#gilded age fic

[goodthingscomeinthrees]

your heart is my home

the gilded age | bertha x george | 2k, t, in progress

They don’t retreat to his study every night. or; Five times Bertha joins George in his office, and one time he returns the favour.

[totallovestrucksimp]

Gilded Age prompt: George Russell maybe the most intimidating and shrewdest businessman in New York, but he is a proud and boastful grandfather over the smallest new development in his grandchild’s life (first smile, laugh, standing up, walking or even first lost tooth). At some society event Marian overhears him bragging about a new milestone.

(Ps. Love your Gilded Age fics!)

Thank you! I don’t normally write this kind of stuff since it’s not technically Larry x Marian, so forgive me for this one being a bit shorter.

A mothers worry and a grandfather’s reassurance.

Since becoming a mother, Marians started hating going to dinners and balls in Newport. Oh yes, it was nice being able to go out again, wearing normal sized clothes and not feeling like the size of a house. But not seeing her darling eleven-month-old for nearly two weeks left her aching and worried. Even with Nanny taking care of her and Gladys watchful eye checking up on her, she can’t help but feel as if she’s missing something when she’s away.

No one told Marian how much she’d worry about her child when she was pregnant. Her aunt Agnes said that nanny will take care of most of the work, but Marian wanted a more hands-on approach with her baby like Mrs Russell did. But a more active roll meant more active responsibility. Is she eating enough? Is she eating the right stuff? How much is she supposed to be sleeping? Should she be doing more?

She always wondered if her dedication to her daughters life was more of a hinderance to her child’s life than a gift. None of her other society friends are as involved as she is in their child’s lives, yet some of their children seem to be advancing much faster than Lucy.

Is it my fault?

Walking around the ballroom at Mamie Fishes Newport home, she tries to look for her husband. And old schoolmate from collage dragged him off when he first arrived and she hasn’t seen him since.

For a moment she thinks she’s seen him on the other side of the ballroom, but it turns out to only be his father, George Russell. With his curly black locks and tanned skin Larry has started looking more and more like his father as the years go by. As she approaches him from behind, she overhears the tail end of his conversation with another man.

“-and already talking in sentences. The doctor said that most children don’t starting doing that until they’re two and a half.”

“Yes, I remember when our granddaughter Lucy started talking.” The elder Russell said, taking a a glass of champagne from a nearby footmen. 

“She began when she was only 5 months old, and she could say “Mama” and “Pa” before she was even one. Far more intelligent than my children were at her age.” He smiles.

“I see! Well, you must have quite the nanny for her to be progressing so quickly.”

“You should be praising her mother, she’s been raising her just as much as nanny.”

“Heavens! Is that not too time consuming for her? Doesn’t she have more important things to do?”

“Raising her daughter is a very important thing to do. I believe it’s her influence that’s lead to our Lucy being so verbal at such a young age. I already know she will do the Russell name very proud in the future.”

“Ah, yes, I see. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see my friend over there that I need to see.” The man leaves as he awkwardly walks by Marian, who finally catches George’s eye.

“Marian, enjoying the party?”

“Oh, very much, yes.” She stops herself before she lets her voice betray her. “I overheard what you said to that man. Thank you for your kind words.”

“Lucy is very smart for her age, and that sort of thing doesn’t come with luck. You most definitely had a hand in that. You should be proud of how far your daughter has come.”

Marian smiles. “You don’t know how much that means to me.” 

She readjust herself, now glancing over the ballroom one more. “Have you seen your son anywhere?”

“I believe he’s fallen into the clutches of Mrs Fish.” He nods over to a corner where Mamie Fish appears to be questioning a very trapped-looking Larry. “And I think it’s time you go save him.”

Marian laughs as she walks towards her husband, grateful for the family she has made.

*** Got a Larry x Marian Gilded Age fic request? Submit it here!

[apinchofm]

Fic Rec Friday

✨happy march ��

The Becoming of Charlotte Bridgerton by @triviareads

triv is one of my favourite writers and i absolutely love the series about charlotte bridgerton (kate and anthony’s eldest daughter) who is just so ambitious, intelligent and interesting! next gen, historical romance

Never In My Wildest Dreams by ElleannaQ (@little-engineer-who-cant)

a closed off edwina and a grumpy, pipe smoking marquess?? already such an interesting first chapter! can’t wait for the rest! M, edwina sharma x oc

teaching a lesson by mirixmoya

one of my favourite married couples - with a hint of jealousy! also this author is one of my favourites, check out her work! george x bertha, m, fluff+ jealousy

come over here and profound for me by @dollypopup

the bestie has been vindicated so check out their fics!!

we got everything we need right here (and everything we need is enough) by @strideofpride

low-key was in my dair era again and this one night at a wedding was so good!! dan x blair, accidents happen, m

pandora’s jar by pjoseries (divineauthor) (@merlinemrys)

poseidon and sally are my roman empire and this is such such a lovely, angsty exploration of their relationship (poseidon is basically sitting by the phone) posally, t, tragic romance

home is where the heart is by askthearcher (@lucindabridgerton)

my bestie has written for one of my new fave hr couples, cam and amelia in kleypas’s wallflower series. just pure fluff and comfort. g, hugs and comfort

[elssbethtascioni]

Period Drama Appreciation 2024 ↳ Day 4: favorite relationship

Bertha & George + ao3 tags THE GILDED AGE (2022-present)

[blindmagdalena]

Do you think Homie had any attachment to Becca? I get that he was just using her as a tool to get closer to Ryan, but in scenes with him in her house he looks really strange to me. Like, he smells her clothes? Demands breakfast? And, if I remember correctly, he suggested on making popcorn and watching a movie after Ryan fell asleep. Just imagine Becca with that thousand yard stare while Homelander puts his arm over her shoulders, bringing her close and rests his head on hers. A husband and a wife, if you will. That man is delusional.

attachment isn't really the right word imo. he most certainly had a vision for her, though. it was his dream come true! a wife and a son with all his EXACT same powers waiting for him in a curated little suburbia, just like they had in all his favorite childhood movies!

it was basically a movie set.

it was perfect.

except it wasn't. because she wasn't his wife. she was butcher's.

and i think the scene you bring up (where he's got her clothes) illustrates that perfectly. he's being a creep in this scene. he's rawdogging her milk jug, he's going through her belongings, he's smelling her clothes. he's building a narrative in his mind where this is his life. getting familiar. getting comfortable.

and then he finds the pictures of her and billy, and the illusion is shattered. he's angry. all of this SHOULD be his, and yet he's having to compete for it!

tbh i think he would have pursued becca a lot harder if stormfront hadn't entered the picture presenting as ideal wife/mother material, sharing her perfect sob story about outliving both her husband and child, and how she needs to fill that void now. wonder where she can find a husband and child. winkwink nudge nudge.

but yeah 100% delusional

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

One love one tag 🫶

[sunbeamsandmoonrays]

My fave Larian fic updated with their wedding night, Larian is canon for real. This has been the best Sunday for my shipper heart 😍

[cassi0pei4]

Story now complete

In which some narratives come to an end and some more might just be beginning.

an emperor, with a city to burn (54476 words) by cassi0pei4 Chapters: 8/8 Fandom: The Gilded Age (TV 2022) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bertha Russell/George Russell Characters: Bertha Russell, George Russell (The Gilded Age), Original Male Character(s), Ward McAllister, Marion "Mamie" Graves Anthon Fish, Aurora Fane, Enid Turner | Enid Winterton, Larry Russell (The Gilded Age), Gladys Russell, Jack Treacher | Jack Trotter, Mrs. Bruce, Miss André, Billy Carlton, Agnes van Rhijn, Ada Brook, Marian Brook Additional Tags: Couples That Scheme Together Stay Together, Jealous/Possessive George, Larry Russell/Marian Brook (mentioned), Billy Carlton Character Assassination Summary: "Once this contract is signed, I'll have boxed Gould out of the Pacific Northwest at last." George paused, grinning; the idea of it was simply too delicious not to savor. "But to do that, I'm afraid I may need your help, my dear." "Name it." Bertha pressed herself up onto her toes to steal a kiss before leaning back in his arms again. "You know you need only to ask."

[millaysmaeve]

george and bertha modern au moodboard

[msharmonycobel]

Life would be so much easier if she were George. She knows he has his troubles at the office, but at home he seems to glide through life, easy with the children, comfortable in himself, unfazed by gossip, bolstered by all that moral certainty. Leaving her to do the dirty work, of course.

[cissyenthusiast010155]

I’ve Got You ~Plutonic!Godmother!Sylvia Chamberlain xFem Goddaughter!Reader

Summary— Sylvia is Reader’s Godmother who practically raised Reader. Some days the pressure of the high society of New York gets to Sylvia. On those days, Reader is there for Sylvia, guiding her arm by arm to make it through the day.

Mommy… Master List

Requests & Prompt-List

Warnings: little angst, fluff, implied depression, implied anxiety, implied depressive history, implied anxiety history, implied abandonment, comforting, physical comfort, happy ending, etc.

Enjoy (;

Sometimes it was just too much for her. High society New York was ruthless. They ostracized her. Sylvia was usually good at putting on a brave face and putting her first foot forward. She was usually good at brushing off the looks and snide comments. She had gotten used to the prejudice, the traditional views.

But sometimes it just became too much. Sometimes she let those pesky thoughts get the best of her. Some days, Sylvia stayed inside her home, locked away from the world. She would stay in bed until the late afternoon, rising only to eat a little, before retreating back to bed. She’d have those comments in her head on loop, haunting her. Her past never seemed to relent it seemed. And that was hard to reconcile on some days.

Those were the days that concerned you. Whenever you could sense that she was about to break, you were quick to be by the woman’s side. She was your Godmother after all. And as your family had never really been one to raise you, Sylvia had. She hadn’t needed to. She simply had. You’d happily take care of the woman on those difficult days, considering all she’d done for you.

On those days, the days where Sylvia fought every single fiber of life, you were right by her side. You would convince her to get up, get dressed, and get some breakfast. You’d try to make her laugh throughout your morning meal as much as you could. You could see her thoughts spiraling across the table. Her eyes were blank, dull from all the overwhelmingness going on behind them.

And then you would suggest an activity outside of her house walls. If she was up for it, you would accompany Sylvia to something such as an art exhibit or to a park. Fresh air always helped. You’d make sure to steer clear of any known social gatherings, not wanting her to have to deal with the cliquey society of New York’s finest, not on days like this.

If she wouldn’t hear it, you’d at least insist that you two tour her own personal art exhibit at the minimum, to at least get her moving around. You’d spend hours silent on those types of days, but you were used to it. You’d talk to her, talk about her art, talk about your life, talk about her, talk about anything and everything to keep her distracted and safe with your arm linked into hers.

Slowly but surely, you’d start to coax the woman back to her vivid disposition. By the end of the day, you’d insist they go out to dinner, and by then, Sylvia would usually agree. (On some really bad days, you’d take her straight to bed, it just all being too much and unrelenting. And you made sure to let her know that that was okay too, that you would never fault her for wanting to start fresh the next day). If she’d let you wine and dine her, you could usually crack a couple of small smiles from her.

By the end of your shared night, you’d take the woman home, tucking her in and saying good night.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I am ever so lucky to have your company, that you tolerate me…” Sylvia would whisper, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You’d blush.

“Anytime. And nonsense, I don’t tolerate you— I love you.” You’d whisper back.

This would make Sylvia blush.

“I love you too” She’d murmur before falling into slumber.

~~~

Sylvia Chamberlain Masterlist ~Coming Soon (;

[goodthingscomeinthrees]

picture me in the weeds (before i learned civility)

the gilded age | bertha x george | t, 4.8k, complete

“Bee! I wasn’t told you’d be here tonight! My goodness, what a surprise.” Bertha tries not to wince at the silly old name, the one she hasn’t heard since childhood, the one she’s tried her hardest to bury down deep and forget.

[totallovestrucksimp]

Larry x Marian prompt

It’s how his family finds out about their relationship. Larry comes home from the club with a bruised eye and cut up knuckles because someone made remarks about Marian and her romantic history. (Extra love if you include Oscar telling Marian what happened at the club)

”This wasn’t how it was supposed to come out”

“It’s 8:15, Larry should have been back by now. What could possibly be keeping him for so long?”

Dinner at the Russell residence isn’t normally this tense, but when Bertha Russell is worried, so should everyone else be.

“He’s been at the club dear, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s simply too late for him to come.” Assured George.

“And he’s probably drunk.” added Gladys.

“Gladys! Don’t say such things. If he’s not coming, then he should have at lease sent a telegram.”

Just then, there was a commotion at the door.

“And that’s probably it now, one of the footmen can go get it.”

Ignoring her husbands request, Bertha went herself, only for the other two still at the table to come running when they heard her scream.

They were met at the door with the sight of Larry’s face bruised and lip busted, along with a busted knuckle on his right hand. Beside him was Mr Fane, Church, and Bertha, fretting over him.

“George, get him to your office, Gladys, you go and alert the staff, tell them to bring bandages, Mr Fane, thank you for bringing him home.”

“Mother, it’s not that bad, I didn’t break anything.”

“But you could be concussed! I want you looked at properly by a doctor-“

“Mother, I’m FINE-“

“Don’t fight your mother right now, she’s just worried. Come into my office and we’ll have you looked at.” George spoke into Larry’s ear, leading him away.

With Larry, Gladys, George, and Church gone, Mrs Russell was left with Mr Fane.

“What on earth happened to him?” She finally asked, the anxiousness of the situation finally wearing off.

“Well, it’s a bit complicated. We were in the lounge with a few other men simply talking, and one of the other patrons said something that Larry to great offense to. Well, it sort of went out-of-control from there. A small fight broke out before I got him out of there.”

“But what did he say?”

“I…erm, I’d rather not repeat it, but it was quite vulgar, and I dont blame Larry too much for how he reacted.” 

He avoids her gaze, not wanting to be pressed on the subject any longer.

I think I know who this is about now she thinks.

“I will say it was about someone he cares about deeply, but it really should be Larry telling you this. Now I must be going or my wife will worry.”

“Or course, please send Aurora my regards. Thank you again for seeing Larry home safely.”

He nods and heads off.

***

With the four of them plus Church dressing Larry’s wounds in the office, there’s finally time for answers.

“Mr Fane told me about the fight you got into at the club earlier.”

“The other man started it.”

“And you should have ended it! I raised you better than to use your fists to talk instead of your words!”

“He called her a Trollope! I couldn’t let him get away with that!”

“Larry! Your sister is in the room. Please keep your language civil.”

“I’ve heard worse.” Gladys speaks up from beside her father. “And besides, if he was defending a lady’s honor-“

“And he will not have contact with said lady from this moment forth. Not if she’s starting to bring out this behavior in you.”

“You can’t stop me-“

“Larry, as much as I hate to do this in front of your father and sister, I know who you were defending and I know that you’re not well suited. She’s not a good match for you.”

He shoots out of his chair in a fury.

“Marian is MORE than a match for me!”

Absolute silence echos throughout the room.

“…what does any of this have to do with Marian?”

Larry recoils a little in shock, not expecting this reaction from his mother.

“What did Mr Fane tell you?”

“Less than thought. I assumed the fight was about Mrs Blane, but it appears that I was wrong. Start from the beginning, and tell us everything.”

The bruised man lays back in his chair, recounting the events of a few hours earlier.

“Me, Mr Fane, and a couple of others were having some drinks in the lounge, and the conversation got around to the Van Rhijns. One man said that he’s surprised that Mrs Van Rhijn has let Marian stay in the house, even when men keep dropping her left and right. They started speculating why they were dropping her before I stood up for her, but then he asked me why I was defending someone who was likely a trollop, and…well, you know how it went from there. You understand I couldn’t let that go unpunished, right?”

There was a moment of silence after he wrapped up his story, the only sounds being Church applying more tape to his bandaged knuckles.

“Well, that puts the situation in a better light, doesn’t it dear?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but you mustn’t let word about this get too far. If people were to hear about this they might get the wrong idea.”

“And what idea might that be mother?”

“That you two of you are in a courting ship.”

He demeanor suddenly changes. He looks down almost bashful, and the faint trace of a blush rises on his cheeks.

Suddenly, it clicked.

It was about someone he cares about deeply.

Oh.

Oh.

“You and Miss Brook! For how long? When did it start!?” Gladys squeals.

“We started courting right after that night at the opera. We agreed to keep it quiet to not upset her aunt.”

“Why haven’t you told us before now? And what’s your plan for her in the future?” Bertha questioned, still reeling in from the shock.

“I think Larry has had a long night, and so have we. Let’s let him have a rest for we bombarder him with more questions.” Says George, trying to help keep his wife at bay.

“We’ll discuss this in the morning over breakfast. But I want genuine answers from you. I don’t want to mess up her relationship with our family.” She rubs her temples. 

“I’m going up to change.” She leaves the room. Gladys turns to her brother.

“You’ll tell me if you plan to propose to her before you tell mama, right?”

•••Epilogue••• 

At 8:59, Oscar Van Rhijn steps out of his cab on to the corner of 21st street, where he meets the doors of his childhood home. “Mr Van Rhijn! We weren’t expecting you at this hour!” Bannister says as he opens up the house for him.

“Ah, I’m just popping in for a visit. Is Marian around at all?”

“They finished dinner, and she just went upstairs for a lay down. Would you like me to go fetched her?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

He takes a seat as he watches his mother’s butler climb the steps to his cousins room. This gives him time to think about how to tell her about his interesting evening. Never mind the fact that he witnessed Larry Russell get into a fight at the club. Never mind the fact that the fight was about her. Never mind that Larry shouted that he would never be ashamed for fighting out for the woman he loves to the entire place.

“Oscar! What are you doing here? I’d invite your mother in here with us too, but we had a little spat during dinner. Apparently she thinks I’ve been seeing someone behind her back again. What an interesting thought, don’t you think?”

Yes Oscar thought. Things are going to get very interesting indeed.

[nikosasaki]

THE TRIBUTES OF THE 68TH HUNGER GAMES

This year had a particularly treacherous arena, with most of the tributes dying not by the each other's hand but instead by disease. The arena consisted of wetlands, with over half of the map being covered in shallow water. Many of the tributes developed hypothermia over time, and many others passed from eating poisonous plants or being infected by the diseased mutts that roamed the arena. The Games were critiqued for the lack of fight, with even the starting bloodbath being deeply underwhelming in the opinion of the Capitol citizens. They claimed that the Games were no longer exciting, but only caused them to become upset at having to watch the tributes slowly wither away. Even the victor this year, Fletcher of District 7, was notable for only ever killing two people during the games. The games spanned twenty-one days in total, and in spite of its memorable tributes it went down in history as one of the worst Games ever produced.

taglist: @kendelias @chlobenet @bravelittleflower @eddiemunscns  @purpleyearning @eddysocs @heavenlysurf @arrthurpendragon @villanele @nolanhollogay @stanshollaand @lovehermioneforever @raith-way @kiara-carrera @decennia @luucypevensie @waterloou @carmens-garden @hiddenqveendom @foxesandmagic @jvstjewels @dragonsbone  @endless-oc-creations @ginevrastilinski @sunlitscribe @dyhlanobrien @partiallypearl @witchofinterest @fleetwoodmcs @daughter-of-melpomene

[wambsgansshoelaces]

day 2 of searching for moots :,)

I love Bullet Train, the Ocean’s trilogy, Knives Out, Agatha Christie, any sort of mystery/thriller/drama(recs please!!), Succession(duh), Avenue 5, The Gilded Age, Survivor, Jane Austen, reading, writing, blah blah blah.

PM me or comment and I’d love to be friends!! I’m going crazy guys

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

To Have Loved and Lost Part Nine

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Pairing: George Russell x Reader

Rating: M

Notes: It's been EIGHTY FOUR YEARS I am so sorry. Maybe two more chapters on this one.

Warnings: ANGSTY But also fluffy :D ; there's a time shift, it doesn't completely align with the show's timeline. Bear with me. Also this is not a story with a traditional happy ending!

Summary: In the last year, you had been made incredibly aware of the ways in which you were not Bertha Russell.

“It’s coming along well.” 

“As well as it can, I suppose,” You conceded. Mrs. Russell’s lips pursed with a smile as she plied,

“Even you must admit that there has been great progress.” 

You grimaced, tipping your head to the side a touch. “Not as much as there should’ve been at this rate.” It had been a long, difficult winter. There had been so many delays as a result of high winds and heavy snow.

“There’s only so much that you can do to control the weather.” 

“As much as I can do, yes. Something tells me that you wouldn’t have allowed a blizzard to come between you and your home.” 

“Perhaps, but you and I are not the same.” 

She said it with such flippancy that it made you laugh and shake your head. But as she climbed out of the carriage ahead of you, you had to fight away a latent wave of bitterness. 

In the last year, you had been made incredibly aware of the ways in which you were not Bertha Russell.

George truly had done well, choosing a fellow strategist. In your quiet moments, you couldn’t help but wonder, had things been different—had you joined him in New York when you were meant to—might you have been in the public eye, as she was? Might you have pushed yourself into the social scene with the same vigor? When you were young, you may have had the ambition. You’d been ready enough to forsake your family for what had once believed to be a great love. Maybe you could have made the strides…No. 

For George, you would have made the strides. 

“Do you intend to admire Mr. White’s handiwork from the safety of your carriage?” 

Bertha’s taunt broke you from your regretful reverie, and you took hold of the footman’s hand, allowing him to let you help him down. You strode to Bertha’s side, matching her pace as you neared the bright façade of the house. 

“I wonder where your head is sometimes,” Bertha commented. 

“I’ve a number of matters that I’m engaged with at present. My mind wanders.” 

“I’m fully aware. I’ve seen you drift off into fairyland in the midst of countless dinners.” 

“I’m always listening,” You insisted, leading the way into the house.

“That I believe.” 

You hummed softly, looking around the foyer. It was large, though not nearly as large as the Russell’s. It couldn’t be, given the city lot that Franklin had bought. But, you were more than pleased with what had been accomplished. Your two-floor compact mansion had all of the trimmings expected of the great families of New York, and was only a block from the Russell’s. 

“Have you much left to do?” Bertha asked. 

You shook your head a little, leading the way toward the sitting room. 

“The ballroom is left to be completed and the bedrooms are to be painted and papered, but that is the most of it, I believe.” 

“What’s stopped the work?...Budgeting concerns?” 

You cast her a sidelong glance, fully aware of the barbed, couched curiosity in her question. 

“No. The materials for the floor were backordered and it’s been too humid to paint.” 

“I see.” 

“I hope that you do. My cousin may not be as wealthy as your husband, but he’s hardly pinching pennies.” 

“I’m well aware. George says that the sales have far exceeded what your cousin promised.” 

“Franklin doesn’t like to make promises that he can’t keep. Nor do I.” 

“Speaking of promises, are you still expecting to come to Newport for this next week?” 

You gave Bertha a grimacing smile, bracing for her disappointment. 

“Franklin and Eleanor will join you for Friday, but I’m sorry to say I will not be able to join you until Monday.” 

“You’ll miss half the fun. May I ask why?” 

“I’ve been neglecting my sorting of Franklin’s work at the office—” 

“He has assistants for that, doesn’t he?” 

“He does, but the new girl hasn’t been trained up properly yet and the receipts have gone to hell.” It flew out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you lifted a gloved hand to cover your mouth as your face went hot. But Bertha ignored the profanity, waving off your comment as she demanded: “What else?” 

“Mr. White is having materials delivered that I will need to sign off on.” 

“On the weekend?” 

“On Saturday, yes. I want eyes on them the moment that they arrive, so that I may correct any disparities right away. I don’t want the work delayed any further.” 

“I understand.” 

“But I will join as soon as I’m able.” 

“I am glad to hear it.” 

“As am I. And Eleanor is incredibly excited.”

“Is she?” 

“She’s heard a fair amount about Newport from Gladys, of course. She’s felt terribly left out.” 

“She is young.” 

“I know,” You nodded, looking around the sitting room. “But…It wears on you more, I think. When you are young.” 

“I can hardly remember that feeling. Can you?” 

“...All too well.” 

--  

“Will you be able to join us at all?” 

George took up his glass of wine, taking a deep pull as he mulled over his answer. He’d known for a few days that he would have to disappoint his wife. He had no doubt of her annoyance in this regard. She’d planned on entertaining on Saturday evening, and while she could shoulder it with Larry, it was far more advantageous if they were both there. 

“I should be able to get away for a couple of days,” He admitted, “But I’d arrive on the Monday.”

Bertha hummed in thought, but George could sense the soft, disappointed note in his wife’s voice. 

“I would join sooner if I could,” He added, lips tipped in an apologetic smile. 

She shook her head: “I understand. Perhaps you could escort Mr. Hughes’ sad cousin when you do travel.” 

Sad cousin. It struck a chord in him that he had nearly forgotten. They had made such great strides that the last year had been so terribly cordial between the two of them. If he was pressed for the truth of their relationship—or some form of the truth of it, as it was now—he would go so far as to say that they were friends. George was almost certain that she and Bertha were in good standing with one another; they joined one another frequently for events, teas, balls, dinners. 

Perhaps that was why the use of sad caught him so off-guard, and seemed to hit him in the vicinity of below the belt. 

His hesitation went unnoticed as Bertha beckoned a servant closer to top off her glass of wine. 

“Her house is coming along,” She added. 

“Oh?” 

“Mm. There’s been a back up on building materials, but she’s managing. Mr. Hughes and Eleanor will arrive in Newport on the Friday, and they’ll attend at least the tea, though I’m certain Eleanor will have to remain behind on Saturday evening, poor thing.” 

“Perhaps she’ll be able to visit with Gladys. I know that they enjoy their time together.” 

“They do. I daresay Eleanor has had a good effect on her.” 

“Really.” His brow wrinkled, intrigued. “What makes you say that?” 

“I think having Eleanor around and remembering the way it was before has made her grateful for the freedom she’s afforded.” Bertha leaned back a touch as the servants stepped in to clear the plates. “I’ve heard far less belly-aching about the events that we’ve allowed her to attend lately.” 

George nodded a touch, considering. It was true—Gladys had seemed to be in fine fettle for the last few months, and it was in no doubt in part due to the time that she spent with Eleanor. 

“I do want to hold a dinner on Monday when you’ve arrived, and with the cousin as well. Can I count on you to extend the invitation?” Bertha asked. “I’m certain she’ll be more likely to accept if you show her the attention. She receives it so rarely.” 

George’s hands twisted in his napkin before he lifted it from his lap, setting it on the table as he gave Bertha a small, reassuring smile. 

“I’d be happy to.”

-- 

The rented Hughes home that they had procured had a dark, foreboding façade, but George knew well enough that the inside was light and airy. He had been there for a few drop-ins, meetings, and dinners as needed for the last year. He’d seen her run a tight ship. 

Despite his promise, George had lagged in presenting her with the invitation that he had promised Bertha he would impart. He wished that he could excuse that his week had gotten away from him, and it had, some—but he had felt some block, some resistance to running the invitation over. By all rules and conventions, it was wholly unnecessary. It made far more sense for Bertha to send the invitation directly. But, there he was, knocking on the Hughes’ door, and smiling blithely as the butler opened the door. 

“I’m here to speak with the mistress of the house.” 

“I’m afraid the mistress of the house is not seeing anyone this evening, sir.”

“I see…Thank you.”

George walked down the front steps calmly and slowly, turning his cane in his hand. He would have to send it by mail, as soon as he was able. He was set to climb back into his carriage, and then a breeze pushed across his face. It brought a familiar scent with it—one that drew him back to his youth, when his beard was merely peach fuzz coating his work-blushed cheeks. He glanced back toward the side passageway, likely the servants’ entrance, then turned back to his coachman.

“Return to the house,” He ordered. “I’ll make my own way back.”

The coachman tipped his hat to George before urging the carriage on. George glanced around the street to ensure no one was watching before he dipped into the side passageway, descending the stairs. He peered in through the window into the kitchen, eyes narrowed a touch. He took a cursory glance toward the alley before he raised his cane, rapping it twice on the window.

 --

You jumped about a sound at the knock, your head twitching toward the window. You drew in a stunned, nervous breath as you hurriedly rounded the table, drying your hands on your apron before pulling the door open.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve an invitation to give you.”

“You couldn’t have left it upstairs?” You peered around the doorway before you reached out, grasping his arm and pulling him inside. You cast one more look about for nosy neighbors before shutting the door. You turned to find George wandering more deeply into the kitchen, his hat in hand as he peered around.

“Well?” You tacked on. George didn’t turn to meet your eye or answer you. He just walked over to the stove, lowering his head to take a whiff at the bubbling pot there.

“It’s a little hot for stew, isn’t it?” He asked, glancing back at you.

“…Perhaps,” You agreed, “But it was the only thing I wanted.”

George’s lips pulled with a small smile as he turned his head, lowering it to take another sniff. You ought to extract the invitation and go. If anyone found you with George, you’d catch hell for it. Worse—Franklin and Ellie would catch hell for it. But—

“…Have you eaten yet?”

--

It was odd to see George in a state that you now considered so terribly dressed down. He’d hung his hat, coat, and suit jacket by the door, and rolled his sleeves up. The windows by the kitchen and down the hall had been opened, allowing a warm breeze to push through the room.

“Your butler told me you weren’t seeing anyone.”

“I’m not.” You glanced up at George to find him giving you a smug little smile. “This doesn’t count. You just—Barged in.”

“I may’ve been uninvited, but you offered me dinner.”

“I suppose that’ll teach me.”

It probably wouldn’t. George smiled nonetheless, dipping his spoon into the bowl and drawing out the red broth, along with bits of bean, celery, and chicken.

“Did you give your chef conjure the recipe of this based on your old notes?”

“No. I made it myself. I sent almost everyone else up to Newport with Eleanor and Franklin.”

George’s brows rose in surprise as he lowered the spoon again.

“All?” He repeated, eyes darting toward the stairs. 

“Robinson wouldn’t go. He insisted on staying, on the off-chance something happened, or I needed help.”

“And the chef left you nothing?”

“He offered, but…” You shook your head, eyes lowering to your food. “It’s strange. There were so many things I swore I’d never do again once I left Stevensville. But now that I have the choice of not doing them, I…Miss them.”

“Including the washing up?”

“Not that. Never that.”

“Leave it for them.”

“I can’t do that,” You groaned, laughing. “I told the chef I would go to Del Monico’s.”

“Robinson is a witness to the opposite.” 

“He’ll cover for me.” 

“Why send them with the others?”

“Franklin and Eleanor are in Newport, less of a household to care for. And it’s hard to get some alone time in a household full of people.”

George nodded a touch, eyes wandering your face. You turned your head after a moment, unable to bear the force of his focus.

“I take it your family is waiting for you at home?”

“…No,” George said. “They’re similarly occupied in Newport.”

“Ah, that’s right. It’s a popular destination these days.”

“Indeed.”

“And surely cooler than it is in the city now.”

“Almost certainly.”

“Your son mentioned your intention of buying a home there.”

“Yes. I expect Bertha will return with news and a price tag.”

You smiled a little bit.

“If that’s the trend, I’m certain Franklin will want one for himself as well. I cannot imagine how Ellie’s head must be spinning.”

You glanced back, doing a double-take at the sound of creaking on the stairs. You sprang up from your chair, waving George up hurriedly and toward the back doorway, his hat, coat, and suit jacket in hand. You shushed him softly before rushing back to the table, taking up George’s bowl, spoon, and wine glass and hurrying to the empty wash bin. You lowered them in quickly, then turned toward the door, smoothing your expression and raising your brows as Robinson rounded into the room.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, miss.”

“Not at all, Robinson. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No—No. Simply…”

You arched a brow at Robinson twisting, nervous expression.

“Yes?” You pressed.

“I thought I heard someone else’s voice, ma’am.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, your cheeks heating as you fought to keep a calm countenance, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the wash bin.

“Perhaps it was merely sound that came in from outside. This house does carry noise so oddly.”

Robinson’s lips twitched nervously before he gave a nod.

“Of course, ma’am. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Not a disturbance at all. Thank you for coming to look in on me. I do appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

He gave the kitchen one more cursory look before walking back up the stairs. You glanced after him, hearing the stair creaking again. You hurried over to the door, pushing it closed before you turned back. You found George peering curiously around the corner, and your stomach lurched at the sight. It was so similar to once he’d given you so many times, so long ago.

“Is it clear?” He murmured.

“I believe so, yes.”

You glanced up through the door again, even as George stepped out from his hiding place again.

“Your food in the bin—It’s empty,” You insisted, taking in his disappointed moue. George walked over to the bin and reached in, only retrieving his wine glass.

“Are you so worried about someone finding us together?”

“It would be unwise,” You pointed out, walking back to the table to retrieve your wine. “And it’s not for the sake of my reputation.”

“Mine?”

“I suppose, in some respect—but you would recover well enough in society. It’s mostly for the sake of this household.”

“I was under the impression that you bore very little love for Franklin.”

“Franklin and I have…An understanding. And I worry more for Eleanor. She has yet to make her debut, and I won’t have her make it in a house with a cloud of scandal over it.”

“…You care deeply for her.”

“I do.”

“You act as though she was your own daughter.”

It wasn’t an accusation by any means, but it still made your gut twist with discomfort. You lowered your gaze to your hands, picking absently at your neatly manicured nails. There were a few flecks beneath them—bits of spice from when you’d cooked, mess where there hadn’t been for a long time. 

“…She’s the only chance I’ll have at arranging something of this sort,” You reminded him.” I want it to be perfect.”

George smiled a touch, lowering his eyes to his wine.

“Bertha was quite insistent on the importance of Gladys’ coming out.”

“They are very important. It lays the foundation for their season. A rocky path could either mean a dangerous ascent or a speedy descent. I don’t want that for her.”

You heard George hum thoughtfully before the light thud of his glass being set down. 

“On that note—or rather, an analogous one,” His footsteps grew closer. “I’ve an invitation for you.” 

“An invitation?” Your brow furrowed. “Have I missed something?” 

“Not at all. Bertha asked me to deliver it personally, and to accompany you on our mutual trip to Newport on Monday.” 

Your brows rose again at the sight of the invitation, and you reached out, plucking the envelope from your fingers. 

“Unorthodox,” You muttered. 

“My wife isn’t known for walking the straight and narrow.” 

His wife. The reminder had ceased to sting in the way that it had when you first arrived in New York, but it always lodged a lump in your throat. 

“I’ve noticed,” You chuckled softly, forcing past the discomfort. 

“I will pick you up on Monday. Will three be alright?” 

“Yes. Thank you for taking the pains to come and deliver this,” You added, drawing the invitation out of the envelope and scanning Bertha’s familiar handwriting. 

“Of course. Thank you for dinner.” 

You huffed humourlessly, humming as you heard him make for the door.

“It’s better,” He commented. You frowned, looking up. 

“Pardon?” 

“The stew,” George nodded to the washbin. “It’s better than I remember.” He tipped his hat to you before setting it fully on his head. Your smile widened as he melted from your sight, the sound of the door closing behind him, and his footsteps fading. 

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