Miserable Company

A/N: This is a story set in the first half of the nineteenth century in England. The Victorian era was the first time period where society truly brought forth the question of a woman's role in the world. People questioned what an "acceptable" level of independence was for a woman, what her extent of involvement in the outside world should be, etc. Though this was also expected to be molded into the view of a woman through the traditional lens: her role as a pure, virginal, faithful wife, expected to rear children, keep the house, and a family.

This story is meant for pleasure, yes, but also to portray these conflicts. It prods at the Victorian era's idea of God, religion, sin, hypocrisy, double standards, etc. And, of course, it's got lesbians. We all love historical lesbians.

A few notes before you begin:

- Unmentionables/underthings: Underwear, but also included the chemise and stockings

- Chemise: A thin, knee-length gown that was the first layer of clothing for a lady

- Connect: To have sexual intercourse with

- Bathing: The wealthy often had servants assist them with bathing, as there was no indoor plumbing until about 1880. It was not unusual for a woman to have handmaidens undress her in her chambers.

- Bedrooms: It was also not unusual for a wife and a husband to have separate bedrooms.

And of course, every character in this story is above the age of eighteen. Florence is in her early twenties, actually. Enjoy!

~*~

Who knew that Mrs. Daugherty's husband could be such an

insufferable

man?

Well, no one, really, except Mrs. Daugherty.

She

certainly thought as much. The reason why everyone seemed so delicately charmed by him was far beyond her. All the gentlemen groveled beneath his feet and even the most respectable ladies of Northern Yorkshire swooned under his gaze, but

he

looked upon

her

with boorish indifference. Indifference! As if she was a dusty old tome on a shelf!

"Oh, Marianna," she once cried to her friend, "is something wrong with me? Am

I

the one at fault?"

Marianna had only laughed sadly, shook her head for the lost cause. "Maura, that's just how men become after a few years of marriage."

Just how men become!

It wasn't only her husband, then, that blatantly ignored her, disregarded her, and used her? It wasn't only her husband, then, that put his hands near dangerously un-Christian places of other unmarried women?

Insolence. Rubbish and bloody insolence, the lot of it.

All of this boils in Maura's blood as she narrows her eyes murderously at the book she's holding in a dissemblingly calm grip. It's a book about Latin scholars or another; she isn't really paying much attention at this point. Who gives a damn? Maura does not. Not even a bloody one.

She glances out the study's wide window opposite the desk and sees her husband working the garden. A servant brings him fresh planting soil. His hand lingers on her fingers as he takes it. She scowls and returns to the Latin scholars and their ancient teachings.

Perhaps people notice Mr. Daugherty being unfaithful, but do not care. Maura's mind wanders back to Marianna. She frowns.

It's just how men become.

But what if a woman was to be unfaithful? What if

she

was to philander with unmarried men and use her charisma and charm to achieve her goals?

The answer that comes to mind troubles her deeply.

The book has slipped a bit from her grip and her fingers fall slack. She stares past the words as more shameful ones bloom angrily to replace them in her thoughts. At first it's just one, but then they multiply until there is a garden of overflowing flowers, furiously displaying their bright scarlet petals. Abruptly she stands, and the chair screeches behind her.

It all coalesces down to one word.

Unfair.

Her hands come to grasp the edge of the desk as she squeezes her eyes shut.

Unfair.

Terribly unfair. And as quickly as those words condensed, they branch explosively outward again. Her grip on the desk tightens.

Through the roar of her anger, there is a faint clattering. Irritating clattering. She whirls around towards the sound. "What is that

obnoxious—

"

Crash.

Maura blinks. Broken shards of what was once a tea cup now haphazardly litter the floor at the base of two feet frozen in place. Maura's gaze lifts slowly only to be met with the frightened face of a young servant. Her dark green eyes lock onto Maura fearfully. No doubt her mind is entertaining her with various forms of punishment that is to come—the worst of all being dismissal.

After the moment of shock lapses, the servant kneels quickly on the floor, stammering apologies. "Miss, please forgive me, s-sometimes I am quick to startle—"

The anger subsides like a red tide receding, and Maura's face softens. "No, forgive me. I was...not well."

The servant pauses and looks up, surprised. "Miss..."

But the tide of anger is gone and all that it has left in its wake on the shore is exhaustion. She exhales a great sigh and slumps back into the chair, placing her fingers against her temple as she closes her eyes. The servant stares at her for a moment, then ducks her head down as she quickly finishes gathering the pieces. She takes a rag from her pocket and hastily wipes up the tea.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, Miss?"

Maura opens her eyes. The question is tentative, shy. She's surprised that the servant hadn't dashed away as soon as she finished cleaning up, but here she stands. One of her light blonde locks hangs out of place. She tries to square her small shoulders in the face of her embarrassment. This makes Maura consider her with intrigue. For as nervous as she seems, she is brave.

"A hot bath," Maura finally answers. The servant curtseys and turns, beginning to walk out of the study. A thought crosses Maura's mind. "Oh, Miss...?"

The servant halts and turns back around, perplexed. There is a moment of silence before she realizes, and quietly whispers her name. "Florence."

"Florence." Maura smiles. "Thank you."

~*~

Maura is more or less still reading a book in the study when Florence comes to fetch her. Her deep brown eyes are far away, stumbling through jumbled thoughts interspersed with crimson flowers. Outside, the sun is setting, throwing bright light onto the plush, extravagant carpet and onto her pale face.

Florence is a statue in the doorway, peering at Mrs. Daugherty with curious eyes. She notices small things. The clenching of her broad jaw. The sharpness of her sloping cheekbones. The tenseness of her thumbs on the edges of the book. The deep heaving of her chest.

Mrs. Daugherty was right. She is not well.

Florence starts when Mrs. Daugherty's eyes flicker upwards from the pages of the book. "The bath is ready?"

Florence nods. "Yes, Miss."

Maura's gaze lingers as she tries to pull herself from the muddle of her thoughts. Blood-colored flowers, though less violently than before, bloom and shrivel in her mind. She tries to steady herself, but her heart is beating furiously and her breathing is broad and deep. The small doe of a servant shifts uneasily on her feet.

Finally, Maura manages to get herself together and rises from the chair. "Very well, then," she says. "Come, let's go upstairs."

Florence is a ghost following Maura. Not one word is uttered, not one floorboard creaks under her step. For a time, Maura forgets Florence is even behind her. No wonder Maura hadn't learned this one's name yet. The girl works about the estate in near silence.

Silence was precisely the thing Maura did not need at the moment. Silence gave way to her angered thoughts, to flashing memories of her husband displaying flirtatious smiles and crafting even more flirtatious words, to the helplessness of it all. She does not need silence. She needs Florence to speak.

"Who else is up in my room to help me bathe?" she asks as they round a corner.

As expected, Florence's reply is in the softest register. "Daphne and Adeline, Miss."

They reach a door. Maura opens it and strides in, only stopping when Daphne and Adeline rush to her, ready to help her out of her things. Florence closes the door and draws the curtains, moving across the room with fluid stillness. She then stands to the side, neatly folding each piece of clothing the servant girls hand her and placing it delicately on the ornate dresser.

Maura stares straight ahead as they work, stripping her of the layers upon layers of clothing she must wear each day. Gloves, slippers, a high-collared purple dress, petticoats, camisole, then the hoop-skirt. Off the whalebone corset goes, and for the first time in hours, Maura takes a deep, full breath. Adeline and Daphne make quick work of the chemise, stockings, and drawers. Florence takes them away silently.

She walks to the crackling fire, where one last bucket of water is heating over it. "Anythin' else you need, Miss?" Daphne asks.

Crossing her arms just below her breasts, she does not look up as she answers. "No. You are dismissed."

They curtsey and take their leave, Florence falling in place behind them. The servant has her hand on the doorknob when Maura's voice breaks the silence.

"Florence, stay."

Florence says nothing as she steps back inside Maura's chambers and quietly closes the door. When Maura looks up at her, however, there is hesitance in her footsteps. "Well, I will need someone to help me with this water," Maura says matter-of-factly. In reality, she is only looking desperately for company.

"Of course, Miss." Keeping her eyes away from Maura's bare body, she pads over to the fire and lifts the pail from it. They both make their way over to the large copper basin that sits in the center of the bedroom. A small platter with various soaps and a sponge rests beside it.

Maura steps in the basin and sinks into the warm water, hissing as it meets her skin. Her eyes close as she leans back. All the thoughts about her husband and unfaithfulness and anger and rage melt slowly, slipping out of her muscles and into the water. Idly, she trails a lithe index finger about the surface.

Florence sets the bucket down as carefully as she can. Mrs. Daugherty has her head back against the rim of the washbin, and looks like she's losing herself to another world entirely. Florence holds back a frown. It is good to see Mrs. Daugherty's body slowly relaxing in the basin, but there are still areas of tenseness she can spy, especially in her neck and arms. Though one hand runs through the water, the other grips the edge of the bin. Half of her is escaping, the other half is trapped. Small beads of water drip periodically from her chin.

Plink.

Her finger twitches.

Plink.

Her pink lips pull back into a thin line.

Plink.

Soundlessly, Florence moves closer to the bin and kneels behind it. Uncertain of how to proceed without instruction, she smoothes out her skirt and waits for a command.

"Where are you from, Florence?" Mrs. Daugherty inquires. Her hands rise out of the bin to work at her hair. This is as much of an instruction as Florence will get with Mrs. Daugherty's state. She lifts her own hands and places them over Mrs. Daugherty's. They fall slowly back into the water.

"Halifax, Miss," Florence replies, focusing on gently unraveling the stack of hair on Mrs. Daugherty's head.

"And your family still resides there, I presume?"

Florence sucks in a quiet breath. "Yes, Miss."

Mrs. Daugherty hums as her hair tumbles and falls to its full length. "You write to them often?"

For a split second, Florence is thrown backwards into a time where rumor and clamoring, shouting voices rose in ugly cacophony in a house at Halifax. The shocked, disgusted scowl of her father, the teary, detached eyes of her mother. Words like

unnatural

and

perverted

spear her thoughts like the Devil's pronged trident. Behind it, the faded face of a young maiden being accused just the same. Florence's voice is distant with something bitter. "Not as often as I should."

Maura's brow pinches together. It might be wrong to push this conversation onward but damn it, sometimes it's nice to hear someone else doesn't have it perfect, either. "Did something happen?"

Florence's fingers pause in her hair. "We had a..." The image of her father's stiff finger pointing towards the door flashes before her eyes. "...disagreement."

Maura's gaze falls to the water. "I apologize, I did not mean to pry." What a lie.

A warm-breathed sigh tickles her ear. She shivers. "No apology necessary, Miss. My parents found me with someone they did not find..." Another careful pause. "...agreeable."

"Oh? A gentleman not of their taste?"

Florence swallows. "Not...quite." She tells Mrs. Daugherty to close her eyes, then pours a bit of the warm water on her head. She begins working her small fingers through it again. Silence ebbs back into the conversation. The fire interjects with crackles and pops occasionally. Florence does feel comfortable around Mrs. Daugherty, but she doubts she could hardly tell another soul, much less the Lord, what she was caught doing in Halifax.

No, she decided long ago to put those days six feet under, but here Mrs. Daugherty is, unknowingly digging them up bit by bit. What startles Florence the most is the fact that she isn't certain she cares. She may just be tossed out of employment, and use the meager money she has to find her way to another estate out of reach of the gossip that high-society ladies and gents are so prone to, settle there, keep her head down, and pretend that the Daughertys and Norfield never existed.

But isn't that precisely what she has been doing all of her life? Pretending?

"My mother and father were more head-over-heels with William more than I was," Mrs. Daughtery says. Her voice is reminiscent and weary. "And believe me, I was enamored with him."

"Was?" It slips, it slips too quickly and Florence's cheeks flame with embarrassment the moment it comes out of her mouth. "I'm sorry Miss, I—"

But Mrs. Daugherty does not respond. She is far off somewhere else again.

I was enamored with him.

Florence thinks of the way her jaw clenched in the study, the way her brow capped so closely to her eyes, the way she looked past the pages and off to that place,

somewhere else.

Perhaps she is not the only one pretending in Norfield.

The little angry red flowers twist and open in Maura's mind again, blooming crimson fury. They populate the memory of William in the garden, touching that servant girl's fingers. They burst forth from the earth and declare his wrong to the world in eloquence and beauty, and great shame fuels him as he picks up his shears and chops off their heads, but like the hydra-monster from those Grecian tales two more flowers take their stead, and visitors that he so charmingly invited to his garden look upon those bloody, bloody roses in horror, those thorny, blossoming lovelies that overrun his soil. And then his true nature is revealed. Everyone knows red is not the color of passion.

It is of sin.

She is drawn out of her fantastical reverie by a soothing sensation against her skin. Her eyes flutter open just as a hand gathers her hair and pulls it to the side. A damp, sudsy sponge runs a path from the base of her neck to her shoulder. She sighs and leans back, releasing the tension she didn't even know she had built up again.

"Please, tell me, Florence," Maura says quietly, "what was your gentleman like?"

There is a long pause. Maura is afraid she has pried too much, and guilt clambers up her throat like a frog before Florence finally speaks. It is slow, thoughtful, and reverent. "Gentle," she breathes. "Kind-hearted. Hair dark as a raven's wing, and eyes like stars. On days when it was warm, we would walk long woodland trails arm in arm, and watch birds in their nests, or sometimes the sun rise, if we could get up early enough."

A twinge of envy worms around in Maura's chest. "He sounds most pleasant, Florence. I haven't a clue why your parents would think the contrary."

If you only knew, you would agree with them.

Oh, Margaret! How Florence's heart still aches for her. Unconsciously, she squeezes the sponge harder in her hand. If only she could see her one last time, taste the sweetness of her lips, uninterrupted, unashamed—

No. She must not think such things. All of it was out of the question. Never again.

Never again,

her father shouted.

Never again will you see that woman! I shan't have such unnatural, bestial acts occurring under my roof!

That woman.

He didn't even give Florence the good grace of using her name. It was as if he could not even utter it, as if it was pure sin on his tongue.

Margaret,

she wanted to scream,

her name is Margaret!

But she didn't and now she couldn't because Halifax was miles and miles away and Margaret was God knows where and she can

not

spend any more of her time dwelling on that autumn day in Halifax.

Without answering Mrs. Daugherty's statement, she silently helps her finish washing and rinses her with all the gentleness of a lamb, fetches her a towel, a nightgown, and helps the Missus dry by the fire. Mrs. Daugherty kneels in front of her, closest to the sputtering flame, and she sits behind, brushing and drying her long, dark brown hair with a fresh cloth.

It is a methodical process that keeps her distracted from the newly turned memories of Halifax. Judging by Mrs. Daugherty's stillness and the empty silence that hangs in the air, she knows Mrs. Daugherty is distracted, too.

Like disturbed dust, those memories of Margaret and her family slowly begin to settle. That is, until Mrs. Daugherty stirs it up again with another question. "What was his name?"

This is what she gets for letting her emotions and damned Halifax get the best of her thoughts. It tumbles out of her mouth before she can snatch it back. "Margaret."

Damn Halifax! Damn her father! Damn her mother! Damn Margaret!

The hands in her hair freeze. Maura blinks. "Margaret?" she echoes.

Florence says nothing. Somehow, Maura can tell this is an uncharacteristic sort of silence. The fearful kind. "Florence?" She turns her head over her shoulder, but Florence refuses to meet her gaze. Her chest rises and falls quickly, and her small hands slip into her lap.

That same mischievous lock of golden hair has wriggled its way out of place and dangles in front of her downturned face. Maura turns her body completely to face Florence, and peers at her patiently. "Florence."

She does not respond.

"Florence, look at me," Maura says, softly but sternly. The servant hesitates. "Look at me," she persists again.

Finally, her gaze lifts to meet Maura's. Terror bounces about rampantly in her eyes.

"Let me see if I have this correct." Maura pauses, recounting the conversation in her mind. "Your gentleman...was a gentle

woman.

"

For a moment, Florence remains frozen, but then nods slowly. Her eyes are still wide, as if she has a noose wrapped around her neck, or, perhaps, is at the guillotine, awaiting the final word of the king.

Maura thinks this over carefully. She

had

heard of women that preferred the fairer sex, but she had never met one. She had assumed they would act different, somehow. She wasn't sure what constituted

different.

Distasteful? No, that couldn't be right. She studies Florence. A gentle creature. In no way was she different than any other servant or lady she had met, and yet...she is not sure what to think.

"Was Margaret a married woman?" she asks. Florence shakes her head no.

"I find it queer," she says, licking her lips in concentration, "that a family would be more up in arms about you connecting with an

un

married woman than with a

married

man."