6Here it is! Thank you all so much for your lovely comments and your indulgence of me and my silly AU idea, breaking down the story to its roots in gothic romance. And thank you most of all for your patience!
Remember,
Donttouchthefigs
Mr. Crawford had been traveling for days to reach Scotland, and his appearance showed it. Many a young man had stopped him along the road to ask if he or his horse needed assistance, and every time they were waved off. A whole season had passed, winter into spring and then some. But only now had the snows melted enough for safe travel, and his confinement in hospital had already stolen enough time.
He only prayed he was not too late, though his heart whispered the truth.
Miss Mapp had explained that she had not seen Clarice since the night of the masquerade, however, neither of them had been invited. Nor had any of the survivors of the cursed event revealed her presence there, though the Lady Verger had assured him she believed 'Miss Starling is quite well, or at least, well at peace.'
It did not take an astute mind to understand what happened. Most people who dabbled with Dr. Lecter got burned. He only prayed there was more to Clarice than ash. She was a strong girl, a good one. If anyone could tangle with the monster and survive it would be her.
But all who had seen the young lady in the picture Jack carried, pointed to one ominous place: Gretna Green. The creature had obviously attempted to make his sick fantasy a reality with the poor child. A sham of a marriage so that, in some small way, he could take what he wished under the guise of legality and morality. Bastard.
He arrived in the village just before five o clock, hurrying to the closest inn. The gruff keeper merely passed his inquiries to his wife, who stared blankly at Jack as he described the girl he was looking for. It wasn't until he pulled the nursing class photo from his pocket that she recognized the face. "Bless you, sir," she cried with a little laugh. "You mean Mrs. Harris, Miss Starling as was."
"Yes, yes I do mean Miss Starling! Then you have seen her?"
"Oh, aye. A smart young lady, she. Very fine. Come to wish me farewell before taking her leave for the summer."
"Then…" Crawford swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. Miss Starling seen alive and recently-but definite proof she was no longer here. That he was too late. "She was...well?"
"Oh, aye. Very well. Had a bit 'o injury first comin', you know. Bump to the head, poor dear. But she healed well enough after the wedding."
"The wedding, here?" Jack nodded to the window, where the lane led up to the small chapel. The fact that Clarice had used her own real name gave him some hope. Perhaps, in all the foolishness and vile dealings that had surrounded her dismissal she had simply taken off with a man of some little money, rather than the monster they all feared. She was pretty enough, even well into her twenties to attract any male. He knew…
And a wedding on Gretna Green would save her time, quick before anyone heard word about her ruined career and reputation. "And she was willing?"
"Yes, a strange affair. You know the young ones, always coming in and out. Usually, you can tell which is the disagreeable party and which is the one with a bit 'o coin. But the lady was not shabbily dressed and her groom looked well old enough to be master of his own money. They dinnae seem in a hurry, except to save the lady's reputation for sharing an inn room, you know. That sort of thing. But no, they dinnae looked harassed or chased." The way she eyed him with a smirk, Mr. Crawford could hear her unspoken 'until now'. "They took up the manor down the lane in fact, for the winter. I'd see them sometimes, when the wind turned warmer, riding together on Sundays."
A man old enough to handle his own affairs. That soured Jack's stomach, but he would not give up the tiny thread of hope. "You said they quit the village. Is the staff still there?"
"Aye, I think. I've seen them still packing up. A few odds and ends. I suspect the Harris' wanted up and out as soon as travel maybe to begin their wedding trip. I love my home, but I'll not pretend it's ideal for a honeymoon, especially in the winter."
Mr. Crawford departed immediately, bypassing the woman's jabbering and offer of a decent meal. The manor she indicated was indeed very fine, and considering the closed windows, was packed up for the summer. He was able to convince one of the stable hands to lead him to the housekeeper. The woman eyed him warily and greeted him in a sitting room already covered in drop cloths, a few brick-a-brack strewn about ready for the packing, but to his shock, did not seem surprised. "The mistress mentioned a former teacher that might come looking for her. I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to give a forwarding address."
"Then just an indication, madam, please," Jack pleaded with her, unused to the action. Usually, men and servants jumped at his quiet orders, and if not in deference, then in memory of the master of investigation he used to be. Miss Starling had not been one of those, but she had looked upon him with admiration...and then such sadness.
No, in the privacy of his own thoughts were his reputation suffered little, but his ego much, he had to be honest. It was disappointment. "Have they gone to Ireland? Or back to America?"
The housekeeper looked him over again and took in his cane, more for service than show. "To India," she stated at last. "They are to take up house there, and told me they did not intend to return for a very long time, if ever."
India! Good God! What other place could they be so well concealed? He was sure of it now-the monster had absconded with her, and while he had let her keep her identity, he certainly had taken her freedom, not allowing any friend or relation to follow.
And Clarice Starling was gone forever. By now they were at sea, unable to be chased.
The housekeeper finally took pity on him and offered him a chair. "I'll have tea sent up before you depart," she said before sweeping out and leaving him to his misery. Jack controlled his breathing for a few moments, determined not to let the monster have his grief too. Starling, better dead than with him!
Or so Jack thought before he found the photos. It was lying innocently on the table at his elbow with a few other things ready to be packed; a hand fan, a spare pocket watch and a book of poetry. On top of the small pile, a three-photo frame-new as all such things were new. In the middle was the creature, seated on the very couch that was before Jack, now covered in white cloth. Next to him Starling...but not Starling. She was not dressed in the usual sensible cotton, stitched well to flatter her shape despite the cheapness. Now she was garbed as a lady was. A fine silk blouse tucked into a dark skirt, small humble jewels glittering in her ears and about her throat, sitting beside her...her husband, calm and serene. Not dazed or frightened. Simply…content.
But that middle photo was not the damnation-no, it was the blurry mistakes on either side. Photos where the subjects had not been still enough and caused ghosting across the frame. Such spares were usually hidden or put in for kindling, and yet here they were, proudly displayed. Clarice, grinning-laughing!-as she turned to the monster who placed an arm around her, pulling her into his side. And the other, the creature kissing her hand as she spoke, a smile lifting her lips. And in both, the Doctor grinning like the cat who got the bird.
Jack placed the frame down. When the housekeeper returned with the tray, she found his chair empty as well as the place where there should have been a note of apology for his sudden departure.
Mr. Crawford returned to his horse and rode until nightfall. He paid too much for a room at a hotel, and curled up in bed in the place where-had he more sense and courage-Clarice ought to have been, thumb stroking Bella's wedding band on his finger. When the pain came, he panted through it but did not call out.
Soon it, and he, left in a timely fashion.
"Fish!"
"Yes. What color are they?"
"….Fish!"
Clarice smirked hearing her husband's chuckle, forgoing any other attempt at instruction.
Their new manor house, tucked away in Mumbai was once a small palace for some minor Hindustani noble, and thus featured a lovely pool within the middle of the courtyard, beautifully carved swings hanging between the pillars that held up the upper floors. It was within one of these that Clarice was seated, swaying slowly.
Carefully she pushed her needle through the soft silk of the baby swaddle, attempting her hand a stitched water lily. She glanced up from her work, hands resting on her already rounded belly. By the pool her husband stood, lean his cream suit, one shoe propped against the artfully placed stones. Their first born knelt by the water, a finger drawing rippling patterns on the surface, disturbing the fish flitting between the lilies. His golden head was already darkening to a mahogany brown, and Clarice daily warned her spouse that he may just become as raven haired as his father. Their little child, whom he had mused about returning for a long-forgotten title in a far-flung country.
How strange it all was, thought she as she watched the famed monster reach down and take his child's free hand, keeping him from teetering straight into the pool, that they who had found amusement in the most macabre and dangerous should be so comfortably happy in a domestic peace. Perhaps it was not the situation on its own that caused the contentment, but the earning it took to come here. She mused, wondering if this was how the warriors who were lucky enough to survive the great battles of history felt; happier with a particularly pretty morning than a cheering crowd.
"What are you thinking of, my dear?" The doctor had scooped up his son, carrying him over to where she reclined.
"Ama," the boy murmured, clutching at his father's lapel.
Clarice reached up and touched his foot. He'd already lost the shoe his governess had tied on there this morning. He would be wild and free, she warned her husband. He had much Starling in him, and, as she rubbed her stomach, hoped this one would be a little more sedate. Perhaps a girl, with her father's jewel tone eyes. And if she was not, she was sure many more would come, as their frequency had its natural consequences.
After their first night, and some slight ache that came with adjustment, Clarice found she rather liked being a wife. And of all the pastimes they shared, her husband encouraged her thoroughly in this one. He brooked no shyness or shame; he wished to know her as deeply as he could in any sense and Clarice was happy to welcome in just as many, whether in mind, body, or soul. It seemed there were no two hearts, two beings so in tune with one another as she and her doctor.
Though it was not as if she did not think of their friends left behind. She had indeed followed up on her idea of sending Ardelia one of her emeralds. She faceted one of them and set them in a ring, mailing it with a note sealed with fine green wax and a light kiss to bestow best wishes. When Miss Mapp opened the packet and saw the trinket, her eyes burned.
To my dearest Ardelia,
I am well, and better than well. Forgive me for frightening you. I release you from the duties you no doubt feel as the most loyal and devoted friend you are. Burn this.
Forever yours,
C.S.
Miss Mapp walked along the Thames, back and forth across the bridge until the lamp lighters were out doing their work. The ring would have been no more than a glint in their fires as it fell into the waters below. But the young boys never saw her throw the jewel, as it found a place on her finger, as it would on her daughter's finger and her daughter's daughter, one of the only beloved heirlooms Miss Mapp would keep forever.
Lady Verger never married and contented herself with being a society matron. Her manor was somewhat of an impromptu school—many fathers who had unwanted daughters or second daughters often found a place there to propel them into society. She was as severe as her dress, but not unkind. It was a feminine haven, kept that way by her man servant, Barnabas, whom due to his height and build, was not trifled with even by the bravest of rakish suitors.
Of that man Clarice and her husband had seen—once. They had come to India for Diwali, a gift for his wife whose family once heralded from Mumbai. Standing on the bank of the river, holding her arm as she knelt to send a light a float, he caught a familiar face within the few patches of water that were not covered.
Starling.
She had been sending her own candle along, pregnant with her first child. Her husband stood by her, smiling at the display, but eyes locked on Barnabas. His companion took notice, and turned her head as well, recognition twitching her fine brow. She was resplendent in violet silk, her hair artfully curled rather than in the severe bun Barnabas was used to. He had always known she was a pretty girl, but now he saw her in true beauty. It was only when he looked at her, did he feel danger.
Barnabas had taken his wife's hand and kissed the pattern of doves stained on her brown flesh, asking her for a favor he promised he would repay all his life. They never returned to India.
"Conquest," Clarice said softly.
"Ah, you were thinking of me? Quite the compliment, my heart. Pray tell me, where on the wall of your mind do you hang me? Surely, I have more points to boast than your other victories."
"How quick you are to relinquish the role of conqueror," she teased, carefully pushing herself up to stand. She didn't mind over much the state of pregnancy, but use of her knees would be welcome once she attained it again. "Do I not hang upon a wall of my own in your mind? Or are your rooms too crowded?"
The doctor shook his head, offering his free arm for her to lean on as they returned to the cool shadows of inside. "I'm afraid you do not hang at all. You wander freely in the palace of my thoughts, as free as you do here."
"Good." She nodded decisively. "And I tell you this, I have no plans of freeing you."
"Freedom is only for the trapped, Clarice. We are not."