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gingerteaonthetardis · 3 years ago

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Twelve/Rose, Regency (I have ONE aesthetic and it is Rose Tyler in Regency dresses)

thinky, thank you for your patience. also, this one had to go without the benefit of your eyes in the interest of keeping it a surprise, so please ignore the lack of editing (and my clumsy efforts at emulating jane austen).

prompt: regency, historical, alternate meeting

pairing: twelve x rose

rating: g (for gentlemanly)

read on ao3. | read the previous prompt.

NOTE: Plaisir d'amour is a classical French love song composed by Jean-Paul-Égide Martini; the line I included in this fic can be translated (if Google Translate can be trusted) to mean “‘I will love you,’ repeated to me…” As always, please forgive my mistakes; I am a mere fool with a keyboard.

The decision to go to Bath was made all in one evening, as such decisions usually were in the Tyler household.

Having heard the waters highly recommended as a source of relief and healing by such faithful sources as Sarah Clark who worked at the milliner's shop and the ever-credible "general opinion," it was little wonder that Mrs. Jacqueline Tyler decided promptly that she—a widow in solid middle age, with good health but rather sensitive nerves—and her daughter—a lovely, good-humoured girl of nineteen who had undergone recent romantic disappointment, and who was doubtless in want of entertainment—ought to pay them a visit. No difference of opinion was required or permitted, and thus, their bags were hastily packed, their carriage called, and the trip begun.

Rose, as in the case of most of her mother's fancies, was determined to be cheerful the whole way. She filled their cramped carriage with pleasant musings about what acquaintance they might find in Bath—despite the inconvenience of the season and the promise of limited society—with a sense of eagerness that was not entirely for her mother's benefit.

Mrs. Tyler had been half right: her daughter was desirous to remove from London, though it was not entertainment that she required.

Rather, Rose craved some distance between herself and Lord Stone's odious son. What had begun as a mere mutual appreciation—brought to life at a ball, where Rose had looked particularly lovely and the younger Lord Stone wore at least the superficial appearance of charm—had rapidly given way to expectation. For, as you know, where matrimonial rumours are wanted, they can always be supplied, regardless of their veracity. By the end of a fortnight, the only one who did not expect an imminent proposal was Rose herself. It was generally suspected among the acquaintance of both that this most advantageous match was to be made by Christmas.

Yes, Rose reflected as their carriage trundled into Bath, she was quite glad to be gone from London—from its gossip and from Lord Stone's "looks."

As her mother had made no inquiries in regards to lodging, their residence was installed in the home of Lady Odessa Smith, an old family friend who was, in office, more like a sister to Mrs. Tyler, despite their unequal status. Though their arrival was a surprise, Lady Smith was nearly as used to her friend's impetuous ways as Rose, and seemed genuinely pleased to see them, earnestly blind to the inconvenience.

Rose was disappointed, if not surprised, to learn that Lady Smith's son, Michael, was still away at university and would not likely return in the near future. It seemed Mickey, as he was generally known by the party, was much occupied at Cambridge at present, and not only with his studies: Lady Smith was pleased to inform them that he had formed an attachment with a local Miss Martha Jones, who was in happy possession of good looks, good breeding, and much good sense. Rose was genuinely glad to hear this news; she could not imagine her old playfellow with any sort of woman less deserving. It did not occur to her, in her particular friendly prejudice, that it was Mickey who might be less than deserving of a universally praised Miss Jones.

However, with all the usual catching-up done and plans for dinner conveyed, Mrs. Tyler and Rose were left to their toilette and to recover from their journey. The latter was grateful for the solitude, no matter how brief; she was fatigued from their long, unanticipated journey, and was grateful for the reprieve, in which no pressure was exerted upon her to entertain. Instead, she occupied herself with one of her most indulgent pastimes: peering through the window in her bedroom, where she might watch the bodies move like scattered leaves blowing restlessly about the street and wonder what their own thoughts comprised.

She was not so untried as to assume them all to be kind, good, and decent thoughts. But she was hopeful that somewhere, down there, someone was thinking something interesting.

Rose had a great taste for the interesting, and her definition of the word was broad. She loved novels and hearing reports of great deeds, and she devoured travelogues as near daily bread. Her allowance, though modest, had bought her a subscription to a circulating library, where her mind traversed the distance between her own comfortable parlour and exotic locales: balmy Calcutta and rainy Singapore were among her favourite literary haunts. In the privacy of her mind, she roamed far and wide, unfettered by anyone or anything.

Unlike the usual young ladies of her set, Rose enjoyed grand hopes of travelling someday. Though her mother had no great understanding, that ignorance had not formed her. Rather, Rose was a curious, inquiring creature, and an excellent listener, especially when the story being told was interesting.

And, not least among her attributes, she made a very desirable dinner guest.

It was Lady Smith's good fortune, then, that she had decided to host a small dinner party that very evening. Mrs. Tyler, a highly social woman who took excessive pleasure in making new acquaintance, felt herself similarly fortunate. “Now, Rose,” she said, having intruded upon her daughter’s thoughts, “you’ll be thanking me for my so-called haste! Button me up, darling, would you?” Whether or not the guests would find themselves equally happy with their evening remained to be seen.

The party was composed thusly: of a Miss Potts, a clever young governess who had apparently made herself a favourite with Lady Smith in the course of a chance meeting at the pump room; a Reverend and Mrs. Williams, with whom Rose had been in previous company and who she generally found quite entertaining, for all their pretensions of being simple country folk; and a Doctor Smythe, of whom she had heard much to fascinate and impress, but whom had never met until today.

He was, by her inexpert calculations, the most likely source of entertainment for the evening. She knew him to be a widower, well-travelled, and some years older than herself, but such differences could hardly be a material barrier to her eagerness: she had high hopes that he would prove interesting. Everything she’d been told by the kind-hearted but loose-tongued Lady Smith inspired optimism.

As a result, Rose was quite impatient for dinner to begin, and upon its arrival, she was gratified to be sat beside him at the dining table.

Doctor Smythe was nothing like she expected. Rather than the squat, doddering sort of old man she expected, he was a tall, willowy personage, with a thick crop of unruly, silvery-grey hair and eyes that sparkled with the evidence of high intelligence, and possibly higher spirits, in the right circumstance. In fact, she felt she had no choice but to allow him to be handsome—an acknowledgement which did some credit to her taste. The young Lord Stone now seemed quite plain by comparison.

There was a youthful bent to the Doctor’s mouth as he greeted her, nodding politely. “Miss Tyler, it is a pleasure to meet you at last.” He spoke with such genuine testament to his feelings that Rose felt herself, rather than formulating a reply, merely looking back at him with a profoundly insipid, gaping expression.

The uneasy beat in the barely-begun conversation was enough to return her to herself, and to her good manners. Rose dutifully turned her eyes to her cutlery, biting down on her tongue in self-censure. “At last, sir? I believed it was only I who had heard of you. Lady Smith speaks so highly of your services—of the care you have provided her.” The compliment felt stuttering in her mouth, but passed with surprising fluidity from her lips, for which she was grateful.

The man cut his eyes briefly across the table to their hostess, who was smiling at them with a glimmer of her usual benevolent mischief. It brought a flush of colour to Rose’s cheeks which, though she would not have observed it or thought so herself, did much credit to her natural beauty, bringing a sense of life and vibrancy to her naturally fair complexion.

“Company, I believe, is much of what our dear Lady Smith requires, and forms the better part of her treatment,” Doctor Smythe replied, quite humbly. “And I am glad to provide it.”

“Oh, I can easily believe in the benefit of your company,” was Rose’s thoughtless reply.

The Doctor, perhaps surprised by her audacity, paused with his spoon half-risen to his lips, and she felt her own colour heighten as similar gestures were made all around the table. It felt impossible that she should be so discomfited, so wholly unable to comport herself credibly in the presence of this total stranger. And in front of a whole party!

As her eyes rose again to meet his, she found herself unequal to searching them—she could not, would not, read the intensity of their expression. Instead, she forced herself to continue. “That is, I am sure you have a tremendous number of stories from your travels. Lady Smith was just telling us so earlier—was she not, Mama?” She applied hastily to her mother for aid, and was met with a genial, if unfocused, smile. “She spoke most enthusiastically of your journeys to India, and of your time sailing with the Captain!”

“There you go, Doctor,” laughed Miss Potts. “You have drawn in yet another admirer with your stories of daring and danger.”

“Oh, yes, please tell us about them once more.” The Reverend’s voice was rather dry as he continued, “I simply cannot get enough of your narrow escapes and heroic rescues. They quite beggar belief.”

Beside him, his wife hid a smile behind her pale, freckled hand. “Doctor, I do believe my husband is jealous—or, perhaps, worried you will also regale Miss Tyler with tales of his tender stomach’s revolt against the high seas?”

The Reverend’s derisive sniff was all the answer anybody required.

“I apologise. I had not realised the rest of our party was so familiar with your history,” Rose said, wilting rather obviously over her plate. She felt very young, and very foolish. “Or that it would be an object of such… contention. I would not ask you to exert yourself for my entertainment alone.”

She knew she said too much; she felt she said too much, and the transparency unsettled her, as did the weight of eyes that she felt pressing against the heated skin of her cheek. Rose found it difficult to do more than take small sips of wine, hoping to steady herself. Surely, she was not so unusually talkative merely because he was handsome when she hadn’t expected him to be. Surely, Rose inwardly mused, she was beyond such girlish folly. Had the behaviour of Lord Stone taught her nothing at all?

However, Doctor Smythe’s answer to her clumsy, unintended flattery was surprising. Rather than going cold or distant as if offended—rather than basking in her words as a more egotistical man might—he graciously inquired, “You have an interest in travelling abroad, Miss Tyler?”

There was a smile that resided somewhere in his voice, just on the edge of being spoken into being, and Rose felt herself so relieved that she turned almost entirely in her seat, latching onto this reprieve with immense gratitude: “Oh, yes, sir, I should love to travel—more than anything—I hope, someday.”

Her voice fell to a reverent whisper as she spoke that tremendous, hopeful word—someday. There was a good chance her much-considered someday would never come, and Rose knew it well, but something in her heart clutched at speaking the word aloud. She felt instinctively, and perhaps irrationally, that she could share this hope with the Doctor, who seemed so generous and kind in the face of her awkwardness. His eyes continued in their steady, soft blue glimmer. “I have never gone further than the road from London to Bath and back again, at present. But my imagination has roamed much further afield. And I would so enjoy hearing your stories at another time,” she added, forcing composure as she added, “if you will indulge me.”

It seemed as if her words had finally unlocked something, and Doctor Smythe’s lips relented, spreading into a wide, frank smile that had perhaps undue influence on the beatings of her heart. “Nothing would give me more pleasure,” was the emphatic reply.

Dinner continued without further embarrassment on the part of anyone present, and Rose was pleased to find that there was more to the Doctor than the promise of interesting stories. He seemed to possess genuine good-humour as well as an earnest affection for the gathered dinner guests. Doctor Smythe was also startlingly quick-witted, his conversation flowing so rapidly—and so cleverly—that Lady Smith often had to content herself with shaking her head in reply, sighing, “Oh, John, you do go on.”

For her part, Rose found it rather difficult to keep apace. That did not mean, however, that she did not enjoy the effort.

Being outnumbered by the ladies, the men did not depart for the usual brandy after dinner, neither being particularly inclined toward one another’s company. Rather, they all retired together to the music room, where Rose and Miss Potts took turns entertaining the party at the pianoforte. Miss Potts was by far the more accomplished player, and Rose would have been quite envious were they contrasted in front of London society, where wagging tongues were most vicious. But here, in the intimate comfort of Lady Smith’s home, she was quite content to be outdone by the lovely young woman, and was herself the most emphatic in Miss Potts’s praise.

Her good humour seemed to be rewarded when the governess in question implored Doctor Smythe to join Rose for a duet. “Lady Smith has informed me that Miss Tyler is quite the songbird,” she said, the breadth of her smile belied by the touch of cheek in her tone. “She has had extensive lessons in London which we are all most eager to hear the fruits of. Doctor, you must accompany her.”

Miss Potts did not leave much room for denial; she seemed to be a woman who rarely concerned herself with men’s protests, a trait which Rose admired.

“Well, if I must,” replied the Doctor, conceding graciously to his friend’s urging. Rose could not help but think that he yielded rather willingly, but was too modest to suppose herself the reason until their instruments had begun to twine together: his skill at the pianoforte proved a great compliment to her song. It felt, to Rose, as though they shared a sort of affinity, each leaning into the rhythm and articulation of the other. What’s more, during the course of their performance—just as her voice sailed over the line, “‘je t'aimerai,’ me répétait...”—his eyes met hers, and an all-consuming feeling filled her, impossible to describe, and still more impossible not to yield to.

It was decided by the gathered that there had, in all its many performances in many parlours throughout Europe, never been such a smiling rendition of the sorrowful ballad Plaisir d'amour.

At long last, the time came for the party to disband. While, by and large, the gathering was believed to be a success, it had been a night of particular pleasure for two of its attendees, neither of whom was particularly eager to leave the other’s company. At the threshold of the house, having bid polite—and affectingly warm—goodbyes to Lady Smith and Mrs. Tyler, Doctor Smythe paused before Rose.

“I hope that we shall meet again soon, Doctor,” Rose ventured, knowing herself to be audacious and still, somehow, beyond concern as to how her words would be interpreted. She felt quite deeply that the Doctor would understand her—that they, in fact, already understood one another quite well, on some plane beyond the mere physical. She felt as if she had met him before, or would have done, perhaps, in another life.

Doctor Smythe bowed low, and Rose lifted her hand to receive the kiss which he so softly bestowed, warmth pooling against her skin, even through the fabric of her glove. Her flush returned, more forceful than ever, and she hadn’t the slightest hope of stifling it as he returned to his usual, towering height.

“In this hope, Miss Tyler,” he said, “you are entirely requited.” And, with a final, crooked smile, the Doctor turned away to stroll down the road.

Rose felt the oddest urge to run after him.

Instead, she turned instantly to her mother, a beatific smile on her rosy-cheeked face, and said, “Oh, Mama, I believe I am glad you brought us to Bath!”

Mrs. Tyler’s gratification upon this announcement was great, but did not remotely compare to the satisfaction she felt nearly one year later, as she watched her beloved only daughter—recently turned twenty, and blooming with beauty—become the admirable, effervescent Mrs. Smythe.

#hope you enjoy yet another attempt at capturing regency voicing!#doctorrose fic marathon #twelve x rose #twelfth doctor #rose tyler #regency au #dw fic #fic and chips #timepetals #abbey writes

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