thisbluespirit (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thisbluespirit) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2020-02-29 08:36 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2020-02-29 08:36 pm
Ecru #2 [Divide & Rule]
Name: Purely Business
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Ecru #2 (ask)
Supplies and Styles: Eraser + Pastels (also forallbingo Flowers square “Carnation – Yes.”) + Graffiti
Word Count: 2967
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Notes: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves 1930s Office AU, because obviously we needed one of those. For the Leap Day Challenge (using both a metaphorical Leap and the tradition of women being able to propose on the 29th of February). Possibly 100% pure candyfloss.
Summary: Julia has a proposal for Edward. It’s entirely practical, purely business, of course. She’s even typed it up for him.
***
Julia took her time in packing up to go home, covering over her typewriter with unusual care, pausing first to brush down the metal keys before she did so, and then carefully tidying every sheet of paper or stray pencil on her small desk. Nevertheless, Miss Smith was watching, so Julia could only delay so long before she had to rise and cross to collect her coat. She sighed as she lifted it off its hook, beginning to fear that either her message had gone unread, or worse, Mr Iveson was too offended or angry to want to talk to her.
Even as she shrugged on the coat, she stopped, catching sight of Mr Iveson at last standing in the opposite doorway, holding a single, thin sheet of paper in his hand. He’d definitely got the message.
“Miss Graves,” said Mr Iveson. “A word, if you please.”
Julia smiled at Miss Smith, undaunted by the older woman’s frown, and hastened across the empty office to join Mr Iveson in the corridor. She tried surreptitiously to gauge his reaction, but so far he only looked serious. She began to feel a little sick. What had possessed her? It had seemed such a good idea as she’d sat there and typed it out; she’d felt so sure of herself, and of him. Now, she could only think that she’d made an utter ass of herself, and she hoped he’d at least be kinder to her than she deserved.
Mr Iveson ushered her the few steps along the corridor and into his office. “Julia,” he said, waving the piece of paper about in front of her. “What did you mean by this?”
“Isn’t it plain?” she said, raising her chin, some of her self-possession restored by such a silly question. “I thought I laid it out quite clearly, but if you want me to try again –”
He leant back and perched on the edge of his desk, and looked at her. His mouth twitched with repressed amusement, Julia was relieved to note. “Yes, it’s very clear in itself,” he agreed. “I must say, I particularly appreciated the way you listed all your mercenary motives. I merely question your logic, however. Or possibly your honesty.”
“Oh?”
Mr Iveson nodded. “Well, either you’ve considerably over-estimated my personal fortune, or you’ve overlooked the fact that you could as easily proposition one of our wealthier clients.” He flicked through the leather-bound sales ledger beside him, gesturing her nearer, as he ran his finger down the column of names. “Mr Young, chairman of the Young & Anthony Select Department Store, for instance. Put in a sizeable order for deluxe headed paper only last week; you took the notes at the meeting, I recall. He’s much richer, no older than I, available, and has no particular vices I’m aware of. I’m sure he would find himself equally in need of a hostess and housekeeper combined. And he’s not divorced, either, which you must admit is a great advantage. Would you like me to forward this onto him?”
“How could you?” said Julia, when she regained her breath. All her carefully constructed, practical, unromantic arguments in favour of their marriage were now as flimsy as the thin pale blue sheet of paper in his hands. It was an entirely unfair gambit; a move to get her to tell the truth she’d gone to such lengths to avoid. “I would never send a proposal like that to someone – I mean to say –”
Mr Iveson put the document down beside him. “Oh? I see. It’s only a joke, in honour of it being a leap year. Of course. Still, Miss Graves, I don’t think it’s a good idea throw marriage proposals about like that in jest. You’ll have to forgive me for failing to be as amused as I should be.”
“No! Well, yes,” said Julia, moving forward instinctively in her efforts to dispel him of that mistaken notion. “Writing it like that, of course it’s partly a joke, but I jolly well did mean it!”
Mr Iveson smiled, and Julia looked away, feeling the heat rise in her face.
“Just as well we’ve got that much cleared up,” he murmured. “After all, it’s four years until you could have another try. It’s just that I’m not convinced by your reasons, you see. I still think you really might as well try Mr Young.”
“I did put down that we like each other. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Mr Iveson only turned aside, picked the paper back up and studied it carefully before glancing over at her. “I stand corrected. So you have. But I thought you quite liked Mr Young, too. I’m sure I have his address here; we could see if he’s swayed by your arguments.”
“No!” said Julia. “I mean, Mr Young is all very well, but I addressed that to you, not to him. And I know you would never forward that to anyone else! You couldn’t.”
Mr Iveson folded it over. “No, sorry – it would have to be rewritten first, wouldn’t it? Shall we draft out a new version now?”
“That would be a waste of time,” said Julia. “Wouldn’t it? Oh, do stop talking about clients and answer the question.”
He met her gaze, still apparently entirely serious, although his mouth twitched again, before he said, evenly, “Yes. I’ve decided to accept your proposal, no matter how appalling it is.”
“I’m sorry?” said Julia, even more lost. None of this had gone in the way she had planned. She wasn’t precisely sure what Edward Iveson was supposed to have said, because in her head she had rather skipped ahead to what she had hoped would come after, but it was definitely not any of the things he had said. “You can’t simply – just agree to marry me like that! Or not while calling my proposal appalling at the same time, thank you.”
Mr Iveson laughed and slid back off the desk, holding out his hands to her. “Julia, darling. You just proposed to me. I asked you if you were joking, and you said no. I asked you if you wouldn’t – given that it was purely to be a matter of convenience on both sides – prefer someone richer and without any social handicaps like being a divorcé. You said no again. So, I said yes; I’m honoured to accept your proposal, even though it is appalling and I’m not going to scruple to say so as many times as I feel like it. Now, why don’t you answer my question?”
“Which one?” said Julia, but she moved forward into his arms, somewhat unfairly bamboozled into it by the way he’d called her darling, as if it came quite naturally to him.
Mr Iveson kissed her head as he embraced her. “The question is: why me?”
“Oh,” said Julia, pressing herself in against him, feeling the rough imprint of his jacket against her face, putting one hand flat against his chest and the buttons of his waistcoat, while she let the other stray up towards his collar. It was all very unfair of him, because obviously it wasn’t safe yet to talk about love; people she loved were taken away or left her behind, so she wasn’t prepared to risk losing anyone else by using that cursed word. She shook her head minutely against him and listened to his heartbeat instead.
Mr Iveson caught hold of her hands in his, gently but firmly detaching her, pushing her back enough so that he could look at her. “I am serious, Julia. Why me, and not Mr Young or anyone else?”
“Mr Young has nothing to say to any of it,” said Julia, and wondered where to begin. Right back at the start, perhaps? That day she nearly lost her temper with Mr Fields (leading partner of Fields & Morley’s exclusive stationery firm, hawk-nosed, with a temper infamous up and down the building) and Mr Iveson had intervened –
“Mr Fields. Excuse me,” he’d said, leaning against the doorway. She’d glanced up, startled, not having heard him approach. Mr Iveson was the under-manager for sales and marketing, not someone she’d had much to do with up until then. He’d been a vague, tall person in a grey suit, quieter than the rest, and of indeterminate age, although she’d seen then that he was far younger than she’d previously supposed.
“If you don’t mind, I need to steal Miss – er –?” Mr Iveson had glanced at her for assistance.
She’d turned. “Graves. Miss Graves.”
“Yes, quite. Miss Graves. For a sales meeting over the river,” he’d said, and led her back out into the corridor, saved from losing her job. Much as she’d have liked to rail at Mr Fields and storm out, she did need to pay the rent. Mr Fields would never have stood for anything he saw as insolence, and who’d hire a typist with a bad character when there were thousands of others to be had?
“I doubt I’ll really need notes,” Mr Iveson had said, leading her back to the main office. “But you’d better come with me now or we’ll both be in trouble.”
She’d stopped by her narrow desk to grab her coat and followed him out, hurrying to keep up with his long strides, puzzled as to why he had stepped in and unsure how to even ask.
“Why?” she’d said, only finally getting the question out halfway down the steps to the underground, out of breath, and still unsure what to make of him.
He’d looked down at her and blinked. “Well, you looked as if you’d like to kill Fields. And while one can’t help but sympathise, I rather thought you’d be fired if you tried. If that was what you wanted, I apologise. Make a dramatic exit and all that.”
“No,” she’d said, and smiled up at him. “It would have been satisfying, but not really worth it. Thank you. It’s Mr Iveson, isn’t it?”
Was it then she’d decided she was going to make him hers? She couldn’t remember now. At this point, she’d be ready to believe she’d decided that on walking through the main office door on the first day, but she knew that was untrue.
Was it after they’d returned that day and Miss Smith had been on the warpath, suspecting one or both of them of some sort of inappropriate behaviour? Julia had been busy hanging up her coat on the hook, trying not to laugh as Miss Smith lectured Mr Iveson on how he should consult with her as to which member of the office staff was available if he needed secretarial assistance.
Which, of course, regardless of Julia’s feelings then, had been enough to get her to see finding a way round those strictures as a challenge. She’d stood there demurely, already plotting even as Mr Iveson apologised to Miss Smith. He shot her one last amused glance and she lowered her gaze, biting back laughter, as he hurried away across the busy room.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said to Miss Smith, once he was gone. “It was a terrible nuisance, but I couldn’t refuse, could I? And you didn’t warn me about Mr Iveson, only Mr Harding. I must say, I’m surprised. He seemed quite the gentleman.”
Miss Smith had given her a hard look that then softened. “Oh, well, no harm done. And, no, Mr Iveson’s not like that. But I am the one responsible for the supervision of you girls. Kindly allow me to do my job in future, Graves.”
“Of course, Miss Smith,” Julia had said, eyes widening, and she’d apologised as meekly and profusely as she dared.
She had taken up the challenge at once, though, so maybe her feelings for Edward Iveson had begun then after all? She’d put even more effort at disarming Miss Smith by dressing as sensibly as she could, prim and buttoned up and thoroughly dedicated to her work, throwing herself into the part of the ideal secretary. As far as Mr Iveson went, for the next few days, she limited herself to making sure she gave him her best smile whenever they passed in the corridor.
The next stage in her campaign had been to do the mid- morning tea round for Betty, who’d complained about it long and loudly, taking a tray round to the managers – to Mr Fields, old Mr Morley, Mr Harding, and finally to Mr Iveson, stopping to pick up his typing and ask if he had any dictation work. When she found herself note-taking in company meetings, sitting buried amongst a lot of old men with dark suits, they exchanged stolen, amused glances.
Certainly, she’d got as far as deciding she was going to try her best to entangle him into marriage by the other week, when she’d been taking dictation and had stopped him in mid flow by observing that he had a very nice voice.
“Miss Graves,” he’d said, glancing up, neither flustered nor annoyed, his expression merely blank and baffled, “I was listing the cost estimates at various paper thicknesses, with or without watermarks.”
She’d laughed. “Very nicely, though,” she’d told him.
Perhaps it had been the Saturday, a few months ago, when he and Mr Harding had kept her behind to help with their sales campaign, and afterwards he had taken her to a tea shop to make up for it? It might have been, since she’d realised afterwards that it seemed set to become the highlight of her year and, honestly, at that point, it would have been foolish not to take further action.
And, of course, there had been that time when Betty had announced Mr Iveson’s wife had come to see him, oblivious to Julia’s reaction, as she pulled out a finished sheet from her typewriter with a flourish.
“Mr Iveson isn’t married,” Julia had said, scowling at an error in the middle of her letter. She’d made it her business to find out, and, besides, he didn’t wear a ring.
Betty had glanced over. “Divorced,” she’d said, lowering her voice in horror. “Can you imagine?”
Julia hadn’t been sure she could, but her relief at the words had been too obvious even to hide from herself. Certainly, by that point, she’d already come to the conclusion that she needed to make sure matters advanced more swiftly than seemed likely if she left it to Mr Iveson. He was, alas, far too much of a gentleman to take advantage of a lowly office worker, however he might look at her sometimes when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. (Julia was always paying attention.)
Whatever the truth, she’d had to do something about it, and it was a leap year, when tradition allowed for her to do the asking. And if she couldn’t talk of love, she could make a practical proposal that might bring them to the same place in the end. That had been the idea, anyway. It had been so simple until Edward Iveson refused to play the part she’d written out for him.
“Julia?” he said, facing her now in the office, still awaiting an answer.
She shrugged. She’d gone to all this work to get them here. Why did he have to be awkward now? When she looked up, she could see his gaze darken, the shadow of doubt falling over him.
“It’s a perfectly sensible proposal,” she said, looking straight at him, trying to will him into understanding that talk of love was better left unsaid, but that didn’t mean it mightn’t be true. “Much better than hoping you can manage to send for me for extra dictation once a week. My plan involves us seeing each other all the time. And it’s no good talking about Mr Young or anybody else, because only you will do. That’s all I can say.”
Mr Iveson – Edward – brushed his fingers against her cheek. “Julia, darling,” he murmured, leaning in close, “you’re being absurd – and some point I think we must discuss why – but adorably so.”
Julia would have protested against the term adorable, when clearly if he understood, he’d have used terms like selfish, scheming, wilful, rather, but her heart was doing treacherous things at his calling her darling again. It wasn’t only her heart, either, since when he kissed her, her knees proved not to be very reliable either and she clutched at him, fingers closing around the lapels of his jacket. And after that, really, she scarcely knew what she had to say for herself, as she ended up pressed up against the coat rack, kissing him back with equal fervour, heedless of dislodging an umbrella somewhere behind her.
“Julia,” he said again, pulling away, and catching hold of the umbrella as it fell before replacing it. He grinned at her, before giving a cough, and straightening his jacket and tie.
Julia smiled widely, well pleased with herself, and him. “You did mean it when you said yes?” she asked, because one liked to be absolutely certain.
“Of course,” he said, and she had to laugh to see that he looked genuinely shocked at the idea that he would behave like this in the office if he hadn’t. He shook his head at her. “However, it is a serious proposal, so I suggest we discuss it further over dinner. What do you say?”
Julia took the arm he offered and nodded. “Yes.”
“Of course,” he said, more distantly as he opened the door for her, “I will expect you to take notes and type them up by Monday morning at the latest.”
She tightened her hold on him and beamed. “Beast,” she said, happily. She’d got what she wanted, and the rest she was sure she could sort out in time.
***
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Ecru #2 (ask)
Supplies and Styles: Eraser + Pastels (also for
allbingo Flowers square “Carnation – Yes.”) + GraffitiWord Count: 2967
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Notes: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves 1930s Office AU, because obviously we needed one of those. For the Leap Day Challenge (using both a metaphorical Leap and the tradition of women being able to propose on the 29th of February). Possibly 100% pure candyfloss.
Summary: Julia has a proposal for Edward. It’s entirely practical, purely business, of course. She’s even typed it up for him.
***
Julia took her time in packing up to go home, covering over her typewriter with unusual care, pausing first to brush down the metal keys before she did so, and then carefully tidying every sheet of paper or stray pencil on her small desk. Nevertheless, Miss Smith was watching, so Julia could only delay so long before she had to rise and cross to collect her coat. She sighed as she lifted it off its hook, beginning to fear that either her message had gone unread, or worse, Mr Iveson was too offended or angry to want to talk to her.
Even as she shrugged on the coat, she stopped, catching sight of Mr Iveson at last standing in the opposite doorway, holding a single, thin sheet of paper in his hand. He’d definitely got the message.
“Miss Graves,” said Mr Iveson. “A word, if you please.”
Julia smiled at Miss Smith, undaunted by the older woman’s frown, and hastened across the empty office to join Mr Iveson in the corridor. She tried surreptitiously to gauge his reaction, but so far he only looked serious. She began to feel a little sick. What had possessed her? It had seemed such a good idea as she’d sat there and typed it out; she’d felt so sure of herself, and of him. Now, she could only think that she’d made an utter ass of herself, and she hoped he’d at least be kinder to her than she deserved.
Mr Iveson ushered her the few steps along the corridor and into his office. “Julia,” he said, waving the piece of paper about in front of her. “What did you mean by this?”
“Isn’t it plain?” she said, raising her chin, some of her self-possession restored by such a silly question. “I thought I laid it out quite clearly, but if you want me to try again –”
He leant back and perched on the edge of his desk, and looked at her. His mouth twitched with repressed amusement, Julia was relieved to note. “Yes, it’s very clear in itself,” he agreed. “I must say, I particularly appreciated the way you listed all your mercenary motives. I merely question your logic, however. Or possibly your honesty.”
“Oh?”
Mr Iveson nodded. “Well, either you’ve considerably over-estimated my personal fortune, or you’ve overlooked the fact that you could as easily proposition one of our wealthier clients.” He flicked through the leather-bound sales ledger beside him, gesturing her nearer, as he ran his finger down the column of names. “Mr Young, chairman of the Young & Anthony Select Department Store, for instance. Put in a sizeable order for deluxe headed paper only last week; you took the notes at the meeting, I recall. He’s much richer, no older than I, available, and has no particular vices I’m aware of. I’m sure he would find himself equally in need of a hostess and housekeeper combined. And he’s not divorced, either, which you must admit is a great advantage. Would you like me to forward this onto him?”
“How could you?” said Julia, when she regained her breath. All her carefully constructed, practical, unromantic arguments in favour of their marriage were now as flimsy as the thin pale blue sheet of paper in his hands. It was an entirely unfair gambit; a move to get her to tell the truth she’d gone to such lengths to avoid. “I would never send a proposal like that to someone – I mean to say –”
Mr Iveson put the document down beside him. “Oh? I see. It’s only a joke, in honour of it being a leap year. Of course. Still, Miss Graves, I don’t think it’s a good idea throw marriage proposals about like that in jest. You’ll have to forgive me for failing to be as amused as I should be.”
“No! Well, yes,” said Julia, moving forward instinctively in her efforts to dispel him of that mistaken notion. “Writing it like that, of course it’s partly a joke, but I jolly well did mean it!”
Mr Iveson smiled, and Julia looked away, feeling the heat rise in her face.
“Just as well we’ve got that much cleared up,” he murmured. “After all, it’s four years until you could have another try. It’s just that I’m not convinced by your reasons, you see. I still think you really might as well try Mr Young.”
“I did put down that we like each other. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Mr Iveson only turned aside, picked the paper back up and studied it carefully before glancing over at her. “I stand corrected. So you have. But I thought you quite liked Mr Young, too. I’m sure I have his address here; we could see if he’s swayed by your arguments.”
“No!” said Julia. “I mean, Mr Young is all very well, but I addressed that to you, not to him. And I know you would never forward that to anyone else! You couldn’t.”
Mr Iveson folded it over. “No, sorry – it would have to be rewritten first, wouldn’t it? Shall we draft out a new version now?”
“That would be a waste of time,” said Julia. “Wouldn’t it? Oh, do stop talking about clients and answer the question.”
He met her gaze, still apparently entirely serious, although his mouth twitched again, before he said, evenly, “Yes. I’ve decided to accept your proposal, no matter how appalling it is.”
“I’m sorry?” said Julia, even more lost. None of this had gone in the way she had planned. She wasn’t precisely sure what Edward Iveson was supposed to have said, because in her head she had rather skipped ahead to what she had hoped would come after, but it was definitely not any of the things he had said. “You can’t simply – just agree to marry me like that! Or not while calling my proposal appalling at the same time, thank you.”
Mr Iveson laughed and slid back off the desk, holding out his hands to her. “Julia, darling. You just proposed to me. I asked you if you were joking, and you said no. I asked you if you wouldn’t – given that it was purely to be a matter of convenience on both sides – prefer someone richer and without any social handicaps like being a divorcé. You said no again. So, I said yes; I’m honoured to accept your proposal, even though it is appalling and I’m not going to scruple to say so as many times as I feel like it. Now, why don’t you answer my question?”
“Which one?” said Julia, but she moved forward into his arms, somewhat unfairly bamboozled into it by the way he’d called her darling, as if it came quite naturally to him.
Mr Iveson kissed her head as he embraced her. “The question is: why me?”
“Oh,” said Julia, pressing herself in against him, feeling the rough imprint of his jacket against her face, putting one hand flat against his chest and the buttons of his waistcoat, while she let the other stray up towards his collar. It was all very unfair of him, because obviously it wasn’t safe yet to talk about love; people she loved were taken away or left her behind, so she wasn’t prepared to risk losing anyone else by using that cursed word. She shook her head minutely against him and listened to his heartbeat instead.
Mr Iveson caught hold of her hands in his, gently but firmly detaching her, pushing her back enough so that he could look at her. “I am serious, Julia. Why me, and not Mr Young or anyone else?”
“Mr Young has nothing to say to any of it,” said Julia, and wondered where to begin. Right back at the start, perhaps? That day she nearly lost her temper with Mr Fields (leading partner of Fields & Morley’s exclusive stationery firm, hawk-nosed, with a temper infamous up and down the building) and Mr Iveson had intervened –
“Mr Fields. Excuse me,” he’d said, leaning against the doorway. She’d glanced up, startled, not having heard him approach. Mr Iveson was the under-manager for sales and marketing, not someone she’d had much to do with up until then. He’d been a vague, tall person in a grey suit, quieter than the rest, and of indeterminate age, although she’d seen then that he was far younger than she’d previously supposed.
“If you don’t mind, I need to steal Miss – er –?” Mr Iveson had glanced at her for assistance.
She’d turned. “Graves. Miss Graves.”
“Yes, quite. Miss Graves. For a sales meeting over the river,” he’d said, and led her back out into the corridor, saved from losing her job. Much as she’d have liked to rail at Mr Fields and storm out, she did need to pay the rent. Mr Fields would never have stood for anything he saw as insolence, and who’d hire a typist with a bad character when there were thousands of others to be had?
“I doubt I’ll really need notes,” Mr Iveson had said, leading her back to the main office. “But you’d better come with me now or we’ll both be in trouble.”
She’d stopped by her narrow desk to grab her coat and followed him out, hurrying to keep up with his long strides, puzzled as to why he had stepped in and unsure how to even ask.
“Why?” she’d said, only finally getting the question out halfway down the steps to the underground, out of breath, and still unsure what to make of him.
He’d looked down at her and blinked. “Well, you looked as if you’d like to kill Fields. And while one can’t help but sympathise, I rather thought you’d be fired if you tried. If that was what you wanted, I apologise. Make a dramatic exit and all that.”
“No,” she’d said, and smiled up at him. “It would have been satisfying, but not really worth it. Thank you. It’s Mr Iveson, isn’t it?”
Was it then she’d decided she was going to make him hers? She couldn’t remember now. At this point, she’d be ready to believe she’d decided that on walking through the main office door on the first day, but she knew that was untrue.
Was it after they’d returned that day and Miss Smith had been on the warpath, suspecting one or both of them of some sort of inappropriate behaviour? Julia had been busy hanging up her coat on the hook, trying not to laugh as Miss Smith lectured Mr Iveson on how he should consult with her as to which member of the office staff was available if he needed secretarial assistance.
Which, of course, regardless of Julia’s feelings then, had been enough to get her to see finding a way round those strictures as a challenge. She’d stood there demurely, already plotting even as Mr Iveson apologised to Miss Smith. He shot her one last amused glance and she lowered her gaze, biting back laughter, as he hurried away across the busy room.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said to Miss Smith, once he was gone. “It was a terrible nuisance, but I couldn’t refuse, could I? And you didn’t warn me about Mr Iveson, only Mr Harding. I must say, I’m surprised. He seemed quite the gentleman.”
Miss Smith had given her a hard look that then softened. “Oh, well, no harm done. And, no, Mr Iveson’s not like that. But I am the one responsible for the supervision of you girls. Kindly allow me to do my job in future, Graves.”
“Of course, Miss Smith,” Julia had said, eyes widening, and she’d apologised as meekly and profusely as she dared.
She had taken up the challenge at once, though, so maybe her feelings for Edward Iveson had begun then after all? She’d put even more effort at disarming Miss Smith by dressing as sensibly as she could, prim and buttoned up and thoroughly dedicated to her work, throwing herself into the part of the ideal secretary. As far as Mr Iveson went, for the next few days, she limited herself to making sure she gave him her best smile whenever they passed in the corridor.
The next stage in her campaign had been to do the mid- morning tea round for Betty, who’d complained about it long and loudly, taking a tray round to the managers – to Mr Fields, old Mr Morley, Mr Harding, and finally to Mr Iveson, stopping to pick up his typing and ask if he had any dictation work. When she found herself note-taking in company meetings, sitting buried amongst a lot of old men with dark suits, they exchanged stolen, amused glances.
Certainly, she’d got as far as deciding she was going to try her best to entangle him into marriage by the other week, when she’d been taking dictation and had stopped him in mid flow by observing that he had a very nice voice.
“Miss Graves,” he’d said, glancing up, neither flustered nor annoyed, his expression merely blank and baffled, “I was listing the cost estimates at various paper thicknesses, with or without watermarks.”
She’d laughed. “Very nicely, though,” she’d told him.
Perhaps it had been the Saturday, a few months ago, when he and Mr Harding had kept her behind to help with their sales campaign, and afterwards he had taken her to a tea shop to make up for it? It might have been, since she’d realised afterwards that it seemed set to become the highlight of her year and, honestly, at that point, it would have been foolish not to take further action.
And, of course, there had been that time when Betty had announced Mr Iveson’s wife had come to see him, oblivious to Julia’s reaction, as she pulled out a finished sheet from her typewriter with a flourish.
“Mr Iveson isn’t married,” Julia had said, scowling at an error in the middle of her letter. She’d made it her business to find out, and, besides, he didn’t wear a ring.
Betty had glanced over. “Divorced,” she’d said, lowering her voice in horror. “Can you imagine?”
Julia hadn’t been sure she could, but her relief at the words had been too obvious even to hide from herself. Certainly, by that point, she’d already come to the conclusion that she needed to make sure matters advanced more swiftly than seemed likely if she left it to Mr Iveson. He was, alas, far too much of a gentleman to take advantage of a lowly office worker, however he might look at her sometimes when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. (Julia was always paying attention.)
Whatever the truth, she’d had to do something about it, and it was a leap year, when tradition allowed for her to do the asking. And if she couldn’t talk of love, she could make a practical proposal that might bring them to the same place in the end. That had been the idea, anyway. It had been so simple until Edward Iveson refused to play the part she’d written out for him.
“Julia?” he said, facing her now in the office, still awaiting an answer.
She shrugged. She’d gone to all this work to get them here. Why did he have to be awkward now? When she looked up, she could see his gaze darken, the shadow of doubt falling over him.
“It’s a perfectly sensible proposal,” she said, looking straight at him, trying to will him into understanding that talk of love was better left unsaid, but that didn’t mean it mightn’t be true. “Much better than hoping you can manage to send for me for extra dictation once a week. My plan involves us seeing each other all the time. And it’s no good talking about Mr Young or anybody else, because only you will do. That’s all I can say.”
Mr Iveson – Edward – brushed his fingers against her cheek. “Julia, darling,” he murmured, leaning in close, “you’re being absurd – and some point I think we must discuss why – but adorably so.”
Julia would have protested against the term adorable, when clearly if he understood, he’d have used terms like selfish, scheming, wilful, rather, but her heart was doing treacherous things at his calling her darling again. It wasn’t only her heart, either, since when he kissed her, her knees proved not to be very reliable either and she clutched at him, fingers closing around the lapels of his jacket. And after that, really, she scarcely knew what she had to say for herself, as she ended up pressed up against the coat rack, kissing him back with equal fervour, heedless of dislodging an umbrella somewhere behind her.
“Julia,” he said again, pulling away, and catching hold of the umbrella as it fell before replacing it. He grinned at her, before giving a cough, and straightening his jacket and tie.
Julia smiled widely, well pleased with herself, and him. “You did mean it when you said yes?” she asked, because one liked to be absolutely certain.
“Of course,” he said, and she had to laugh to see that he looked genuinely shocked at the idea that he would behave like this in the office if he hadn’t. He shook his head at her. “However, it is a serious proposal, so I suggest we discuss it further over dinner. What do you say?”
Julia took the arm he offered and nodded. “Yes.”
“Of course,” he said, more distantly as he opened the door for her, “I will expect you to take notes and type them up by Monday morning at the latest.”
She tightened her hold on him and beamed. “Beast,” she said, happily. She’d got what she wanted, and the rest she was sure she could sort out in time.
***
no subject
omg I'm sad I didn't see it earlier, it's such a delight. Their awkward and adorable love story, THE PROPOSAL HOLY SHIT I'M LAUGHING SO HARD and EDWARD'S RESPONSE TO IT OH MY GOD. This is amazing. I'm so happy. Bless you.
no subject