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rainbowfic2019-11-02 09:09 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2019-11-02 09:09 pm
Entry tags:
Acanthus #12 [Divide and Rule]
Name: House of Glass
Story: Divide & Rule
Colors: Acanthus #12 (broken bottle)
Supplies and Styles: None.
Word Count: 948
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Mentions of racism & domestic violence.
Notes: 1932, 1938, 1949: Diana Foyle, Stephen Foyle. (I don't think I've written Diana in anything over here yet, but she's one of Edward's fellow MPs and good friends with Julia.)
Summary: Too many things in life are fragile, Diana knows that too well, but she's also learned that she's not one of those things.
***
1932
Diana’s hands are shaking as she stares at her face in the mirror. She’s clumsy with nerves; she knocks the perfume bottle onto the floor and has to stop and mop up the mess, a chokingly sweet smell assailing her as she gets down on her knees. Blue glass fragments lie on the boards and the liquid is seeping into the nearby rug.
She’s marked herself, she thinks, but doesn’t let it stop her escape, although she gets some looks at the bus stop, when she arrives at a run, delayed by the incident. The scent’s strong enough for people to turn their heads, despite her efforts to wash it away.
It’s better in the park, out in the air, but nevertheless Kiran raises his eyebrows when he hurries over to meet her, and leans in to kiss her cheek before they slide out of sight along a side path.
“Don’t ask,” she says, with a small, wry laugh as she takes his hand. She hesitates before continuing, because what she has to say matters too much, and she’s not sure Kiran will agree. “They’ll never come round, you know. They’ll never approve. We should just get married. Give them a fait accompli.”
He looks away, while she hangs onto his hand. She feels she’s already losing him, and for no good reason, only the judgment of small-minded people. She studies his profile; she’s in love and she thinks he’s the most beautiful person she’s ever met, in more ways than one.
“Diana,” he says, “you’re not twenty-one.”
She swallows. “We lie. As I said. A fait accompli. They don’t want people to talk. They’ll have to make the best of it.”
“No lies,” he says, but when he tries to smile it doesn’t go all the way to his eyes, and Diana feels the shadow of things to come. He doesn’t want trouble either, any more than their families do, and knowing that hurts her. She’d let the rest of the world go hang for him.
Later, much later, she thinks perhaps that it was only that Kiran knew what they were fighting, and she didn’t, but for now she only hangs on to his hand and hopes, and hopes, until that shatters too.
1938
It’s lucky that Stephen’s aim is even worse drunk than when he’s sober. The wine bottle smashes against the wall while Diana stands, statue-like, burying her fear and anger within. It’s hard to believe that when it came to making a suitable match she’d once thought Stephen Foyle would do as well as anyone else. And she’d had to marry, because what else did one do in her world? Girls with rich fathers couldn’t steal jobs from the deserving.
“You’d like anyone but me,” he throws at her, after the bottle. “Anyone. All the better if they’re not even English!”
Diana remains pressed against the wall, but she raises her chin. “Well, quite,” she says. “Did you actually want anything or were you just bored?”
“Bitch. You think anyone’s ever going to vote for you?”
Diana shrugs. The members of her constituency will have the final word on that one, and unfortunately, she’ll have better luck getting into parliament with Stephen than without him. Lady MPs are daring enough without being divorced lady MPs.
“Bad luck for you, then,” she says. “I’ll have no reason to stay and then where will you get your money?”
There’s one good thing about Stephen. She doesn’t care about him, and he can break all the bottles he likes, but he can’t touch her heart. That’s already been broken.
1949
Diana hates it when Stephen decides to turn up for her dinner parties. He arrived unexpectedly the middle of this one, as unwelcome as ever, although she’s not sure what prompted him to it. He usually prefers the peace of his club, and that suits them both. She leans back into the sofa and picks up a magazine, hoping he’ll go away if she ignores him. She can feel a headache threatening.
“I like your new friend,” he says, brushing back his fair fringe with an unsteady hand. The old malicious glint is back in his eyes. “Just your sort.”
Diana sighs, and flicks over the pages.
“Foreign,” he says, with a nod. “German. East or West, d’you think? Maybe that’s what she married Iveson for.”
Diana puts down the magazine, unable to conceal her annoyance. Perhaps he’s picked up something genuine; perhaps he’s just out to bait her again. Either way, it’s late and she hasn’t the patience for it. “Well, that’s his look-out, isn’t it? I don’t think either of us are qualified to give anyone marital advice.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, and ambles away, heavy footsteps in the hall, sound fading as he heads to the kitchen.
Diana merely reaches for the magazine again. Julia Iveson is a new acquaintance, and she’s not going to comment on the suggestion that she could be a spy – anything’s possible, especially in this world – but she’s sure of one thing. Why Edward Iveson married her so suddenly that summer, who the hell knows, but there’s love there all right. Diana knows what it looks like, and its absence. For a moment, she feels something almost like envy, remembering the way they’d left arm in arm in the rain.
From the kitchen, she hears Stephen shouting, and then he calls out, his voice muffled through the door, but it sounds like something about spilt milk.
She turns over another page in the glossy weekly, and shakes her head. “Bit late to cry over that,” she says under her breath.
***
Story: Divide & Rule
Colors: Acanthus #12 (broken bottle)
Supplies and Styles: None.
Word Count: 948
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Mentions of racism & domestic violence.
Notes: 1932, 1938, 1949: Diana Foyle, Stephen Foyle. (I don't think I've written Diana in anything over here yet, but she's one of Edward's fellow MPs and good friends with Julia.)
Summary: Too many things in life are fragile, Diana knows that too well, but she's also learned that she's not one of those things.
***
1932
Diana’s hands are shaking as she stares at her face in the mirror. She’s clumsy with nerves; she knocks the perfume bottle onto the floor and has to stop and mop up the mess, a chokingly sweet smell assailing her as she gets down on her knees. Blue glass fragments lie on the boards and the liquid is seeping into the nearby rug.
She’s marked herself, she thinks, but doesn’t let it stop her escape, although she gets some looks at the bus stop, when she arrives at a run, delayed by the incident. The scent’s strong enough for people to turn their heads, despite her efforts to wash it away.
It’s better in the park, out in the air, but nevertheless Kiran raises his eyebrows when he hurries over to meet her, and leans in to kiss her cheek before they slide out of sight along a side path.
“Don’t ask,” she says, with a small, wry laugh as she takes his hand. She hesitates before continuing, because what she has to say matters too much, and she’s not sure Kiran will agree. “They’ll never come round, you know. They’ll never approve. We should just get married. Give them a fait accompli.”
He looks away, while she hangs onto his hand. She feels she’s already losing him, and for no good reason, only the judgment of small-minded people. She studies his profile; she’s in love and she thinks he’s the most beautiful person she’s ever met, in more ways than one.
“Diana,” he says, “you’re not twenty-one.”
She swallows. “We lie. As I said. A fait accompli. They don’t want people to talk. They’ll have to make the best of it.”
“No lies,” he says, but when he tries to smile it doesn’t go all the way to his eyes, and Diana feels the shadow of things to come. He doesn’t want trouble either, any more than their families do, and knowing that hurts her. She’d let the rest of the world go hang for him.
Later, much later, she thinks perhaps that it was only that Kiran knew what they were fighting, and she didn’t, but for now she only hangs on to his hand and hopes, and hopes, until that shatters too.
1938
It’s lucky that Stephen’s aim is even worse drunk than when he’s sober. The wine bottle smashes against the wall while Diana stands, statue-like, burying her fear and anger within. It’s hard to believe that when it came to making a suitable match she’d once thought Stephen Foyle would do as well as anyone else. And she’d had to marry, because what else did one do in her world? Girls with rich fathers couldn’t steal jobs from the deserving.
“You’d like anyone but me,” he throws at her, after the bottle. “Anyone. All the better if they’re not even English!”
Diana remains pressed against the wall, but she raises her chin. “Well, quite,” she says. “Did you actually want anything or were you just bored?”
“Bitch. You think anyone’s ever going to vote for you?”
Diana shrugs. The members of her constituency will have the final word on that one, and unfortunately, she’ll have better luck getting into parliament with Stephen than without him. Lady MPs are daring enough without being divorced lady MPs.
“Bad luck for you, then,” she says. “I’ll have no reason to stay and then where will you get your money?”
There’s one good thing about Stephen. She doesn’t care about him, and he can break all the bottles he likes, but he can’t touch her heart. That’s already been broken.
1949
Diana hates it when Stephen decides to turn up for her dinner parties. He arrived unexpectedly the middle of this one, as unwelcome as ever, although she’s not sure what prompted him to it. He usually prefers the peace of his club, and that suits them both. She leans back into the sofa and picks up a magazine, hoping he’ll go away if she ignores him. She can feel a headache threatening.
“I like your new friend,” he says, brushing back his fair fringe with an unsteady hand. The old malicious glint is back in his eyes. “Just your sort.”
Diana sighs, and flicks over the pages.
“Foreign,” he says, with a nod. “German. East or West, d’you think? Maybe that’s what she married Iveson for.”
Diana puts down the magazine, unable to conceal her annoyance. Perhaps he’s picked up something genuine; perhaps he’s just out to bait her again. Either way, it’s late and she hasn’t the patience for it. “Well, that’s his look-out, isn’t it? I don’t think either of us are qualified to give anyone marital advice.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, and ambles away, heavy footsteps in the hall, sound fading as he heads to the kitchen.
Diana merely reaches for the magazine again. Julia Iveson is a new acquaintance, and she’s not going to comment on the suggestion that she could be a spy – anything’s possible, especially in this world – but she’s sure of one thing. Why Edward Iveson married her so suddenly that summer, who the hell knows, but there’s love there all right. Diana knows what it looks like, and its absence. For a moment, she feels something almost like envy, remembering the way they’d left arm in arm in the rain.
From the kitchen, she hears Stephen shouting, and then he calls out, his voice muffled through the door, but it sounds like something about spilt milk.
She turns over another page in the glossy weekly, and shakes her head. “Bit late to cry over that,” she says under her breath.
***
no subject
FRIEND.
STOP HURTING ME LIKE THIS.
seriously though this is fantastic. Does she ever get away from him?
no subject
And all that drinking means that Stephen dies fairly young, and also most of the time he doesn't drop in at dinner parties and they have a very separate life that allows Stephen to exist and Diana to be an awesome Lady MP and harangue people in the Commons, which she appreciates a lot.