything about you—as if he is a candidate for a job you are interviewing for. In some ways, that is perhaps accurate, but part of you yearns for him to show interest in you, not just talk incessantly of himself.

Just as you give up hope of escaping anytime soon, you startle as he lays a hand on yours on the sofa between you. You don't even hear what he is saying anymore, just staring at where his glove covers yours, not liking the sensation, wanting to claw yourself away and withdraw.

Motion in the doorway makes you look up; Benedict is with your father. And suddenly, your heart is racing. Benedict looks taken aback; something sour in his expression you have never seen before makes you want to run to him and ask what is wrong. But you don't. You do the polite, reserved thing and smile.

“Mrs y/l/n, Lord Boswell,” he greets politely. “Miss y/l/n,” he adds, and you could swear he uses a different, lower register. Something inside you turns pulpy and ripe, blossoming just for him.

Before you know it, he has taken a seat on the sofa facing yours, shooting you the tiniest of winks that could be an eye twitch, but you know him better than that—seeing the sparkle of mischief in his eye. Your parents seem to exchange nonplussed glances, uncertain why he has chosen to stay.

“Boswell,” Benedict begins, shooting the man his most impervious glance. “What of your qualities make you an ideal suitor for Miss y/l/n here?” he questions.

Boswell splutters and seems taken aback, clearly not expecting such an interrogation, especially from a man who isn't your father or brother. Benedict’s eyes are back on you as the man stumbles through an inadequate and entirely uninteresting response that you do not even listen to. Your whole focus is on Benedict, feeling unable to breathe.

“Hmmm,” Benedict hums as he ends, “and what have you to say about Miss y/l/n’s interests? Are they perhaps complimentary to yours?”

“I… I did not think to ask,” Boswell falters, his cheeks reddening at the faux pas.

Benedict looks almost disgusted.

“You claim to be interested in providing your suit but ask nothing of what makes her the wonderful person she is?” he scolds, and your mouth opens into a little O of surprise. “Have you not asked her about her excellent marksmanship? How she can shoot an archery target better than anyone else within ten miles of Aubrey Hall? Have you not asked after her artistic skills? You see that cushion you sit next to? That is the work of her fair hand.”

You barely register as Boswell twists to look at the item and then at you; you have eyes for no one but Benedict as he continues, his voice loud and clear even over the sound of your heart pounding hard in your ears.

“Have you asked her about her love for literature and poetry? How she will correct you that it was, in fact, Guildenstern, not Rosencrantz, who enters first in the first folio version of Hamlet?”

You duck your head and blush. That is precisely what you did to him last year, surprising even yourself with your boldness. And he remembers.

He continues. “Have you asked about her love of animals? Perhaps you need to hear the tale of Mr Whiskers and how she was able to nurse the beloved cat of my sister Hyacinth back to health. You have not asked her of any such things?!?” his tone incredulous.

Even from the corner of your eye, you can tell that your parents’ faces are as shocked as Boswell’s. And suddenly, you recognise this as a Benedict Bridgerton you have seen before. It’s the one that comes out when defending those he loves against injustice or an unworthy opponent—the staunch guardian.

“If you cannot find it in yourself to show such interest, I would hope she will entertain better suitors,” Benedict sniffs dismissively. “As a long-term friend, I cannot in all good conscience allow this young woman to be pursued by anyone unworthy of her,” he concludes cuttingly, his nostrils flare, and his lip curls just a fraction as his eyes flit to where Boswell’s hand still rests upon yours.

Even as you struggle through your jumble of thoughts about everything he has said, one question so singular strikes you. Is this is Benedict….. jealous?? Jealous of your suitor? Finding ways to cut into him with his precise knowledge about you? The thought seems so fanciful that you want to dismiss it, but the sliver of possibility it offers is exhilarating. Just the chance of it being true has you utterly undone.

You barely even listen as your father jumps up and, with some belated sense of defence, agrees with Mr Bridgerton and asks Boswell if perhaps he should take his leave and return another day when he has thought of more engaging things to ask of you. Every fibre of your being yearns to talk to Benedict somewhere private, but he gives excuses to leave as quickly as your chastised suitor is dispatched.

Boswell never darkens your door again.

IV: Rescue

“Penny, for your thoughts,” Eloise smirks as she catches you staring into space on the terrace. Your cheeks blush, and you do not admit to where your thoughts had wandered—to her older brother.

“Will you come with me for a walk?” you ask, feeling the need to get away before you cross paths with the man who has occupied your thoughts more often than not of late.

It’s the week of the midsummer Hearts & Flowers ball at Aubrey Hall, and you are glad to have escaped the hubbub of the London scene and to be back in Kent for a few days' respite.

“No, I would prefer the company of Mary Shelley this afternoon,” she states airily, waving a book she holds.

So you set off alone, walking the grounds you now know so well. You are half an hour into your stroll, admiring the wildflowers along the eastern fringes of the grounds, not far from the village, when you see him approaching in the distance.

Benedict is riding his trusty horse and looks so majestic your chest constricts. Clothed in just a billowing white shirt and beige britches, you have rarely seen him look so informal. Or so very, very attractive. Your palms feel sweaty, and something stirs deep inside your body as you slink slightly into the treeline, hoping to remain unseen. A chance to merely observe this beautiful man, even knowing it is wrong to do so. To spy on him as such. Just as he draws close enough that you can see the flex of his leg muscles under the material, which causes all sorts of sensations in your body, a startled deer darts across the path and spooks his horse.

Time seems to slow as you watch his horse rear up and make the most terrible whinny of fear.

And then your heart is in your throat as you watch horrified as Benedict loses his grip on the reins in surprise and is thrown violently backwards to the ground.

Bile rises in your throat as you see how his body hits the dirt path, unable to brace for impact. The air fills with a blood-curdling scream that you belatedly realise is your own, and before you know it, you are sprinting. Sprinting towards him. Your whole focus narrows to his body splayed on the ground, worryingly still, as his horse bolts away. Heart pumping wildly and adrenaline coursing through your veins, you pull up to him and skid to your knees.

He is still conscious but barely. Moaning slightly.

“Do not move!” You bark, and even in his woozy state, he appears taken aback by your ferocity. “I mean it, Benedict!” you bite out as he attempts to move his arm.

He seems to mumble a noise of ascent as you try your best to assess any injuries, having learned some things from observing your father over the years, but you realise he needs proper medical attention. Where you are on the grounds, it’s closer to your home than Aubrey Hall.

“I am going to get my father,” you explain as calmly as you can, “for the love of God, Benedict, do NOT attempt to move until he gets here.”

A wan smile spreads across his face even as he winces in pain. “Hmm, fine. I promise to stay still,” he sighs, “....prefer to do it for the love of you…,” he mutters slurringly before he appears to pass out.

Knowing he has likely struck his head, you try your darndest to put what he said out of your mind. A head injury would be the only way to explain such a comment, even as you are praying he doesn't have one.

Heart still beating out of control, and not knowing what possesses you, you lean over and press the quickest shyest of kisses onto his lips—pulling back a few inches before he can even acknowledge it happened.

“Don’t you dare go anywhere on me, Benedict Bridgerton,” you whisper fiercely, just in time to see his eyes pop open, hazy and clouded with something you have never seen before. It’s not the pain he is in, though. And it’s not confusion, amusement or even irritation. It’s something else, so blisteringly intense your legs want to turn to jelly.

“I won’t, I promise,” he attests, his tone rough, ragged.

There are a couple of seconds where all you do is stare wildly at each other, and then, with a reassuring squeeze of his hand, you take off running. You have never run so far and so fast in your life; fear makes your muscles work harder than they ever have before. It’s probably only a few minutes, but it feels like a lifetime.

Your parents almost burst out of their skins in shock as you barrel into the house, panting wildly, wordlessly grabbing your father's medicine bag, and he reflexively springs into action.

You run to the stables and hurriedly hook up the long cart he uses when he needs to transport patients, and the look he shoots you is filled with concern.

“Who is it?” he asks as you climb aboard and direct him.

“Benedict,” you tremble, and there is a world of understanding in your father's eyes as he cracks the whip, and the horse jolts faster.

Perhaps your adoration is less concealed than you like to believe, but at this moment, you only care about getting him the help he needs. You are grateful your father doesn’t ask questions as you speed along.

And it becomes a blur as you reach the site, grateful Benedict laid still as you requested. Your father examines him and fires questions that are answered lucidly, tending to some immediate wounds and bandaging in places. Before you know it, you are helping your father with a canvas stretcher and insisting on sitting with Benedict in the back of the cart as your father takes the patient back to Aubrey Hall.

Never addressing the fact that you grip each other's hands so tight that both of your knuckles go white.

V: Belonging

“You can come in.”

Benedict’s voice calls out, bemused as you vacillate in the doorway, not realising that he can see you in a mirror reflection.

So at his invitation, you blush and scuttle into his room. Awkward, unsure what to do after your bold, daring, downright impertinent behaviour when he sustained his injuries. Part of you is hopeful he does not remember it.

It’s been two days, and he has made excellent progress under your father's watchful eye. The minute your father had pulled up at the house, you dropped your hold on his hand. And as word spread, it was a frenzy of activity that you found yourself superfluous to. The last you had seen was Benedict being carried inside for a more thorough examination.

Luckily, it turns out he has no lasting damage; his head was uninjured beyond a mild concussion. He is bruised all over, likely has some cracked ribs and has a sprained wrist, but he will be fine after some rest.

“H.. how are you?” your ask quietly, stilted, fiddling with your dress nervously.

“Much better,” his tone soft, “only because of you.”

You look up and meet his gentle gaze. “I merely did what anyone would have done,” you demure.

“Nonsense,” he counters, “you ordered me to stay still and await the doctor. If you weren’t there, I likely would have done myself additional injury being stubborn,” he points out dryly.

You don’t know what to say in response, so you change tack. “Is your horse alright?”

“Yes. Colin found him wandering around the wildflower meadow, munching on all manner of grasses. Never happier, completely uninjured,” he assures.

You nod, glad to hear the news. Then you allow the room to lapse into silence, unsure how to commence your profuse apology.

“I am very sor….”

He stops you with a bandaged hand held up.

“If you even begin to apologise for saving me, well then I shall be most vexed,” he chides, but there is no heat there, a lopsided grin tugging at his handsome features. “Besides, the more pertinent point of discussion is the fearless woman you can be when needed. The person you are becoming, when you allow yourself to, is quite something,” you bow your head as your cheeks heat at his praise. “I would have injured myself months before now had I known I would meet the creature who sits behind that cloud of shyness. Just look at what you did, taking change so very effectively,” he flatters then there is a pause. “Hell, even being brave enough to kiss me.”

Your head shoots up, and your mouth falls open.

“Oh yes,” he chuckles, “don’t think I forgot that part,” His voice has lowered to a pitch that buzzes right through your being.

“I… I was worried I… I was going to lose you,” you stutter, “and I-I’m sorry that was terrible of me to take liberties like that. Please, please forgive me?” you beseech.

“It was not in any sense of the word terrible,” he disputes, “the exact opposite. There is nothing to forgive. But there is one way you can make it up to me…?” he hedges.

“Anything, please,” you beg, so hopeful of absolution.

He holds out his hands and gestures for you to perch on the bed beside him. Almost without thought, you do so, even as you feel your pulse speeding up. You have rarely been this close, and now you are transfixed by all the tiny flecks of colour in his iris and the hints of stubble around his jaw.

“Kiss me again,” he requests; a finger trails lightly over the back of your hand. “But properly this time. Give me a chance to kiss you back.”

You just gawp at him in utter shock, heart pounding again, just like it was that day. You don't move away. You can't. Rooted to the spot. Unable to stop staring at his plush bottom lip.

“You cannot mean it…” you stutter when you finally find your tongue, disbelieving.

“Does this seem like I do not mean it?” he argues ardently, and before you know it, he is sitting up and leaning in.

And then warm lips touch yours, and fireworks explode inside your chest.

You feel like you are drowning in the very best way as your lips move together gently. Everything about the moment is sweet and light, but promising more, something tart that makes you want to climb atop him and crush yourself against him. Just as you feel the instinct to open your mouth to him, he pulls back, looking lost and found all at once.

“I need you to know something,” he begins, grabbing both your hands and placing them between his. “It pains me to see you ever doubting yourself or if you belong. You belong. Everywhere you go. You have so much to give to the world,” he states passionately.

“I… “ you falter, wanting to believe him, the version of you he sees.

“You do. Hell, you give me a reason to get up every day. To try. To be better. I would not be the artist I am now were it not for your words of encouragement as I painted all those afternoons.”

You are dumbstruck. You honestly didn't believe he was taking on board what you said. Mostly just encouraging him to follow his instincts when he seemed to doubt them.

“And now it’s time someone did the same for you. Be the encouragement you need. You deserve everything, y/n. And it would be my greatest honour to try to give it to you?” he adds, a gently loving smile lighting up his face.

Your heart sings as you realise this is the declaration you have been waiting half of your life to hear. Before you can stop yourself, you launch yourself at him, this time being the one to demand a kiss that he happily obliges.

“I have a question,” you state as your lips part, your boldness growing with every moment. “Mr Bridgerton, were you jealous when I had a suitor?” you tease, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

He chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. “My god, you have no idea.” You cant help the victorious giggle, basking in the fizz in your veins.

“I suppose it was payback for Ms Worthing. She of the ironic name. She was never worthy of you,” you state passionately.

He laughs with a headshake. “Perhaps it is our ability to rescue each other that makes us so best suited,” he opines. “I do believe we may belong together,” he adds.

And you couldn't agree more.

In fact, you are never alone again from that day on.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz

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foundtherightwords · 5 months

Text

Irresistibly Contagious

Pairing: Arthur Havisham (Dickensian) x OFC (Elsie from "The Road Forgotten")

Summary: Arthur discovers the joy of Christmas with some help from Elsie and two unexpected guests.

A/N: This was written for the JQ Holiday Ficathon. Since Dickensianis a Christmas show, I've wanted to write a Christmas fic for Arthur for a while, but as I was in the middle of my longer WIP, I thought I wouldn't be able to finish it in time, but I did! It's technically a sequel to "The Road Forgotten", though you can more or less read it as a standalone.

And of course, I had to have some references to Dickens in here. The title is a quote from "A Christmas Carol" ("There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.") The quote about family ("Not merely those with whom we share blood...") is a paraphrase from "Nicholas Nickleby".

Warnings: None! There are some very brief mentions of psychological trauma and infertility, but other than that, it's the fluffiest of fluff fics.

Word count: 7k

The village of Oakley lay at the foot of the Surrey Hills, a handful of cottages clustered together, overlooked by a church at one end and a manor house at the other, with a little thoroughfare called the High Street by its inhabitants with a touching, if slightly inflated, sense of pride. As it is usually the case with an English village, especially one of this size, everybody tends to know everybody's business. They take great satisfaction in it. When Mr. Babcock made his first visit to the doctor in twenty years, his illness was known around the village by lunchtime. When Mrs. Shackleton bought marmalade at the village shop, it meant her mother-in-law was visiting and she couldn't bring out her homemade preserves for fear of the old woman's reproach. When young Stanley Milford went to the West Indies for five years and came back with a native wife in tow, the story of exactly where and how he'd acquired her was quickly discovered and whispered over teapots and shop counters for days.

This is not to say that the people of Oakley are a censorious, meddlesome lot, far from it. They care for their neighbors. Thanks to them, Mr. Babcock's son was able to come back from Scotland and saw his father one last time before the old man passed away. Mr. Sidwell, the grocer, knew to keep a pot of marmalade on the side for Mrs. Shackleton whenever he saw her going to meet the stagecoach. And despite their initial wariness, they eventually made Mrs. Milford feel welcomed. No, the people of Oakley are good and kind. They simply think that lending one's neighbor a cup of sugar is an excellent opportunity to find out what they are having for pudding, that's all.

So when some people moved into the old Avery cottage on the edge of the village, they caused quite a ripple in the still pond of Oakley. The newcomers were a young couple, though they didn't have the bright, eager look of the newly married about to build a life together. They looked rather world-weary, like those who had been through a lot and only wanted to settle down to a quiet existence. That contradiction was enough to pique the village's curiosity.

The husband, a pale, boyish young man, was called Arthur. The villagers couldn't seem to find out what his christened name was. The wife, handsome rather than pretty, was Elizabeth, or Elsie, as her husband could be heard calling her. So they became known as the Arthurs. Supposedly they used to live in London and came to Surrey for Mr. Arthur's health. When the villagers heard of this, they nodded sagely, for Mr. Sidwell, whose son worked as a clerk in London, never missed an opportunity to regal his customers with tales of the horrors of the big city. Anyone who moved away from that den of vice and pollution was bound to have a lot of good senses.

But some uneasiness remained. Truth be told, the couple did nothing to disrupt the quiet life of the village. They kept to themselves, worked hard to turn the old dilapidated cottage into a cozy, homey place, and were affectionate with each other and cordial to their neighbors. Their biggest fault, however, was something the people of Oakley could not overlook: they did not celebrate Christmas.

For a small village, Oakley took Christmas very seriously. Every year, as December rolled around, the village positively dripped with evergreens, pine boughs and ivy vines and holly branches adorned every door and window, Mr. Sidwell's shelves burst with chocolate and oranges and other good food, people talked of little else but the Christmas feast that the Squire gave every year at the Assembly Hall, and children could be seen gawking at the toys on display in the window of the village shop or racing after the fattened geese as they marched through the village on their way to the Christmas Market in London.

Through it all, the old cottage at the edge of the village stood quiet and closed off. No wreaths decorated its front door, no cheerful carols came through the window, no enticing smell of roast goose or plum pudding rose from the chimney. The Arthurs, who went to church as regularly as the rest of the village, made no appearance at the Christmas service, bought no Christmas present or provision, and although the Squire extended to them an invitation to the feast on the very first Christmas since they arrived, every year they politely declined. There were always excuses. They had just moved in and couldn't prepare in time. Mr. Arthur wasn't feeling well enough. They were away visiting families (Mrs. Shackleton, whose house was closest to the old Avery place, went by to check that year, and indeed, they seemed to be away during the day but were certainly back in time for the feast that evening.)

Since the Arthurs seemed in every other way pleasant and humble, the villagers agreed that this was not a snub to the Squire or the village itself. The only reason they could think of was that the young couple, inexplicably, objected to the very idea of Christmas itself.

But the young couple didn't object to the idea of Christmas, or at least, only one of them did.

"I ran into Mrs. Shackleton at the shop today," Elsie told Arthur as they walked down the path that led from the woods behind their cottage to the back gate of Langton Asylum. This was a shortcut they had discovered shortly after moving to Oakley. It was a rather pretty walk in the spring and summer, through dells and glades filled with bluebells and other wildflowers, and shaved off nearly half a mile from the main road, for which Arthur was grateful. It had been nearly four years, but his bullet wound still troubled him sometimes.

And more importantly, the shortcut shielded them and their weekly visit to Elsie's sister, Marianne, from the prying eyes of the likes of Mrs. Shackleton. Arthur knew Elsie had worked hard to keep Marianne's existence a secret, not because she was ashamed in any way, but because she knew how the villagers would talk if they found out she had a sister in a lunatic asylum, and talk was something both Arthur and Elsie wished to avoid.

"What did she say?" Arthur groaned. He was more sensitive to gossip than Elsie, having been subjected to it most of his life, and had had to avoid even going out into the garden for the past few days for fear of being accosted by Mrs. Shackleton. He had a very good guess as to what that good lady had to say.

"Oh, she asked what I was going to wear to the Christmas feast." Elsie glanced at him questioningly, and Arthur braced himself for the inevitable. "I told her I haven't decided yet," Elsie continued. "Are we going?"

Arthur sighed. "Elsie, you know I don't want to."

"I know." Elsie tucked her arm through his. "Only this would be the fourth year in a row, and I do believe Mrs. Shackleton would come to our door to personally drag us to the feast if we decline again. We may need a plan of escape."

Arthur smiled but felt no amusement. When they first came to Oakley, he had been recovering from his injury, and with the roof leaking everywhere and the rest of the cottage barely fit to be inhabited, Elsie had gone along with his decision to not join the Christmas feast. But when he had declined again the year after that and showed no wish to celebrate Christmas at home either, Elsie had been at first surprised, then indignant, and then, when Arthur had refused to explain it, she had dropped the question, but it became a sore subject for them ever since.

From her gentle teasing, Arthur knew Elsie was trying to make light of the matter. He also knew he was being selfish, and unfair to her.

"You can go, if you wish," he told her.

"I'm not going alone. How would that look?" Elsie replied, aghast. She peered at him, her green eyes slightly hurt but still full of sympathy, trying to understand. "What is it, Arthur? Why don't you like Christmas?"

"I have nothing against Christmas," Arthur said with a scowl. "I simply think it's silly to spend money on a tree that you're going to throw away and overpriced gifts!"

"What about love, compassion, good cheers, and all that?"

"Those are just pretty words, made up to sell chocolate and sugar biscuits."

Elsie stopped in her tracks, her arm slipping out of his. "You sound like a bitter old man. What about family?"

"Family?!" Arthur exploded. "What family? Our parents are gone, your sister is in an asylum, and mine has locked herself away in a crumbling old house. What sort of family do you call that?"

As soon as those words were out of his mouth, he realized how horrible and hateful they were. He could only watch helplessly as Elsie reared back, looking like he'd just struck her across the face.

"Elsie, I—I'm sorry—" he said, reaching for her hand.

Elsie stood still, not moving away from him, but not responding to his touch either. "Aren't we a family?" she said with a quietness that hurt him a thousand times more than her rage. "Or am I not enough for you?"

Arthur silently cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? When they had first become intimate, Elsie had told him of an accident during her years of working at a bawdyhouse, which had left her unable to bear a child. Although Arthur had reassured her again and again that it made no difference to him, he knew she still keenly felt the pain, the void. And here he was, reminding her of that void all over again.

"We are," he said, drawing her into an embrace. "And you are. More than enough." He kissed her to show her how much he meant it.

Elsie's stiff back slowly relaxed under his hands. Encouraged by her response, he took a deep breath and revealed the painful truth. "I know this doesn't excuse what I said, but the last Christmas I had with my sister—with Amelia—that was right after our father died. The beginning of the end. Compeyson had wormed his way into that party, tainting its memory. From then on, I could never celebrate Christmas without feeling like I was making a mockery out of everything."

Elsie's eyes softened. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Arthur shook his head miserably. "I didn't want you to think Compeyson still had any influence on our lives." Damn Compeyson. Damn him to Hell. Arthur could never utter that name without tasting bile in the back of his throat. It seemed they could never be rid of that fiend.

"But he's in prison," Elsie reminded him. She cradled his face between her palms, her touch both fierce and comforting. "If we avoid mentioning him, we will always have to live in fear of him. He is gone, Arthur. And we must continue with our lives."

Arthur nodded, wishing he had her conviction. They went on their way, Arthur slipping his arm around Elsie's waist to hold her close. From time to time, he caught her looking at him with a thoughtful expression, but she said nothing.

By the time they arrived at Langton and an orderly had brought Marianne out, Elsie seemed to have forgotten the fight, turning her focus on her sister. They gave Marianne a bag of oranges and some chocolate—though they didn't celebrate Christmas, they always brought little gifts for her. Marianne exclaimed over them with the delight of a child, which she was, still, mentally and emotionally. Elsie stood a little further back, watching, as was her habit—Marianne had improved a great deal over the years, but she was still in danger of a relapse if she was reminded of the past, and sadly, that included Elsie. The look on Elsie's face, half of love, half of fear, whenever she turned to her sister, put a twinge in Arthur's heart. A visit to Marianne was always bittersweet for Elsie, and he wanted to kick himself for piling on her pain with that pointless fight.

While they sat with Marianne outside—it was cold, but the snow was yet to arrive, and the garden gave them a reprise from the constant moans and screams of the asylum—Arthur saw, curiously, two children running around, a girl of about seven or eight and the boy of three or four. They didn't make a lot of noise, but their lively movements and quiet giggles struck an incongruous note amongst the sedate inmates of Langton. This was no workhouse, so where had these children come from? Were they with a visitor?

Arthur soon had his answer. A woman, dazed and frail-looking, was led into the garden by an orderly, and the children ran up to her—or rather, only the little boy ran to her, showing her all sorts of things he'd found, from a pretty pebble to a piece of string. Meanwhile, his older sister stood back, looking at the woman with the same exact expression that Elsie had whenever she looked at Marianne. It was painful to see such a grown-up look on a child's face. The woman didn't respond to the boy. She didn't even seem aware of either child.

Marianne gave the children some chocolate, which they took gratefully. The little boy clearly wanted more, and Marianne offered him the rest of the bag, but his older sister held his hand back. "That's enough, Simon," she said sternly. "Remember what Mama says. You mustn't be greedy. Save some for Marianne."

Elsie and Arthur smiled at her bossy tone, though Arthur felt an echo of guilt in his heart, faint but never faded, like an old scar. Those children reminded him of another girl and another little boy, running around Satis House a long, long time ago. He hadn't heard any news of Amelia in nearly two years, since their lawyer, Jaggers, informed them that Amelia had adopted a little girl, whom she named Estella. Arthur hoped that Estella could bring his sister, if not happiness, then at least some comfort.

Later, as they took their leave, little Simon ran up to Elsie and shyly presented her with a branch of holly, its red berries shining like rubies amongst the shiny green leaves.

"Why, thank you," Elsie said, sticking the holly to the brim of her bonnet. "Do I look ready for the Christmas pageant now?"

The boy only smiled at her. Arthur wondered if he could talk at all.

A voice called behind them, "Simon! Betsy! Stop bothering the visitors and go inside now, it's time for your tea." They turned around to find Mrs. Gordon, the matron, striding toward them. The children took off running.

"Is the asylum now taking on the children of patients as well, Mrs. Gordon?" Elsie asked, after they had exchanged greetings.

Mrs. Gordon shook her head with a sigh. "No, these are special circumstances." She dropped her voice. "Their father was killed in a mine collapse right after Simon was born. The shock was too much for their mother." She indicated the frail woman, who was still walking around the garden in short, jerky steps, leaning on the orderly's arms. "She can no longer take care of them. A benefactress has arranged for her to come here and the children to be put into an orphanage, but it is too close to Christmas, the orphanage cannot take them yet. I'm letting them stay with me in the meantime, but you both know that this is no place for children—"

As if to prove her words, a long, mournful wail sounded from somewhere in the depths of the building. A moment later, the children came running out again, their faces pale.

"Mrs. Gordon," said the girl, Betsy. "Daisy did it again. She called Simon her son and grabbed at him." Simon clung to the matron's skirt, his sleeve hiked up to reveal a reddened wrist.

Mrs. Gordon gave Elsie and Arthur a long-suffering look. "All right, dearies," she said, absently patting Simon's head. "You stay here and have tea with me."

"Which orphanage, do you know?" Arthur asked her in a low voice, so the children wouldn't hear.

"I don't know. I only know it's in London. It's been all arranged."

Arthur fell quiet. During his time in London, he'd seen enough of those orphanages and workhouses, like the one ran by the Bumbles, not far from where he used to live, to know what their conditions were like. He looked down and saw little Simon's brown eyes staring up at him. He tried to remember if he'd ever looked like that once, so trusting and full of hope. He must have.

"Arthur, can I have a word with you in private, please?" Elsie said, drawing him away.

Arthur knew what she had in mind even before she could open her mouth. He could see his own thoughts reflected on her face. "Elsie, no."

"I haven't said anything yet!"

"I know what you were going to say. We can't."

"It's only for Christmas!"

"Let Mrs. Gordon take care of them."

"She has her hands full with all the patients. And you see it yourself, it's not safe for them."

"We don't have the space."

"There's the spare room."

"They're children, not some stray dogs or cats we pick up from the street—"

"Exactly." Elsie looked straight at him. "They're children, Arthur. And they have no one. Just like us."

"We have each other."

"We found each other. And now they've found us."

She took his hand and laced her fingers through his. When she held his hand like that and looked at him with those green eyes, so bright and beseeching, he would've given her the world. He relented. "Well, if you can convince them—"

A quick smile lit up Elsie's face. "Mrs. Gordon," she said. "Would you trust the care of these children to us? They can stay with us during Christmas, and once the—once they are ready to leave, we shall deliver them back to you."

"Could you?" Mrs. Gordon said in relief. "That would be a great weight off my shoulders. We're always short-staffed around the holidays, I can't spare anyone to watch them too."

Elsie turned to the children and asked, "How would you like to stay with us for a few days? We live in a cottage not far from here."

Simon let go of Mrs. Gordon and tugged at Elsie's sleeve, pointing to her reticule, where she'd kept the chocolate. Elsie laughed. "No more chocolate for you, young sir," she said, "though you can have cake for tea if you want."

That seemed good enough for the boy, but his sister was more circumspect. Her eyes, of a darker brown than her brother's, regarded Arthur and Elsie with suspicion.

"You told us we can stay with Mama until after Christmas," she said to Mrs. Gordon, accusingly.

Mrs. Gordon cleared her throat, uncomfortable. Elsie crouched down until her face was level with the girl's. "You are Betsy, aren't you?" she said.

"My name is Elizabeth," the girl said, lifting her chin, "but Mama calls me Betsy."

"That's my name too, except I'm called Elsie. This is Arthur. And I believe you know my sister, Marianne." The girl nodded, still full of wariness. "Now, I promise you, Betsy, that you and your brother can come visit your mama any time you want. And if you don't like staying with us, we'll bring you back here to Mrs. Gordon right away. Do we have an agreement?"

She extended a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Betsy placed her own small hand in Elsie's, and they shook.

Soon, Arthur and Elsie were leading the children down the path back to Oakley, Arthur carrying the two small valises containing their things. Elise took Simon's hand, but Betsy stood at the start of the path with her arms crossed, refusing to move.

"Why are we going through the woods?" she asked.

"It's a shortcut," replied Elsie.

"A shortcut?" Doubt flitted across the girl's face. "I don't believe you. Is it some sort of trick?"

"It's not a trick, Betsy," Elsie said, her eyes twinkling. "We live in a cottage made out of gingerbread, and this is the only way to get to it."

Simon's jaw dropped. Betsy rolled her eyes with all the exasperation and contempt of a big sister, which Arthur instantly recognized from his childhood memories of Amelia. Elsie must have recognized it in herself as well, for she turned away to hide a grin.

"There is no such thing as a gingerbread cottage, Simon," Betsy said. "It's only a story."

Arthur was close to leaving the girl in the woods at this point, but Elsie's patience knew no bounds. She simply said, "Well, why don't you come along and find out then?" and went on her way.

Betsy scowled, but eventually, she followed them, running ahead to take Simon's other hand, not wanting Elsie to command his entire attention.

Back at the cottage, while Elsie busied herself making up the bed in the spare room, Arthur stirred up the fire in the kitchen and put the kettle on. He brought out the seed cake Elsie had baked the previous day, which went a long way toward lessening little Simon's disappointment that the cottage was not made out of gingerbread. The cake even managed to smooth out some of the furrow between Betsy's eyes as well.

"You don't have any Christmas decorations," the girl pointed out.

"Oh, we don't—" Arthur began, but he didn't have a chance to finish, for Elsie had appeared in the doorway and smoothly interjected.

"We don't have time to put them up yet," she said. "Do you want to help?"

The children's eyes both lit up eagerly.

"Then eat up and have a good night's sleep," Elsie continued, "and we'll start early tomorrow, shall we?"

As the children stuffed themselves on the cake and scones and preserves, Arthur went into the spare room on the pretext of helping Elsie. He grumbled, "I know what you're trying to do."

"I'm not trying anything," she said evenly, spreading a quilt on the little bed. "I only see some poor, lost children, and I'm doing my best to give them a happy Christmas. You don't have to be such a grouch about it."

Arthur didn't ask if she was including him as one of those poor, lost children as well.

***

The next morning, Arthur was awakened by Simon's excited scream—the snow had finally arrived, and the cottage and the garden were covered in a white blanket, as though a giant baker had passed by during the night and given everything a dusting of icing sugar. Arthur grudgingly admitted to himself that it was the perfect Christmas scene.

After breakfast, Elsie took her old coat off the peg by the kitchen door and turned to the children. "Which one of you would like to go with me and pick out a tree?"

Simon jumped up, waving his arm.

"And where are you going to find this tree?" Arthur asked.

"In the woods," said Elsie. She went out the back door and picked up the axe lying by their wood pile.

The thought of her trampling through the cold and the snow while he sat at home with his feet by the fire was more than Arthur could bear. He snatched the axe out of her hands. "You'll do no such thing. I'll go."

"But—your wound—in this cold—"

"I was shot through the collarbone, not my lungs. I'll be fine."

A small smile played around Elsie's lips as she watched Arthur shrug on his coat, while she buttoned little Simon into his jacket. She then wrapped a scarf around Arthur's neck and tucked the ends into his coat.

"Find us a pretty tree, won't you, my dear?" she said, giving him a peck on the lips.

"You'll find that my taste in Christmas trees is impeccable. And don't call me 'my dear'," Arthur said, trying to scowl and failing utterly. "You sounded like that old crook Fagin."

They set out into that world of white, Arthur slowing his stride to match Simon's short one. The boy said nothing. The silence between them was peaceful, not uncomfortable, broken only by the crunch of the snow under their feet and Simon's occasional tuneless but contented humming. Arthur was thankful for that, for he had no idea what to say to Simon. He didn't have Elsie's easy way with children, and there was no one he could have looked to as a model. His father had been both harsh and distant; Arthur's only memories of him were of his many reproaches and punishments.

They managed to find a little fir tree of just the right size in the woods behind the cottage. "What do you think?" Arthur asked. "Is that pretty enough for Elsie?"

Simon nodded, his eyes shining.

They dragged the tree back to the cottage and set it up by the fireplace in the parlor. Bare as it was, it already gave the room a Christmassy look. Elsie was in the kitchen, rolling out gingerbread dough and cutting it with a knife under Betsy's critical eye.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, hanging up his and Simon's coats.

"Making gingerbread biscuits. We can hang them up on the trees, and eat them afterwards."

"What's that supposed to be?" He glanced at the shape Elsie was cutting.

"A bird," Elsie said, sounding peeved. "Isn't it obvious?"

"You don't say. I would think it's a mushroom."

Betsy hid her giggle behind her hand. Elsie glared at Arthur. "All right, so I might have skipped a drawing lesson or two in school. I'd like to see you try!"

Arthur was not artistic, but at least he'd had a few more drawing lessons than Elsie. While he cut the dough into birds, houses, stars, and men, Elsie taught the children to make garlands out of dried apple slices and stick cloves into fresh oranges to make pretty patterns. Soon, the gingerbread was in the oven, and the warm, spicy fragrance of ginger and cloves were added to the sweet smell of the fruits. Arthur shared the offcuts with the children, and when Elsie chided him for setting a bad example by eating raw dough, he only winked at them and popped another piece into his mouth.

Since that morning, Arthur had existed in a state of fearful anticipation. After Elsie had told him she was determined to have a Christmas celebration for the children whether he wanted to or not, he had been waiting for something to go wrong, for the old feeling of dread and guilt to come creeping back like a thief in the night. But it never came. It helped that Elsie kept him busy so he had no time to think about the past, and what they were doing was so different from what he was used to. He didn't remember much of his childhood Christmases, and after he came of age, Christmas had always been a day of gaming and whoring and drinking, until, inebriated, he would crawl back to Satis House in time to make an appearance at the Christmas ball and be reminded of what a disgrace he was to the Havisham name.

There was none of that in their little cottage. No scandalized whispers behind gloved hands, no cold looks of disapproval and disappointment, no harsh words of reprimand. There was only the soft swishing of Elsie's skirt as she moved from the table to the oven, the sound of her humming while she bent over a task, and the children's laughs. The sole note of discord was when Betsy told Simon he had put too many cloves into his orange and it looked like a hedgehog, and Simon stuck his tongue out at her, and even then, their argument felt tranquil, comforting in its triviality. The knot in Arthur's stomach slowly loosened, to be replaced by a little warmth. How much of that was due to Elsie's gingerbread and how much was due to her presence, he couldn't say.

After the gingerbread had finished baking and cooled, Elsie iced them with sugar, put a piece of red ribbon through each, and together, they hung the shapes on the tree—Arthur managing to sneak a few more bites—and wound the garland of dried apple slices around it. Arthur draped some ivy on the mantelpiece. Elsie placed the clove-studded oranges amongst the green leaves, and they all stepped back to admire the effect.

"Well, Betsy?" Elsie asked. "What do you think of our Christmas decorations?"

"'s nice," Betsy said, discerning as ever. "But the top of the tree is missing." She turned and ran into the spare room.

Arthur and Elsie exchanged puzzled looks, but they soon had their answer, for Betsy returned presently, bearing an angel with a wooden head and a skirt and wings made out of gold foil.

"How pretty!" Elsie cried. "Where did it come from?"

"Papa and I made it," Betsy said, cradling the angel in her hands like a precious treasure. "He painted the face and cut out her wings and I made her skirt. He said for Simon's first Christmas, he would let Simon put her on top of the tree, but..." She sniffed and wiped furiously at her nose. "He never got to. And we never had a tree again."

Elsie looked close to tears herself. She reached out a hesitant hand, and when Betsy didn't move away, gave the girl's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Oh, sweetheart..."

Betsy said nothing, just stood with her head bent over the angel, and kept sniffling.

"Well, we have a tree now," Arthur said, "and we can certainly have Simon put the angel on top of it, can't we?"

He held out a handkerchief to Betsy. She obediently blew her nose and gave him a tentative smile. Arthur couldn't help smiling back. "Where's Simon?" he asked.

"He's probably cleaning up the last of the gingerbread," Elsie said, stepping into the kitchen. "I'll bring him."

She returned a mere moment later, eyes wide. "I can't find him."

"He must be around here somewhere," said Arthur.

"I was just in the bedroom, he wasn't there," Betsy reminded them.

Elsie ran to their own bedroom and quickly came back, shaking her head. Arthur's stomach dropped. The cottage was tiny—only the parlor, the kitchen, and the two bedrooms. There was nowhere to hide. And if Simon had gone outside, surely they would've seen him, wouldn't they? Unless he'd used the backdoor...

"Simon!" he called. "Where are you?"

"If you're hiding, it's not funny!" Betsy chimed in.

Elsie wasted no time. She went through all the rooms, opened every cupboard, and looked under every piece of furniture. When this yielded no sign of the boy, she threw on a coat and went outside. Arthur and Betsy followed her.

The snow, which had stopped while Arthur and Simon had been in the woods, was coming back, a spinning, churning curtain of white. Usually, such a scene would compel Arthur to stop whatever he was doing and marvel at the beauty of nature, but now, all he could think was how this fresh snow had covered up any footsteps Simon might have left. They spread out around the garden, calling for the boy, their voices sounding thin and reedy, muffled by the snow.

"Simon!"

"You don't—you don't think he's gone into the woods, do you?" Elsie said to Arthur, her lips trembling slightly.

"No," Arthur replied with a conviction he did not feel, trying to reassure her. "It's dark and frightening. Why would he go there?" All the while, he kept thinking that everything had gone wrong again. There may be no Compeyson darkening their doorstep, but this could be worse, much worse.

"Simon!"

They were in the back garden now. The woods, which had looked so lovely and inviting that morning when they went in to cut the tree, now stretched out cold and forbidding in the gathering gloom. If Simon had indeed wandered in there, how could they ever hope to find the boy with the snow coming down thicker and faster every minute? Arthur peered into the snow-covered grove, trying in vain to spot something that didn't belong. He realized he didn't even know what Simon was wearing. Why hadn't he kept a closer eye on the boy? How long had he been gone? How long could a little boy like that survive in the woods? Some guardian he was...

"Simon!"

"We can't go into the woods by ourselves," Elsie said, trembling either from the cold or fear. "We have to alert the neighbors, rouse a search party—"

"Miss-toe," said a voice from above, interrupting her.

They all looked up. The old apple tree was spreading its limbs over their heads, and there, perched on one of the topmost branches, was Simon. He was reaching for a clump of mistletoe at the very end of the branch, a defiant spot of bright green on the gray bare tree, the pearl-like berries gleaming here and there amongst the leaves.

"Miss-toe," Simon said again.

"Oh my goodness!" Elsie cried, arms outstretched even though Simon was far out of her reach. "Simon, sweetheart, don't move! Arthur, get the ladder!"

The ladder was already there, leaning against the tree—it must have been how Simon had managed to get on the tree in the first place. Arthur quickly climbed up and grabbed Simon, holding the boy tight to his chest for a moment, breathing in the warm gingerbread smell from his hair, feeling weak with relief. Then, carefully tucking the boy against him, he made his way down the ladder again.

The moment Arthur and Simon were back on the ground, Betsy was upon Simon, shaking him. "You idiot!" she screamed. "Didn't you hear us shouting for you?"

Elsie came to Simon's rescue, sweeping both him and Betsy into her arms in a tight hug. "Hush, Betsy," she said. "Everything's all right now."

Betsy buried her face in Elsie's shoulder, her rage quieting down into relieved sobs. Arthur knelt down and found himself enveloped in the hug as well.

Simon, oblivious to all the alarm and fear he'd caused, leaned out of Elsie's arm to point at the mistletoe again. "Now kiss," he commanded.

Elsie laughed. "You're a slyboots, aren't you?" She obliged anyway, and then, because they were all under the mistletoe, Betsy and Arthur each got a kiss as well. They sat there for a while, holding each other. The snow, big, ponderous flakes that did not so much fall as swirl majestically through the air, kept landing on their head, brushing their cheeks and their eyelashes with icy kisses, but Arthur hardly felt the cold. The warmth inside him grew, slowly but steadily, like the first spark of a fire.

***

Arthur put his gifts under the tree, a book of poetry and a little brooch for Elsie. Other gifts were already there, a silk cravat he'd seen Elsie working on for some time, a little hair bow, and a box of wooden blocks carefully sanded smooth and painted with colorful letters, things she must have made the previous night, after they'd decided to have the children stay with them. That was Elsie all over, always thinking of others, always taking care of everyone.

Looking over their parlor, he could hardly recognize it from the little room he was used to. It had always been cozy, if a little cluttered, but now, with the Christmas tree, completed with its gleaming candles and the angel on top—Arthur had lifted Simon up so he could put it in place—by the side of the fireplace, providing a spot of light and glitter, and the branches of holly and ivy draped on the mantelpiece and wound around the windows, it looked... festive. Cheerful. They hadn't discussed attending the village Christmas feast yet, but Arthur felt he could face it now, and perhaps even enjoy it as well.

In the spare room, Elsie was putting Betsy and Simon to bed. Arthur came to stand at the doorway and watched while she plumped their pillows and tucked the quilt more closely around them, murmuring some gentleness. Simon, tired after a day of excitement and his adventure with the mistletoe, fell asleep right away, but Betsy was still awake. She said, in a small voice, "Elsie?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Are we going to see Mama tomorrow?"

"Of course. You and Simon have to give her your presents, don't you?" That evening, Elsie had helped Betsy bake a little cake, and Arthur had managed to cut down some of the mistletoe after all, so Simon could wrap a bunch of it in a red ribbon as his present.

"And—and—are we—"

"What is it, Betsy?"

It came out in a rush. "Are we to stay with Mrs. Gordon until she takes us to the orphanage? Or can we stay with you?"

Elsie hesitated. "You can stay with us as long as you like," eventually she said.

"They're going to separate us in the orphanage, you know," Betsy said, as Elsie was getting to her feet.

Elsie froze. "Where did you hear that?" she asked.

Betsy shrugged. "Everybody knows they keep boys and girls separate there," she said with an air of resignation that seemed much older than her eight years. "But how'd Simon get on without me? He doesn't talk much. They'll think he's strange. And what if he wets the bed? He still does." She added, with loyalty, "Only sometimes though."

Elsie turned around and met Arthur's eyes. On her face, he saw reflected the agony in his heart. Then she turned back to Betsy and tried to put on a cheerful voice. "Come, let's don't worry about that tonight, shall we?" she said. "Now go to sleep, or you won't get your gifts in the morning."

Only after she'd closed the door to the spare room that Elsie fell into Arthur's arms and allowed her tears to flow. He held her close, rocking her against his shoulder. "Don't cry," he said softly. "You're doing a wonderful thing for those children."

"But is it enough?"

Arthur thought of how Simon had looked at him when Mrs. Gordon mentioned the orphanage, and how the boy's eyes had shone when they found the tree, when he found the mistletoe. He thought of how the four of them had held on to each other in the snow. They had felt like a family. He hadn't felt that sense of belonging in a long time, had never felt it until he met Elsie. Perhaps this is what family is. Not merely those with whom we share blood, but those for whom we would give our blood as well. The warmth inside him grew into a flame, bright and glowing, and with it, a decision formed in his mind.

"We could do more," he told Elsie. "We could keep them here, with us. We could take care of them, and have them close to their mother."

Elsie lifted her tear-stained face to look at him, understanding dawning, mingled with disbelief and trepidation.

"Could we?" she said.

"I'm sure it can be arranged. I shall ask Jaggers. He's arranged for Amelia to adopt Estella."

"No, I didn't mean the legality of it. I mean—could we take care of them?"

"We have been taking care of them."

"It's been only one day, and Simon almost broke his neck."

"He didn't, did he?"

Elsie still seemed unconvinced. "But could we do this for years and years and years?"

Arthur looked into her eyes and entwined their fingers together, finding his strength from their touches, their connection, as always.

"We can," he said simply, but that was enough for her.

"If you'd promise not to eat any more raw biscuit dough," she said.

"If it's as good as your gingerbread?" Arthur said in mock consternation. "I can't possibly stay away!"

They both laughed then, and Arthur leaned in to give Elsie a kiss, a long, lingering one that was an apology, an expression of gratitude, and a promise, all wrapped up into one. There was no mistletoe above them—they'd decided to leave the rest of it on the apple tree, for next year—but Arthur didn't need the mistletoe as an excuse to kiss Elsie.

"Merry Christmas, Miss Bradford," he whispered.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Havisham," she said, kissing him back.

***

The next day, the villagers of Oakley got the shock of their lives when the Arthurs arrived in church just in time for Christmas service, bringing with them two little children, smiling shyly at their neighbors as they slipped into a pew. Gone was the weary, wary look on the young couple's faces, and as they looked at each other and at the children, whose hands they were holding, their eyes shone with such hope that the villagers felt this was a more eloquent picture of the Christmas spirit than all the decorations and gifts and feasts in the world.

Of course, Mrs. Shackleton took all the credit for herself, claiming she had finally convinced the couple down with her neighborly solicitude and persuasion. The rest of the villagers, on the other hand, simply chalked it up to a Christmas miracle.

THE END

#arthur havisham #dickensian #arthur havisham fic #arthur havisham x ofc #joseph quinn fic #joseph quinn #12 days of joemas #holiday ficathon #its beginning to look a lot like quinnmas

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