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gen_storytellerTITLE: The Life and Times of William, the Not-So-Bloody
Author: spikeNdru
Summary: Historical fic, 1876. What was William's life really like before he became Spike? This is one possible answer.
Rating: General
Notes: Written for the William Ficathon, for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sadbhyl, who had requested an historical fic with no actual pairings; including the 1876 Centennial World’s Exposition, a Difference engine and ice cream. There were to be no time-travelers, but a special guest does manage to appear without the use of time travel. As usual, many thanks to makd for the beta work.
William was bored. He supposed he should be grateful to have a position at all, and he was, but why did it have to be such an unedifying one? He rolled his cramped shoulders and stared at the columns of figures, marching like good little soldiers across the unending pages of the ledger.
He removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He feared this constant close work was having a detrimental effect on his already weak eyes.
William sighed and removed his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. It still lacked twelve minutes until his tea break. His mouth was dry and his energy flagging. A cup or two would certainly not be amiss at this time.
He replaced his glasses and pretended to study the figures, knowing better than to enter any new ones while he was this distracted. Events built upon themselves like bricks, mortared by circumstance, until one found oneself living in an entirely different metaphorical edifice than one had planned.
When he had entered Cambridge to read Literature, he had not given much thought as to what his life would be like five years hence. If he had, he supposed he would have assumed he would continue with his education, eventually becoming a don. His would be a peaceful existence, his mind stimulated by the great works of literature and poetry, eventually making his own small contribution to the existing body of work. His father’s untimely death had changed all that.
His father had been a kindly, but remote, presence in his life, and William had not been aware of the extent of that presence until it was removed. He had, of course, come down from university to make the arrangements, and he mourned the loss of the man himself, but was unaware of the repercussions that loss would have on his own life.
Returning to finish out the term, he had thought his life would continue as before, with only the additions of a lock of his father’s hair in his watch case, and the experience of personal grief to add depth to his poetry signaling his change in circumstance.
However, ill fortune had not concluded her business with him yet. In rapid succession William discovered his father’s investments were not as secure as he had supposed, his mother’s grief and an exceptionally damp winter had left her with a lingering cough and he found himself obliged to leave Cambridge and return home to take up the responsibilities of caring for his mother and earning a living. His father’s good friend, Mr. Stanhope, had offered him a position at his bank, and thus William found himself spending his days amongst columns of figures instead of the soaring edification of words.
And he was interminably bored.
William came out of his reverie at the sound of the squeaking wheels of the tea cart. Mrs. Higgins navigated the room, proffering steaming cups of tea and as he accepted, William wished for something—anything—to break the monotony of the days stretching out before him.
~*~*~*~*~*~
William politely offered his arm to Miss Ardmore. Her clear, steady gray eyes met his.
“Thank you, Mr. Bledsoe.”
Miss Ardmore was possessed of a pleasing voice and a quiet, no-nonsense manner, and William began to relax in her company. When his mother had informed him that one of her oldest friends, Agatha Ardmore, and her daughter Irene would be visiting for a fortnight, William had felt a twinge of alarm. He had settled quite nicely into a routine that suited him and he could not help but view the disruption of that routine with dismay.
Approximately twice per week, William remained in the city to have dinner at his club or to attend various soirees to which he was invited. His changed circumstances had no affect upon his social responsibilities. He was a member of a certain set and would be until he died, he supposed. One did not need to be popular or even particularly liked to receive the expected invitations—it was the way of the world. During The Season, the invitations increased exponentially, but for most of the year, he could fulfill his social obligations without too much fuss.
He spent the remaining evenings relaxing at home with his mother. They’d sit in companionable silence while he read or composed poetry and she worked on her petit point, occasionally pausing to gaze fondly at him. Some nights, he’d read aloud to her while she embroidered, or she would sing to him as she played the pianoforte.
It had been a comfortable life until the evening that she informed him of the expected arrival of the Ardmores. He would be expected to entertain Miss Ardmore between her appointments and fittings in preparation for her debut during the coming Season.
William feared the seventeen-year-old Miss Ardmore would be silly and simpering and was pleasantly surprised to discover that she was a sensible girl, with a head on her shoulders. He found himself actively searching out entertainments to make her stay enjoyable, leading to their current excursion to the recently opened Fine Art Society in New Bond Street. The entire exhibition was composed of the works of one artist and featured Whistler’s Venetian etchings. It was unheard of to base a show on one man’s work! William was amazed and hoped Miss Ardmore would not find it too daring. It was too late to back out now . . .
During the journey, William found his glance turning to Miss Ardmore with increased frequency. Her soft brown hair and gray eyes made him think of a small bird.
She is like a sparrow,
Her form so soft and narrow.
Her voice is that of the nightingale,
Beckoning me to follow over hill and dale.
Her eyes gray as the dove,
The bird associated with love.
No, that’s wrong. Doves are associated with peace, not love. What rhymes with ‘peace’? ‘Niece’? No, no! That won’t do at all! Miss Ardmore is not in the least ‘niece-like’. ‘Lease’? ‘Cease’?
Her eyes are gray as the dove of peace
And cause my errant breath to cease.
“Mr. Bledsoe? Mr. Bledsoe? Are you feeling ill? Perhaps we should return?”
“What? Oh . . . I beg your pardon, Miss Ardmore. My thoughts wandered for a moment. It was inexcusably rude of me. No, no, I’m quite all right. It shan’t happen again.”
Face flaming with embarrassment, William began to walk more rapidly, causing Irene to practically skip to keep up. Hampered by her long skirts and restrictive under-garments, she was breathless as they arrived at The Fine Art Society.
She placed a hand to her fluttering heart, face flushed and dewy, and William thought she had never looked more beautiful. He hardly dared hope that perhaps he was the cause of her luminous appearance?
Finally managing to draw in enough air to speak, Irene smiled mischievously.
“Well! I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a more bracing constitutional.”
William’s heart sank. He had been the cause of her flushed breathlessness, but certainly not in the way he had hoped. Noticing his crestfallen look, Irene spoke before he could formulate another apology.
“It was quite enjoyable,” she whispered, patting his arm.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The following day, William arranged to leave work early so he could show Miss Ardmore the recently unveiled Albert Memorial. He worked straight through without breaking for luncheon in compensation for the time.
As he closed his ledger, turning it in to Mr. Stanhope prior to leaving, he felt quite light-headed. He was unsure if the cause was his missed luncheon or the thought of seeing Miss Ardmore.
She was everything he had dreamed about in a helpmeet. Miss Ardmore was quite lovely, yet sensible, with an intelligence that he had not hoped to find in the female of the species. Why, just last night during dinner, she had shown a grasp of concepts that was astounding.
Conversation had been desultory during the soup and fish courses, revolving around shared acquaintances of his mother and Mrs. Ardmore, when Mrs. Ardmore had happened to mention a Mrs. Henrietta Babbage. William had inquired if she was perhaps a connection of Mr. Charles Babbage, the inventor of the Difference Engine.
Although a relationship was never ascertained, the ladies were amazed as he regaled them with his thoughts on the Engine.
“The first Difference Engine was actually designed to calculate a series of numerical values using the ‘method of finite differences’. Unfortunately, a completed engine was never built due to the nature of the construction. Do you realize that the machine would have stood eight feet high and weighed 15 tonnes? The original engine required approximately 25,000 parts!”
Anne smiled lovingly at her son and Miss Ardmore looked fascinated. William failed to notice that Mrs. Ardmore’s eyes had glazed over and she stifled a yawn behind her linen napkin.
“Mr. Babbage then refined his design in the late ’40’s. His Difference Engine No.2 required three times fewer parts, in a much simpler design, but still maintaining the same computing power. The ‘method of difference’ both machines used would eliminate the need for multiplication and division in calculating, using only addition. It was a brilliant plan and if the needed parts could have been manufactured, it could have revolutionized computation!”
“Would it have been of value to you in your work?” asked Miss Ardmore.
“Yes! Yes, I had been reading extensively on Mr. Babbage’s Engines, as I had hoped to bring them to the attention of Mr. Stanhope at the bank.” William blushed. “I had hoped he would see the usefulness of them, as unlike manual calculators that have been in use for some time, they would have no need for a human operator to continuously monitor and intervene to inform the results. That would free up some of the men currently engaged in computing.”
“My William is always thinking,” Anne stated. “Mr. Stanhope would be quite lost without him.
“Has Mr. Babbage given up on realizing his engines, then?” asked Miss Ardmore.
“Oh, no. Well, yes, the Difference Engines do not appear to be feasible at this point in time, but he has been working on an Analytical Engine that is not only ‘automatic’ but that can be ‘programmed’ by the user to perform a repertoire of functions.”
“William, dear, I believe the roast is awaiting your attention,” Anne said gently, before he could expound on the glories of the plans for the Analytical Engine.
“Er, yes, of course,” he said, rising to carve the roast, which had been cooling on the sideboard. While he was thus engaged, his mother and Mrs. Ardmore began to speak of other things, but Miss Ardmore had cast occasional admiring glances his way during the remainder of the dinner.
~*~*~*~*~*~
While viewing the Albert Memorial, William was handed a playbill, which he stuffed in his pocket.
As he was changing for dinner, he drew it out. Watts Phillips’ Not Guilty and other items were to be presented at the Royal Marylebone Theatre in Edgware Road, beginning on Monday. It would not be proper to invite Miss Ardmore to attend the theatre, but if his mother and Mrs. Ardmore agreed to make up a party, he could escort them all. He vowed to present the plan to his mother as soon as they were alone.
The opportunity came sooner than he had expected. Descending to the parlor, he found his mother embroidering with no sign of the Ardmores.
“Would you care for a glass of sherry before dinner, mother?” William inquired.
“Yes, dear. That would be lovely.”
Pouring two glasses, he placed one on the credenza within reach of her hand, and then dropped down on the footstool before her. Anne reached out and smoothed an errant curl back from his forehead.
“There is something I would like to discuss with you, Mother, when Mrs. Ardmore and her daughter have retired,” he began.
“We are quite alone now, William. The Ardmores have been invited to the theatre and a late supper by Lord Ashton.”
“They what? Why on earth are they going out with him?”
Anne valiantly avoided showing amusement. “You know, dear, the whole purpose of their visit is to prepare for The Season . . .”
“Of course, but that isn’t for months yet—”
“The purpose of The Season is to find Miss Ardmore a suitable husband. If that can be accomplished without having to go to all the expense—”
William leaped to his feet. “A husband? Lord Ashton is being considered as a husband for Miss Ardmore?”
“Naturally. Lord Ashton is quite a good catch and will be an exemplary provider and protector, and it would be a godsend for Agatha to see her settled.”
“But . . . but . . .”
Overcome with grief, William rushed from the room.
“Oh dear,” thought Anne. “I believe William has incurred a fondness for Miss Ardmore.”
She felt guilty at her failure to make it clear that it was imperative that Miss Ardmore marry a man of means, and her heart broke at her only son’s disappointment. Perhaps it would be better if the Ardmores visited elsewhere for the remainder of their stay. Anne went to her secretary and opened the second drawer, where she kept the calling cards she had received.
“Now, let’s see . . .”
~*~*~*~*~*~
With the loss of Miss Ardmore, all of the joy went out of William’s life. He went to work and he came home. He spent his evenings with his mother, completely neglecting his club and sending polite regrets to the invitations he received.
Anne was quite concerned with his increasing melancholy. No one had realized that he had given his heart to Irene Ardmore in the space of a week’s time, and Anne blamed herself for not making the Ardmores’ position clear.
The death of Herbert Ardmore two years previously had put Agatha in a position similar to her own. While she had a son to provide for her welfare, Agatha had a daughter who must marry well. She had thought William understood that. There must be something she could do?
She instructed Nancy to begin bringing her copies of the papers, which she poured over in an attempt to find a distraction. The recent opening of the Royal Aquarium at Storey’s Gate, Westminster, finally gave her the opportunity she had been searching for. She scanned the descriptions of the performers provided: there was to be a Grand Organ Recital, by Mr. J. Mortimer Dudman; La Petite Bertoto, the Charming Artiste; Mr. Kelson Trueman, the Popular Tenor; Professor Wingfield’s Dogs; Jennion’s Marionettes; Menotti, in his Great Ariel Performance on the High Wire; Sam Lockhart’s Six Marvelous Performing Elephants; Professor Tregetour and many other wonderful attractions, but strangely, the Royal Aquarium featured no fish at all.
Surely among a bill that varied, there would be something to engage William’s interest. Anne smiled. She would express an interest in attending this very evening. A girlish giggle escaped her lips. William would be scandalized at her request to attend a music hall, but it was for the dear boy’s own good.
~*~*~*~*~*~
When informed that he was to report to Mr. Stanhope, William was filled with foreboding. He was aware that his heart had not been in his work of late—how could it be, when he had given it to Miss Ardmore?
Miss Ardmore was forever lost to him. Her engagement to be married to Lord Ashton had been announced and that was that. Although he was prepared to suffer the loss of his love, he had no desire to lose his employment as well. William made a concerted effort to pull himself together before answering the summons.
He was greeted with a hearty backslap that nearly knocked him over.
“Oh, William, there you are! Just the man I wanted to see.”
Mr. Stanhope indicated one of a pair of wing chairs divided by a tea table.
“Will you be mother?” he asked jovially.
As William poured, Mr. Stanhope offered a cigar, which he declined. Lighting his own, Mr. Stanhope took a sip of his tea and then got down to business.
“I understand you’re something of an expert on Babbage’s work, William.”
This astounding statement was so different from the censure that William expected to hear, that his jaw dropped. Recovering as best as he could, he took a gulp of the scalding tea while attempting to formulate a reply. His eyes watered and he began to cough, the unfortunate incident with the tea helped along by the noxious fumes from Mr. Stanhope’s cigar.
He was mortified by his behavior, but with a final gasp, managed to reply.
“I would not dream to describe myself as an ‘expert’, sir, but I find Mr. Babbage’s work fascinating and have been studying it for some time.”
“Good, good. That’s what this firm needs, my boy—a forward-thinking go-getter. I have a proposition for you, William. They’re having an exposition over in the States, unveiling all the newest industry, inventions and such. I’d like to send you there to have a look-see and report back to me on anything you find valuable. I’ve a mind to put Stanhope’s on the map, and you’re just the man to help me do it!”
“You want me to go to America, sir?”
“Yes! The firm will naturally provide for all your expenses. You’re good with ideas, lad. You see things others don’t. You’ll be providing a valuable service to this firm, helping us get the jump on all our competitors, what?”
“But . . . Mother? I couldn’t possibly leave her alone for several months . . .”
“Take her along, boy! A change of scene will be good for her. Your poor mother has kept too much to herself since your father’s unfortunate passing. It’ll be good for her, good for me, good for the firm, and I daresay, good for you, too, William.”
Excitement kindled behind his eyes, turning them a startling cerulean.
“Thank you, sir. I’d be honored to go.”
~*~*~*~*~*~
“Mr. and Mrs. Bledsoe?”
“Er, no. No, we’re not.”
The steward raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Well, yes, I suppose we are. I’m William Bledsoe and my mother is, of course, Mrs. Bledsoe, but we aren’t . . . I mean, we’re not . . .” William blushed furiously, “. . . Mr. and Mrs. Bledsoe. We aren’t married. To each other. My mother was married. To my father, of course. She’s a widow, you see. But naturally, she will be continued to be addressed as ‘Mrs. Bledsoe’. Quite right. But I’ve never been married. Obviously, not to her. Or to anyone, actually . . .”
William finally ran out of steam and looked miserably at the steward, face flaming with embarrassment. He had never been on a sea voyage and he supposed it was the combination of nervousness and excitement that was causing this awful babbling.
Making a supreme effort to keep his face perfectly neutral, the well-trained steward amended, “Mrs. Bledsoe and son.”
William’s face and neck were the color of a ripe pomegranate, and he was aware that form of address made it sound like he was still in short pants, but it was infinitely better than creating the mistaken impression of impropriety.
He whispered “Thank you”, and accepted the stateroom key.
Offering his arm to his mother, he boarded the ship with as much dignity as he could muster.
Anne smiled lovingly and patted his arm.
“Thank you, dear. You handled that very well.”
William’s face cleared instantly.
“You really think so?”
“I’ve said so, haven’t I, dear?”
~*~*~*~*~*~
The Philadelphia Centennial Exposition was a wonder! Neither William nor Anne had ever seen anything remotely comparable.
They soon conceived a routine for their days in Philadelphia. In the mornings, William discharged his duties to Mr. Stanhope, conscientiously searching the Exposition for ideas and products of value to the firm. He immediately purchased, and arranged to have some of his finds shipped directly to Stanhope’s, such as a Bank ledger's spring book patented in 1870. William thought that particular invention would come in quite handy at the bank. He also ordered a book and paper file, patented only months before, described as, "A paper file, made of metal, the back resembling a book; through it extend parallel wires on which each paper is filed separately, while the pages open consecutively; adjustable sides are also attached to it, when necessary to preserve valuable documents." He ordered a dozen of the Eagle Pencil Company’s mechanical pencils, which had received an award at the Exposition, but declined the more cutting edge technologies such as the gelatin and stencil duplicators and the up-strike typewriter as a frivolous waste of Mr. Stanhope’s finances.
After spending the mornings conducting business, William returned to the hotel to join Anne for luncheon, and the early afternoons were devoted to entertainments for Anne’s enjoyment.
They explored the city of Philadelphia, sometimes returning to the Exposition, if William had discovered something of interest that he wanted to show Anne. They attended piano recitals and toured art galleries. They strolled the wharf, indulging in quite foreign tidbits from the street vendors.
The ubiquitous fish-and-chips men were nowhere to be seen, although the hot chestnut vendors provided a taste of home. William and Anne vied with each other to discover the most exotic delicacies. They sampled twisted warm bits of dough, served with a spicy mustard sauce. They tried sandwiches of thick bread containing thinly-sliced beef, smothered with cheese and sautéed onions and peppers. William was amazed to discover that the meat pies contained not the expected minced steak and kidney, but ham and a fluffy white cheese filling, that he actually thought rather tasteless.
The most amazing discovery, however, was Anne’s. Seated at a small table in a specialty shop, they ordered a confection called “Baked Alaska”, which the proprietor claimed had been invented by the French chef at Delmonico’s Restaurant in New York City to celebrate the 1867 purchase of the territory of Alaska, commonly called “Stewart’s Folly”.
They watched in amazement as ice cream was scooped into two small baked shells, the confection covered with whipped meringue and placed in a large oven to bake.
William broke through the golden brown meringue to discover the ice cream un-melted! They both laughed with delight.
Returning to the hotel in the late afternoons, Anne rested while William wrote letters to Mr. Stanhope, detailing all he had seen that could be of use to the firm, and wrote in his journal of the wonders he experienced on his outings with Anne. He found himself thinking less and less of Irene Ardmore as a whole new world of experiences opened to him.
Some evenings they went out, but generally, they dined in the hotel and retired early to prepare for the excitement of the following day. William was quite content with his life and regretted that soon he would be returning to his unexciting existence in London. He had discovered a taste for travel and adventure that he hadn’t known he possessed. Well, he would worry about tomorrow when tomorrow arrived.
~*~*~*~*~*~
As the inevitable date for his departure drew closer, William became more unsettled. He discovered he had liked having a purpose—being responsible for decisions of import to the firm. He enjoyed travel and felt a longing to see more of the world.
He felt a curious melancholy steal over his spirit at the thought of returning to mediocrity.
In several days, Mr. Graham-Bell was planning to demonstrate his new device that he claimed allowed for instantaneous contact across distances. William thought he should wait to see that demonstrated, but after accomplishing that goal, he could not, in good conscience, justify remaining longer.
He decided to spend the days prior to that event escorting Anne to the portions of the Exposition he had previously bypassed as not relevant to the discharge of his duty.
They toured the Memorial Building, also known as the Art Gallery, Horticultural Hall, the Women’s Building, the British and Japanese buildings and the Egyptian Court. They visited the New England Kitchen and the Kindergarten Cottage, to their mutual enjoyment.
Upon inquiring if his mother would care to partake of some refreshment, Anne once again demonstrated her fondness for the frozen confection. The Exposition featured the latest European innovations in the production of ice cream, and a Mr. John Miller, an American ice cream manufacturer, volunteered to work at The Vienna Bakery without pay, in order to learn the secrets of the startling new innovation of ice cream molds.
Discovering the location of the Vienna Bakery, William and Anne proceeded there without delay.
Her fingers clutched his arm and she actually . . . bounced . . . on the tips of her feet like a girl-child.
“Oh, look, William! Do you see that? Castles and baskets of fruit and goblets . . .”
William smiled indulgently and led his mother to a shaded table. The weather in Philadelphia was much warmer and sunnier than that of England.
“Which ornament do you fancy, mother?”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “Surprise me, William. It will be such fun—like a Christmas treat!”
William went to study the molds, desirous of selecting the most beautiful, fanciful one for his beloved mother. The confectioners had combined the ice cream with candy to create wonders—goblets that resembled Bohemian glass, cups and saucers that appeared to be made of translucent porcelain, sailing ships on spun-sugar ocean waves, spun-sugar nests containing ice cream eggs and baby chicks, log cabins made of ladyfingers and ice cream, spun-sugar baskets overflowing with ice cream apples, pears and grapes, and an ice cream Mount Vesuvius that was set ablaze prior to serving.
His concentration was such that he failed to notice the chipper, beaming man, also perusing the molds, until he spoke.
“Boy, howdy! They’re really something, aren’t they? Never seen the like of them before.”
William beheld a pair of twinkling eyes. The man was forty-ish and wearing a truly abominable suit, but his good humor was infectious. William felt himself smiling in return.
“Yes, they certainly are.”
“English, are you? Over here to see the Exposition? It’s a wonder, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
“Where are my manners?” The man tipped his bowler hat. “Richard Wilkins III. Originally from Kansas, but I’ve recently purchased some land in California. Ever been to California?”
“No, I haven’t. This is my first trip to America, and I’m just here for the Exposition.”
“First trip, but not your last, I daresay. Say, you ever get out to California, you come look me up. My partners and I are building a nice little town. Always happy to welcome new families. You have a family . . . I didn’t catch your name?”
“William—”
“You have a family, William?” The man broke in before William could complete his introduction.
“Just Mother and me, at present.” The man, for all his good humor, was obviously not a gentleman. William wondered why he continued to converse.
“You can always tell the measure of a man by how he treats his mother. Never knew my own mother, rest her soul, but I’ve been told she was one heck of a human being.”
“That’s . . . nice.”
“Mother passed away bringing me into this world, but what greater purpose can a woman have, eh? You take good care of your own mother, young man. Only get one, you know.”
“Er . . . quite.”
“No sir, I never knew the love of a mother—I was raised by my father. He’s one of the Senior Partners in my current endeavor, though, so I guess it all works out in the end. Nice talking with you, William. You ever get out to California, you come look me up in Sunnydale, hear?”
“Er . . . yes. Thank you.”
With a nod and a beaming smile, the man was off to converse with someone else. William returned his interest to the molds, finally selecting the fruit basket.
Watching Anne’s delight as she exclaimed over the fantastic confection, William wondered what it would be like to have a wife and children of his own.
He just hadn’t met the right woman yet, he supposed, but he knew she was out there somewhere. He had faith that he’d find the love of his life eventually, and when the children were grown and gone, they would travel—he, his loving wife and Mother. They could go to Europe, Italy, Greece . . . who knows? They may travel as far as Egypt or India; or maybe even California. If he ever did get to California, he’d have to be sure to stop by—Sunnydale, was it?—to see the town that oddly friendly man was building. If the man’s personality was any indication, it seemed like it would be a pleasant place to visit.
The End
Author: spikeNdru
Summary: Historical fic, 1876. What was William's life really like before he became Spike? This is one possible answer.
Rating: General
Notes: Written for the William Ficathon, for
sadbhyl, who had requested an historical fic with no actual pairings; including the 1876 Centennial World’s Exposition, a Difference engine and ice cream. There were to be no time-travelers, but a special guest does manage to appear without the use of time travel. As usual, many thanks to makd for the beta work.William was bored. He supposed he should be grateful to have a position at all, and he was, but why did it have to be such an unedifying one? He rolled his cramped shoulders and stared at the columns of figures, marching like good little soldiers across the unending pages of the ledger.
He removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He feared this constant close work was having a detrimental effect on his already weak eyes.
William sighed and removed his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. It still lacked twelve minutes until his tea break. His mouth was dry and his energy flagging. A cup or two would certainly not be amiss at this time.
He replaced his glasses and pretended to study the figures, knowing better than to enter any new ones while he was this distracted. Events built upon themselves like bricks, mortared by circumstance, until one found oneself living in an entirely different metaphorical edifice than one had planned.
When he had entered Cambridge to read Literature, he had not given much thought as to what his life would be like five years hence. If he had, he supposed he would have assumed he would continue with his education, eventually becoming a don. His would be a peaceful existence, his mind stimulated by the great works of literature and poetry, eventually making his own small contribution to the existing body of work. His father’s untimely death had changed all that.
His father had been a kindly, but remote, presence in his life, and William had not been aware of the extent of that presence until it was removed. He had, of course, come down from university to make the arrangements, and he mourned the loss of the man himself, but was unaware of the repercussions that loss would have on his own life.
Returning to finish out the term, he had thought his life would continue as before, with only the additions of a lock of his father’s hair in his watch case, and the experience of personal grief to add depth to his poetry signaling his change in circumstance.
However, ill fortune had not concluded her business with him yet. In rapid succession William discovered his father’s investments were not as secure as he had supposed, his mother’s grief and an exceptionally damp winter had left her with a lingering cough and he found himself obliged to leave Cambridge and return home to take up the responsibilities of caring for his mother and earning a living. His father’s good friend, Mr. Stanhope, had offered him a position at his bank, and thus William found himself spending his days amongst columns of figures instead of the soaring edification of words.
And he was interminably bored.
William came out of his reverie at the sound of the squeaking wheels of the tea cart. Mrs. Higgins navigated the room, proffering steaming cups of tea and as he accepted, William wished for something—anything—to break the monotony of the days stretching out before him.
~*~*~*~*~*~
William politely offered his arm to Miss Ardmore. Her clear, steady gray eyes met his.
“Thank you, Mr. Bledsoe.”
Miss Ardmore was possessed of a pleasing voice and a quiet, no-nonsense manner, and William began to relax in her company. When his mother had informed him that one of her oldest friends, Agatha Ardmore, and her daughter Irene would be visiting for a fortnight, William had felt a twinge of alarm. He had settled quite nicely into a routine that suited him and he could not help but view the disruption of that routine with dismay.
Approximately twice per week, William remained in the city to have dinner at his club or to attend various soirees to which he was invited. His changed circumstances had no affect upon his social responsibilities. He was a member of a certain set and would be until he died, he supposed. One did not need to be popular or even particularly liked to receive the expected invitations—it was the way of the world. During The Season, the invitations increased exponentially, but for most of the year, he could fulfill his social obligations without too much fuss.
He spent the remaining evenings relaxing at home with his mother. They’d sit in companionable silence while he read or composed poetry and she worked on her petit point, occasionally pausing to gaze fondly at him. Some nights, he’d read aloud to her while she embroidered, or she would sing to him as she played the pianoforte.
It had been a comfortable life until the evening that she informed him of the expected arrival of the Ardmores. He would be expected to entertain Miss Ardmore between her appointments and fittings in preparation for her debut during the coming Season.
William feared the seventeen-year-old Miss Ardmore would be silly and simpering and was pleasantly surprised to discover that she was a sensible girl, with a head on her shoulders. He found himself actively searching out entertainments to make her stay enjoyable, leading to their current excursion to the recently opened Fine Art Society in New Bond Street. The entire exhibition was composed of the works of one artist and featured Whistler’s Venetian etchings. It was unheard of to base a show on one man’s work! William was amazed and hoped Miss Ardmore would not find it too daring. It was too late to back out now . . .
During the journey, William found his glance turning to Miss Ardmore with increased frequency. Her soft brown hair and gray eyes made him think of a small bird.
She is like a sparrow,
Her form so soft and narrow.
Her voice is that of the nightingale,
Beckoning me to follow over hill and dale.
Her eyes gray as the dove,
The bird associated with love.
No, that’s wrong. Doves are associated with peace, not love. What rhymes with ‘peace’? ‘Niece’? No, no! That won’t do at all! Miss Ardmore is not in the least ‘niece-like’. ‘Lease’? ‘Cease’?
Her eyes are gray as the dove of peace
And cause my errant breath to cease.
“Mr. Bledsoe? Mr. Bledsoe? Are you feeling ill? Perhaps we should return?”
“What? Oh . . . I beg your pardon, Miss Ardmore. My thoughts wandered for a moment. It was inexcusably rude of me. No, no, I’m quite all right. It shan’t happen again.”
Face flaming with embarrassment, William began to walk more rapidly, causing Irene to practically skip to keep up. Hampered by her long skirts and restrictive under-garments, she was breathless as they arrived at The Fine Art Society.
She placed a hand to her fluttering heart, face flushed and dewy, and William thought she had never looked more beautiful. He hardly dared hope that perhaps he was the cause of her luminous appearance?
Finally managing to draw in enough air to speak, Irene smiled mischievously.
“Well! I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a more bracing constitutional.”
William’s heart sank. He had been the cause of her flushed breathlessness, but certainly not in the way he had hoped. Noticing his crestfallen look, Irene spoke before he could formulate another apology.
“It was quite enjoyable,” she whispered, patting his arm.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The following day, William arranged to leave work early so he could show Miss Ardmore the recently unveiled Albert Memorial. He worked straight through without breaking for luncheon in compensation for the time.
As he closed his ledger, turning it in to Mr. Stanhope prior to leaving, he felt quite light-headed. He was unsure if the cause was his missed luncheon or the thought of seeing Miss Ardmore.
She was everything he had dreamed about in a helpmeet. Miss Ardmore was quite lovely, yet sensible, with an intelligence that he had not hoped to find in the female of the species. Why, just last night during dinner, she had shown a grasp of concepts that was astounding.
Conversation had been desultory during the soup and fish courses, revolving around shared acquaintances of his mother and Mrs. Ardmore, when Mrs. Ardmore had happened to mention a Mrs. Henrietta Babbage. William had inquired if she was perhaps a connection of Mr. Charles Babbage, the inventor of the Difference Engine.
Although a relationship was never ascertained, the ladies were amazed as he regaled them with his thoughts on the Engine.
“The first Difference Engine was actually designed to calculate a series of numerical values using the ‘method of finite differences’. Unfortunately, a completed engine was never built due to the nature of the construction. Do you realize that the machine would have stood eight feet high and weighed 15 tonnes? The original engine required approximately 25,000 parts!”
Anne smiled lovingly at her son and Miss Ardmore looked fascinated. William failed to notice that Mrs. Ardmore’s eyes had glazed over and she stifled a yawn behind her linen napkin.
“Mr. Babbage then refined his design in the late ’40’s. His Difference Engine No.2 required three times fewer parts, in a much simpler design, but still maintaining the same computing power. The ‘method of difference’ both machines used would eliminate the need for multiplication and division in calculating, using only addition. It was a brilliant plan and if the needed parts could have been manufactured, it could have revolutionized computation!”
“Would it have been of value to you in your work?” asked Miss Ardmore.
“Yes! Yes, I had been reading extensively on Mr. Babbage’s Engines, as I had hoped to bring them to the attention of Mr. Stanhope at the bank.” William blushed. “I had hoped he would see the usefulness of them, as unlike manual calculators that have been in use for some time, they would have no need for a human operator to continuously monitor and intervene to inform the results. That would free up some of the men currently engaged in computing.”
“My William is always thinking,” Anne stated. “Mr. Stanhope would be quite lost without him.
“Has Mr. Babbage given up on realizing his engines, then?” asked Miss Ardmore.
“Oh, no. Well, yes, the Difference Engines do not appear to be feasible at this point in time, but he has been working on an Analytical Engine that is not only ‘automatic’ but that can be ‘programmed’ by the user to perform a repertoire of functions.”
“William, dear, I believe the roast is awaiting your attention,” Anne said gently, before he could expound on the glories of the plans for the Analytical Engine.
“Er, yes, of course,” he said, rising to carve the roast, which had been cooling on the sideboard. While he was thus engaged, his mother and Mrs. Ardmore began to speak of other things, but Miss Ardmore had cast occasional admiring glances his way during the remainder of the dinner.
~*~*~*~*~*~
While viewing the Albert Memorial, William was handed a playbill, which he stuffed in his pocket.
As he was changing for dinner, he drew it out. Watts Phillips’ Not Guilty and other items were to be presented at the Royal Marylebone Theatre in Edgware Road, beginning on Monday. It would not be proper to invite Miss Ardmore to attend the theatre, but if his mother and Mrs. Ardmore agreed to make up a party, he could escort them all. He vowed to present the plan to his mother as soon as they were alone.
The opportunity came sooner than he had expected. Descending to the parlor, he found his mother embroidering with no sign of the Ardmores.
“Would you care for a glass of sherry before dinner, mother?” William inquired.
“Yes, dear. That would be lovely.”
Pouring two glasses, he placed one on the credenza within reach of her hand, and then dropped down on the footstool before her. Anne reached out and smoothed an errant curl back from his forehead.
“There is something I would like to discuss with you, Mother, when Mrs. Ardmore and her daughter have retired,” he began.
“We are quite alone now, William. The Ardmores have been invited to the theatre and a late supper by Lord Ashton.”
“They what? Why on earth are they going out with him?”
Anne valiantly avoided showing amusement. “You know, dear, the whole purpose of their visit is to prepare for The Season . . .”
“Of course, but that isn’t for months yet—”
“The purpose of The Season is to find Miss Ardmore a suitable husband. If that can be accomplished without having to go to all the expense—”
William leaped to his feet. “A husband? Lord Ashton is being considered as a husband for Miss Ardmore?”
“Naturally. Lord Ashton is quite a good catch and will be an exemplary provider and protector, and it would be a godsend for Agatha to see her settled.”
“But . . . but . . .”
Overcome with grief, William rushed from the room.
“Oh dear,” thought Anne. “I believe William has incurred a fondness for Miss Ardmore.”
She felt guilty at her failure to make it clear that it was imperative that Miss Ardmore marry a man of means, and her heart broke at her only son’s disappointment. Perhaps it would be better if the Ardmores visited elsewhere for the remainder of their stay. Anne went to her secretary and opened the second drawer, where she kept the calling cards she had received.
“Now, let’s see . . .”
~*~*~*~*~*~
With the loss of Miss Ardmore, all of the joy went out of William’s life. He went to work and he came home. He spent his evenings with his mother, completely neglecting his club and sending polite regrets to the invitations he received.
Anne was quite concerned with his increasing melancholy. No one had realized that he had given his heart to Irene Ardmore in the space of a week’s time, and Anne blamed herself for not making the Ardmores’ position clear.
The death of Herbert Ardmore two years previously had put Agatha in a position similar to her own. While she had a son to provide for her welfare, Agatha had a daughter who must marry well. She had thought William understood that. There must be something she could do?
She instructed Nancy to begin bringing her copies of the papers, which she poured over in an attempt to find a distraction. The recent opening of the Royal Aquarium at Storey’s Gate, Westminster, finally gave her the opportunity she had been searching for. She scanned the descriptions of the performers provided: there was to be a Grand Organ Recital, by Mr. J. Mortimer Dudman; La Petite Bertoto, the Charming Artiste; Mr. Kelson Trueman, the Popular Tenor; Professor Wingfield’s Dogs; Jennion’s Marionettes; Menotti, in his Great Ariel Performance on the High Wire; Sam Lockhart’s Six Marvelous Performing Elephants; Professor Tregetour and many other wonderful attractions, but strangely, the Royal Aquarium featured no fish at all.
Surely among a bill that varied, there would be something to engage William’s interest. Anne smiled. She would express an interest in attending this very evening. A girlish giggle escaped her lips. William would be scandalized at her request to attend a music hall, but it was for the dear boy’s own good.
~*~*~*~*~*~
When informed that he was to report to Mr. Stanhope, William was filled with foreboding. He was aware that his heart had not been in his work of late—how could it be, when he had given it to Miss Ardmore?
Miss Ardmore was forever lost to him. Her engagement to be married to Lord Ashton had been announced and that was that. Although he was prepared to suffer the loss of his love, he had no desire to lose his employment as well. William made a concerted effort to pull himself together before answering the summons.
He was greeted with a hearty backslap that nearly knocked him over.
“Oh, William, there you are! Just the man I wanted to see.”
Mr. Stanhope indicated one of a pair of wing chairs divided by a tea table.
“Will you be mother?” he asked jovially.
As William poured, Mr. Stanhope offered a cigar, which he declined. Lighting his own, Mr. Stanhope took a sip of his tea and then got down to business.
“I understand you’re something of an expert on Babbage’s work, William.”
This astounding statement was so different from the censure that William expected to hear, that his jaw dropped. Recovering as best as he could, he took a gulp of the scalding tea while attempting to formulate a reply. His eyes watered and he began to cough, the unfortunate incident with the tea helped along by the noxious fumes from Mr. Stanhope’s cigar.
He was mortified by his behavior, but with a final gasp, managed to reply.
“I would not dream to describe myself as an ‘expert’, sir, but I find Mr. Babbage’s work fascinating and have been studying it for some time.”
“Good, good. That’s what this firm needs, my boy—a forward-thinking go-getter. I have a proposition for you, William. They’re having an exposition over in the States, unveiling all the newest industry, inventions and such. I’d like to send you there to have a look-see and report back to me on anything you find valuable. I’ve a mind to put Stanhope’s on the map, and you’re just the man to help me do it!”
“You want me to go to America, sir?”
“Yes! The firm will naturally provide for all your expenses. You’re good with ideas, lad. You see things others don’t. You’ll be providing a valuable service to this firm, helping us get the jump on all our competitors, what?”
“But . . . Mother? I couldn’t possibly leave her alone for several months . . .”
“Take her along, boy! A change of scene will be good for her. Your poor mother has kept too much to herself since your father’s unfortunate passing. It’ll be good for her, good for me, good for the firm, and I daresay, good for you, too, William.”
Excitement kindled behind his eyes, turning them a startling cerulean.
“Thank you, sir. I’d be honored to go.”
~*~*~*~*~*~
“Mr. and Mrs. Bledsoe?”
“Er, no. No, we’re not.”
The steward raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Well, yes, I suppose we are. I’m William Bledsoe and my mother is, of course, Mrs. Bledsoe, but we aren’t . . . I mean, we’re not . . .” William blushed furiously, “. . . Mr. and Mrs. Bledsoe. We aren’t married. To each other. My mother was married. To my father, of course. She’s a widow, you see. But naturally, she will be continued to be addressed as ‘Mrs. Bledsoe’. Quite right. But I’ve never been married. Obviously, not to her. Or to anyone, actually . . .”
William finally ran out of steam and looked miserably at the steward, face flaming with embarrassment. He had never been on a sea voyage and he supposed it was the combination of nervousness and excitement that was causing this awful babbling.
Making a supreme effort to keep his face perfectly neutral, the well-trained steward amended, “Mrs. Bledsoe and son.”
William’s face and neck were the color of a ripe pomegranate, and he was aware that form of address made it sound like he was still in short pants, but it was infinitely better than creating the mistaken impression of impropriety.
He whispered “Thank you”, and accepted the stateroom key.
Offering his arm to his mother, he boarded the ship with as much dignity as he could muster.
Anne smiled lovingly and patted his arm.
“Thank you, dear. You handled that very well.”
William’s face cleared instantly.
“You really think so?”
“I’ve said so, haven’t I, dear?”
~*~*~*~*~*~
The Philadelphia Centennial Exposition was a wonder! Neither William nor Anne had ever seen anything remotely comparable.
They soon conceived a routine for their days in Philadelphia. In the mornings, William discharged his duties to Mr. Stanhope, conscientiously searching the Exposition for ideas and products of value to the firm. He immediately purchased, and arranged to have some of his finds shipped directly to Stanhope’s, such as a Bank ledger's spring book patented in 1870. William thought that particular invention would come in quite handy at the bank. He also ordered a book and paper file, patented only months before, described as, "A paper file, made of metal, the back resembling a book; through it extend parallel wires on which each paper is filed separately, while the pages open consecutively; adjustable sides are also attached to it, when necessary to preserve valuable documents." He ordered a dozen of the Eagle Pencil Company’s mechanical pencils, which had received an award at the Exposition, but declined the more cutting edge technologies such as the gelatin and stencil duplicators and the up-strike typewriter as a frivolous waste of Mr. Stanhope’s finances.
After spending the mornings conducting business, William returned to the hotel to join Anne for luncheon, and the early afternoons were devoted to entertainments for Anne’s enjoyment.
They explored the city of Philadelphia, sometimes returning to the Exposition, if William had discovered something of interest that he wanted to show Anne. They attended piano recitals and toured art galleries. They strolled the wharf, indulging in quite foreign tidbits from the street vendors.
The ubiquitous fish-and-chips men were nowhere to be seen, although the hot chestnut vendors provided a taste of home. William and Anne vied with each other to discover the most exotic delicacies. They sampled twisted warm bits of dough, served with a spicy mustard sauce. They tried sandwiches of thick bread containing thinly-sliced beef, smothered with cheese and sautéed onions and peppers. William was amazed to discover that the meat pies contained not the expected minced steak and kidney, but ham and a fluffy white cheese filling, that he actually thought rather tasteless.
The most amazing discovery, however, was Anne’s. Seated at a small table in a specialty shop, they ordered a confection called “Baked Alaska”, which the proprietor claimed had been invented by the French chef at Delmonico’s Restaurant in New York City to celebrate the 1867 purchase of the territory of Alaska, commonly called “Stewart’s Folly”.
They watched in amazement as ice cream was scooped into two small baked shells, the confection covered with whipped meringue and placed in a large oven to bake.
William broke through the golden brown meringue to discover the ice cream un-melted! They both laughed with delight.
Returning to the hotel in the late afternoons, Anne rested while William wrote letters to Mr. Stanhope, detailing all he had seen that could be of use to the firm, and wrote in his journal of the wonders he experienced on his outings with Anne. He found himself thinking less and less of Irene Ardmore as a whole new world of experiences opened to him.
Some evenings they went out, but generally, they dined in the hotel and retired early to prepare for the excitement of the following day. William was quite content with his life and regretted that soon he would be returning to his unexciting existence in London. He had discovered a taste for travel and adventure that he hadn’t known he possessed. Well, he would worry about tomorrow when tomorrow arrived.
~*~*~*~*~*~
As the inevitable date for his departure drew closer, William became more unsettled. He discovered he had liked having a purpose—being responsible for decisions of import to the firm. He enjoyed travel and felt a longing to see more of the world.
He felt a curious melancholy steal over his spirit at the thought of returning to mediocrity.
In several days, Mr. Graham-Bell was planning to demonstrate his new device that he claimed allowed for instantaneous contact across distances. William thought he should wait to see that demonstrated, but after accomplishing that goal, he could not, in good conscience, justify remaining longer.
He decided to spend the days prior to that event escorting Anne to the portions of the Exposition he had previously bypassed as not relevant to the discharge of his duty.
They toured the Memorial Building, also known as the Art Gallery, Horticultural Hall, the Women’s Building, the British and Japanese buildings and the Egyptian Court. They visited the New England Kitchen and the Kindergarten Cottage, to their mutual enjoyment.
Upon inquiring if his mother would care to partake of some refreshment, Anne once again demonstrated her fondness for the frozen confection. The Exposition featured the latest European innovations in the production of ice cream, and a Mr. John Miller, an American ice cream manufacturer, volunteered to work at The Vienna Bakery without pay, in order to learn the secrets of the startling new innovation of ice cream molds.
Discovering the location of the Vienna Bakery, William and Anne proceeded there without delay.
Her fingers clutched his arm and she actually . . . bounced . . . on the tips of her feet like a girl-child.
“Oh, look, William! Do you see that? Castles and baskets of fruit and goblets . . .”
William smiled indulgently and led his mother to a shaded table. The weather in Philadelphia was much warmer and sunnier than that of England.
“Which ornament do you fancy, mother?”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “Surprise me, William. It will be such fun—like a Christmas treat!”
William went to study the molds, desirous of selecting the most beautiful, fanciful one for his beloved mother. The confectioners had combined the ice cream with candy to create wonders—goblets that resembled Bohemian glass, cups and saucers that appeared to be made of translucent porcelain, sailing ships on spun-sugar ocean waves, spun-sugar nests containing ice cream eggs and baby chicks, log cabins made of ladyfingers and ice cream, spun-sugar baskets overflowing with ice cream apples, pears and grapes, and an ice cream Mount Vesuvius that was set ablaze prior to serving.
His concentration was such that he failed to notice the chipper, beaming man, also perusing the molds, until he spoke.
“Boy, howdy! They’re really something, aren’t they? Never seen the like of them before.”
William beheld a pair of twinkling eyes. The man was forty-ish and wearing a truly abominable suit, but his good humor was infectious. William felt himself smiling in return.
“Yes, they certainly are.”
“English, are you? Over here to see the Exposition? It’s a wonder, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
“Where are my manners?” The man tipped his bowler hat. “Richard Wilkins III. Originally from Kansas, but I’ve recently purchased some land in California. Ever been to California?”
“No, I haven’t. This is my first trip to America, and I’m just here for the Exposition.”
“First trip, but not your last, I daresay. Say, you ever get out to California, you come look me up. My partners and I are building a nice little town. Always happy to welcome new families. You have a family . . . I didn’t catch your name?”
“William—”
“You have a family, William?” The man broke in before William could complete his introduction.
“Just Mother and me, at present.” The man, for all his good humor, was obviously not a gentleman. William wondered why he continued to converse.
“You can always tell the measure of a man by how he treats his mother. Never knew my own mother, rest her soul, but I’ve been told she was one heck of a human being.”
“That’s . . . nice.”
“Mother passed away bringing me into this world, but what greater purpose can a woman have, eh? You take good care of your own mother, young man. Only get one, you know.”
“Er . . . quite.”
“No sir, I never knew the love of a mother—I was raised by my father. He’s one of the Senior Partners in my current endeavor, though, so I guess it all works out in the end. Nice talking with you, William. You ever get out to California, you come look me up in Sunnydale, hear?”
“Er . . . yes. Thank you.”
With a nod and a beaming smile, the man was off to converse with someone else. William returned his interest to the molds, finally selecting the fruit basket.
Watching Anne’s delight as she exclaimed over the fantastic confection, William wondered what it would be like to have a wife and children of his own.
He just hadn’t met the right woman yet, he supposed, but he knew she was out there somewhere. He had faith that he’d find the love of his life eventually, and when the children were grown and gone, they would travel—he, his loving wife and Mother. They could go to Europe, Italy, Greece . . . who knows? They may travel as far as Egypt or India; or maybe even California. If he ever did get to California, he’d have to be sure to stop by—Sunnydale, was it?—to see the town that oddly friendly man was building. If the man’s personality was any indication, it seemed like it would be a pleasant place to visit.
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no subject
Date: 2007-01-26 09:42 pm (UTC)That was charming, a delightful confection as sweet as the pavlova.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-27 01:43 am (UTC)Thank you so much for your comments. I am so excited to see this community. I have no actual OTP and enjoy writing many different characters and much of my work is genfic, but until now, there was no specific archive where people who love genfic could find a good selection. Thank you and the other mods for thinking of this.
I did have a question, though, about a fic I'm currently writing. It's an action/adventure emsemble piece, and there are no specific pairings in it, but over the course of the story several characters evidence an interest in other of the characters. It's not shippy in the least, and there is no actual pairing-up between the characters. I, personally, consider it genfic, but wondered if it meets the guidelines of this community?
no subject
Date: 2007-01-27 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-27 02:32 am (UTC)I still consider the fic a genfic because there are no specific relationships involved, but if there is any question involved, I won't post that particular fic here. Thanks again.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-27 10:33 am (UTC)References to canon 'ships' are allowed. It would be impossible to tell the story in some instances without them. For example, in my WIP 'Soul Searching' much of the story is dependent on Spike's memories of loving Buffy, but that's not what's central to the plot.
From the description of your WIP, it sounds as if it fits the rules for genfic as defined by the Board Momma. Post away (a little at a time) , I'm looking forward to seeing it.