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Title: Witchcraft by a Picture (1/1)
Rating: K
Pairing: Professor Peter/Heiress Rose
Disclaimer: Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Written for:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
angelfireeast
Prompt: The Sun Rising in the year they both wasted not being together. Any one of these "glossy pictures which periodically appeared showing her on the arm of yet another young, fit man - her eyes full of sadness in spite of her smile." from Rose's POV. Basically one of her get over Peter dates that didn't work out. Or anything in that year really.
Notes: Written for the timestamp meme over at my LJ.
Thank you toearlgreytea68 for her vacation-based beta of this.
And there it is. Rose Tyler, dressed to the nines, her hand resting gently on the arm of a good-looking blonde bloke, both of them smiling almost-but-not-quite sincerely as they make their way down the blue carpet of yet another social event in London.
“Vitex Heiress Rose Tyler and on-again, off-again boyfriend Jake Symonds…” the caption says.
Clearly they’re on again. Which means she’s off again with Mickey Smith.
He balls the paper up, then throws it towards the fire dancing merrily in the grate. He shouldn’t be looking at that drivel--has papers to grade.
~ - ~
She sighed, her feet aching and her head throbbing as she sat in a dark corner of the ball. She’d already forgotten what it was for; she’d only come because her mum had made her, chasing after her with phrases like “Good to get out” and “Maybe you’ll meet a nice man.” She had already met a nice man, didn’t want to meet another; a nice, handsome, married man who was utterly oblivious to the fact that he’d taken her heart and broken it in the course of two meetings.
She wondered what he was up to, up in Scotland. She could see him, as he had been the day he’d shown her around—grinning as he pointed out a hidden gem in the town, the corners of his eyes crinkled in joy, the light highlighting the red of his hair. His freckles, visible even after a long winter, thanks to that clear northern light. The lilt of his brogue as he rattled off dates and names and other facts of historical import which clearly thrilled him; which in turn made her want to be thrilled, too.
She’d done a bit of research on him, when she’d come back after her last trip north; had asked one of the librarians at Torchwood to see what she could find on him. The return had been paltry, but even so Rose had barely been able to look at the first thing in the pile. It wasn’t that the book on his specialty was dull that put her off; it was the picture of him, lurking on the back cover.
She’d returned everything else—other books, articles, everything—unread, with a weak smile and thanks.
“Want a drink?”
She glanced up, noting Jake looking down at her in concern.
“Nah, thanks. Just want to hide for a bit.”
He nodded in understanding, settling at the chair across from her. “When d’you have to do this again?”
She sighed, thinking. “Another month? Mum’s goin’ to make me go to everything this year, I think. Part of makin’ me the face of Vitex fundraising or something.”
Jake grimaced. “You sure you don’t want that drink?”
She laughed. “Tempting, but I think I’ll wait.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Are you going to need Mickey or I for those? We’re heading off on holiday soon, but…”
“No, no—although I can’t wait to see the captions on those pictures, should the zanzare get them!”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah—Mum’s been wantin’ t’set me up with someone; may as well humour her at least once.”
~ - ~
It’s raining, and he’s bored, and he’s got the Sunday paper in front of him as he nurses his morning coffee. The students are away for summer holidays, and he’s at loose ends; that might be why he forgets his moratorium on reading the entirety of the paper, and soon finds himself gazing at yet another picture of her.
Is there a day when she’s not in the papers? he wonders grumpily, unable to tear his eyes away. She’s with a new bloke this time—not Jake or Mickey, but some bright young spark with blonde hair and blue eyes named Laurence. He looks like the cat that got the cream; she is wearing her usual tight smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Even so, she’s stunning—she’s wearing a strapless sundress with a flared skirt, the lines and colours doing nothing to calm his imagination. Her hair is pulled back loosely, the wisps framing her face; he thinks that he’d like to cup her jaw, pull her to him for a kiss....
He closes the paper, folds it, and sets it aside. She never looks truly happy in those pictures; her smile is never as bright as when he showed her around town that one glorious day, months before.
~ - ~
“Are you having a good time?”
It was the fourth time in an hour that Laurence had asked her the question, and she was running out of cleverly evasive ways to answer. She smiled at him, sipping her Pimms; he took it as an affirmative, and continued to chatter on about the party. He’d been to a few before—it was how they’d originally met—but he still seemed awe-struck and too-easily impressed by the famous faces surrounding him.
She wondered when she’d become so cynical about it all. Probably back when she was traveling with the Doctor; when she’d learned that just because you were at a party didn’t mean you were someone, that throwing a party didn’t make you a good or kind person. Or perhaps it was after she’d arrived in Pete’s Universe, when she was a novelty to be poked and prodded and derided and mocked. They fawned over her now, of course—the daughter made good, the fine upstanding daughter of the Vitex founder who’d seen the error of her ways (working) and had come around to the right way of thinking (socializing). It helped, of course, that she was unmarried and rich; the mothers of single men always swarmed around her when she arrived, always gave her escorts the evil eye even as they tried to charm her.
It had been fun to arrive with someone new, and someone who actually reacted to the swarming mothers; but the fun had worn off, and she was more than ready to go home—without Laurence. He was nice enough, but the fact was he simply lacked spark. He was too used to being appreciated for being rich and handsome; he’d never learned how to be interesting or fun.
Which might have been why the professor in Scotland was so interesting. He was certainly handsome, but he was most definitely not rich. Which meant at some point he’d had to learn how to round out his personality and work for what he wanted. She wondered—
“More Pimms?” Laurence was still there, was looking at her like a golden retriever eager to please his master.
She smiled. “That’d be lovely.”
~ - ~
It’s not his fault that he stumbles across her picture—not this time. He’s in Croy, visiting his mum to celebrate her late-October birthday; and she, as she usually does, has left one of her glossy magazines open to whatever she’d been reading when he arrived. He catches a glimpse of the picture out of the corner of his eye and immediately knows who it is. Even so, he’s unable to stop from shifting his attention, trying to get a better view of the picture.
She’s getting out of a car this time, looking harried and more than a little tired. She’s back with the man called Mickey, apparently, and he’s in full-on protective mode—his hand outstretched to push the zanzare away, the silver and even the pattern of his cufflinks visible on the arm nearest the camera. They’re going to the theatre, perhaps, or the opera—he’s not familiar enough with the seasons to know, but it’s the first time he can think of that he’s seen her and her consort dressed in black-tie—and he wonders if she enjoyed the performance. One hand is holding her skirts up as she steps out onto the pavement, the other is holding her small clutch to her chest, securing the deep red wrap she’s chosen to wear over her shoulders.
It’s the colour of my duvet, he thinks reflexively. He shakes it off, rubs his eyes briefly. He’s amazed that he still pines for her, even seven months on from their meeting in town; he’s frustrated by the realization, as well. She was the one who ended things so abruptly; she was the one who ran off.
Yet…if she turns up in front of him the next day, he knows he’ll forgive her immediately. After which he’ll have to kiss her; he’d be constitutionally unable to avoid it. There is something about her that pulls him to her; something about her eyes, perhaps, and the sadness which always, always lurks in them. Or her smile, which when true is absolutely radiant. Maybe it’s the intelligence—she’s terribly clever, as he learned during that day together, and he remains amazed that no one in the zanzare seems able to pick up on it.
“Ready for tea?” His mum bustles back into the parlour, and he takes a small step away from where he’s been looking at the picture.
“More than ready,” he replies.
~ - ~
She couldn’t believe she’d allowed Mickey to talk her into coming to opening night of the theatre. She enjoyed going, of course—but preferably on a night when there were no cameras out front, when she could show up in clothes far more casual and warm. But no, Mickey had been adamant—he’d wanted to see a particular actor in a particular role, and Jake had been called away on a case, and so she’d found herself shopping for a dress and doing her hair and make-up.
She was exhausted; the autumn always made her ankle ache most painfully, and the turning of the leaves never failed to make her a little melancholy. It was all the more reason Mickey had wanted to take her out, she suspected; but she would have been far, far happier staying at home and letting the mood pass.
“Over here! Over here!” The voices clamoured over the click of shutters; flashes fired off in her eyes as she stepped out of the limo, Mickey running interference for her. She paused, once she was fully out of the car, waiting for Mickey to take her elbow; and then they carried on along the carpet to the theatre entrance, not stopping or smiling.
What she really wanted, she supposed, was someone there with her who was more than a friend. Someone to whisper secrets with her; to hold her close to him and comfort her simply by being there. Mickey could do all of those things, of course, but it simply wasn’t the same.
A vision of the Scottish professor flashed before her eyes; she shut them, shaking her head, causing Mickey to stop.
“Y’all right, babe?”
“Yeah. Jus’ clearing my head from all those flashes.”
“Can’t get used to that,” he muttered, walking once more.
“Neither can I.”
So many pictures, taken of her so many places. Did he see them? Did his wife talk to him about what she’d been doing, nattering on over breakfast about that daft Vitex heiress and how she seemed to be everywhere? Would he look down and see her picture, and think of anything else…
No, she couldn’t think like that. He was married; he wasn’t hers to have. And it was silly, really—he’d been polite, had shown her around town as a courtesy, payment of a sort for the money and time Vitex had poured into the Research Institute. If he thought of her at all, it would most certainly be as a business acquaintance; he certainly wouldn’t think of her in the way she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him.
She tightened her hold on Mickey’s elbow and focused on following him into the theatre.
~ - ~
It’s his birthday; a time of year he adores not because of the celebration of his birth, but because of the decorations and carols for Twelfth Night. It’s a holiday he’s always loved—the mistletoe and the holly and the candles on the mantle; the sound of his mum humming to herself as she bakes the traditional feast whilst he and Martin play chess in the parlour. Martin has a long-standing tradition of beating him at the strategic game, and he is still intent on winning, just once.
“Think you’ll do it this year, Petey?”
“Shut up, Marty.”
And then he’s done it—has finally beaten his brother, and he feels lightheaded from delight. Martin shakes his head, ruffling his hair as he’s done for decades, then wanders off to the kitchen to see what kind of food he can filch from their mum.
He clears the chess pieces, neatly laying them in the drawer beneath the chessboard, then moving the chessboard to the bookshelf. He’s not prepared for what’s lurking over there—not expecting to see the face of Rose Tyler looking back at him from the cover of one of his mum’s magazines.
He flinches this time—physically flinches, as though he’s been stabbed—and he pauses to close his eyes.
He has got to stop doing this—stop reacting like this every time he comes across a picture of her. She wasn’t interested—or not enough. She’s not been to town to visit her father’s institute since they’d crossed paths, which would be understandable if not for the fact that she is supposedly one of the trustees of it and would have a vested interest in visiting.
Not that he’s been checking, of course; it’s just that as a member of the committee who helped to have it built, he remains interested in what’s going on with the building.
He swipes his hand over his face, willing himself to turn away even as he leans over to take a closer look at the picture. It looks like a formal portrait this time, and he shifts a book over to reveal Rose’s mum and younger brother. Another nudge to the book reveals her father, the four of them the picture of family bliss at the holiday season.
“Twelfth Night with the Tyler family!” the magazine boasts.
He swallows, and forces himself to turn away. He’s spending the holiday with his family, not hers.
~ - ~
She plastered the grin on her face once more as the photographer readied himself. John was shifting restlessly next to her, and she slid her hand over to his to tell him to calm down for a second. The flash fired; the picture was done.
Pete walked over to the photographer, thanking him for his patience; Rose released a sigh, looking over to John. “Y’have fun?”
He wrinkled his nose. “’s boring.”
“Yeah.”
Jackie had stood, and was brushing off her skirt. “Thank goodness—thought I’d never get to change out of this ridiculous outfit. As though some housewife is goin’ t’go wanderin’ around on the holiday dressed for church!”
“Most of them think you will,” she answered, smiling teasingly.
“Then I’ll be sure to invite the magazine ‘round again at the end of the day. ‘Twelfth Night with the Tylers!’ indeed.” Jackie laughed.
The four of them returned to the mansion, where the smells of dinner wafted through the foyer by way of greeting.
“Smells heavenly,” Pete said, closing the door behind them.
John didn’t answer, but instead ran down the hall to the kitchen; Jackie set off after him, admonishing him to not ruin his clothes.
“You alright?”
She turned to her father, noting the concern in his eyes.
“Yeah. ‘s just the season.”
Pete nodded. “I can send you somewhere, if you want a change of scenery. There’s always Spain. Or the Institute in Scotland hasn’t had a visit from us in a while.”
She swallowed, forcing a smile. “Oh, I think I’ll stay here. Better with family, you know?” She wondered, though—what was it the professor did for the holiday? She could see him as he was in the pub, candlelight and firelight dancing in his eyes, giving the brown a warm golden glow. He’d seemed entranced by what she’d had to say, his chin resting on his fist.
But she could also see that light flickering against his wedding ring, glinting off the gold, reminding her that he was married. She shouldn’t be thinking about him; shouldn’t be wondering about his personal life.
He was married. He was in Scotland.
He was married.
“Let’s get some tea, shall we?” Pete tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen.
“Yeah.” She shuffled after him, trying to leave her memories of the professor behind.
~ fin ~
Rating: K
Pairing: Professor Peter/Heiress Rose
Disclaimer: Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Written for:
angelfireeastPrompt: The Sun Rising in the year they both wasted not being together. Any one of these "glossy pictures which periodically appeared showing her on the arm of yet another young, fit man - her eyes full of sadness in spite of her smile." from Rose's POV. Basically one of her get over Peter dates that didn't work out. Or anything in that year really.
Notes: Written for the timestamp meme over at my LJ.
Thank you to
earlgreytea68 for her vacation-based beta of this.
The Sun Rising – Witchcraft by a Picture – The Good Morrow – The Triple Fool – The Undertaking – The Primrose – The Bard’s Epitaph – The Bait – On His Mistress – The Canonization – Valediction – Lover’s Infiniteness – Epithalamion
I FIX mine eye on thine, and there
Pity my picture burning in thine eye
- John Donne, Witchcraft by a Picture
And there it is. Rose Tyler, dressed to the nines, her hand resting gently on the arm of a good-looking blonde bloke, both of them smiling almost-but-not-quite sincerely as they make their way down the blue carpet of yet another social event in London.
“Vitex Heiress Rose Tyler and on-again, off-again boyfriend Jake Symonds…” the caption says.
Clearly they’re on again. Which means she’s off again with Mickey Smith.
He balls the paper up, then throws it towards the fire dancing merrily in the grate. He shouldn’t be looking at that drivel--has papers to grade.
~ - ~
She sighed, her feet aching and her head throbbing as she sat in a dark corner of the ball. She’d already forgotten what it was for; she’d only come because her mum had made her, chasing after her with phrases like “Good to get out” and “Maybe you’ll meet a nice man.” She had already met a nice man, didn’t want to meet another; a nice, handsome, married man who was utterly oblivious to the fact that he’d taken her heart and broken it in the course of two meetings.
She wondered what he was up to, up in Scotland. She could see him, as he had been the day he’d shown her around—grinning as he pointed out a hidden gem in the town, the corners of his eyes crinkled in joy, the light highlighting the red of his hair. His freckles, visible even after a long winter, thanks to that clear northern light. The lilt of his brogue as he rattled off dates and names and other facts of historical import which clearly thrilled him; which in turn made her want to be thrilled, too.
She’d done a bit of research on him, when she’d come back after her last trip north; had asked one of the librarians at Torchwood to see what she could find on him. The return had been paltry, but even so Rose had barely been able to look at the first thing in the pile. It wasn’t that the book on his specialty was dull that put her off; it was the picture of him, lurking on the back cover.
She’d returned everything else—other books, articles, everything—unread, with a weak smile and thanks.
“Want a drink?”
She glanced up, noting Jake looking down at her in concern.
“Nah, thanks. Just want to hide for a bit.”
He nodded in understanding, settling at the chair across from her. “When d’you have to do this again?”
She sighed, thinking. “Another month? Mum’s goin’ to make me go to everything this year, I think. Part of makin’ me the face of Vitex fundraising or something.”
Jake grimaced. “You sure you don’t want that drink?”
She laughed. “Tempting, but I think I’ll wait.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Are you going to need Mickey or I for those? We’re heading off on holiday soon, but…”
“No, no—although I can’t wait to see the captions on those pictures, should the zanzare get them!”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah—Mum’s been wantin’ t’set me up with someone; may as well humour her at least once.”
~ - ~
It’s raining, and he’s bored, and he’s got the Sunday paper in front of him as he nurses his morning coffee. The students are away for summer holidays, and he’s at loose ends; that might be why he forgets his moratorium on reading the entirety of the paper, and soon finds himself gazing at yet another picture of her.
Is there a day when she’s not in the papers? he wonders grumpily, unable to tear his eyes away. She’s with a new bloke this time—not Jake or Mickey, but some bright young spark with blonde hair and blue eyes named Laurence. He looks like the cat that got the cream; she is wearing her usual tight smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Even so, she’s stunning—she’s wearing a strapless sundress with a flared skirt, the lines and colours doing nothing to calm his imagination. Her hair is pulled back loosely, the wisps framing her face; he thinks that he’d like to cup her jaw, pull her to him for a kiss....
He closes the paper, folds it, and sets it aside. She never looks truly happy in those pictures; her smile is never as bright as when he showed her around town that one glorious day, months before.
~ - ~
“Are you having a good time?”
It was the fourth time in an hour that Laurence had asked her the question, and she was running out of cleverly evasive ways to answer. She smiled at him, sipping her Pimms; he took it as an affirmative, and continued to chatter on about the party. He’d been to a few before—it was how they’d originally met—but he still seemed awe-struck and too-easily impressed by the famous faces surrounding him.
She wondered when she’d become so cynical about it all. Probably back when she was traveling with the Doctor; when she’d learned that just because you were at a party didn’t mean you were someone, that throwing a party didn’t make you a good or kind person. Or perhaps it was after she’d arrived in Pete’s Universe, when she was a novelty to be poked and prodded and derided and mocked. They fawned over her now, of course—the daughter made good, the fine upstanding daughter of the Vitex founder who’d seen the error of her ways (working) and had come around to the right way of thinking (socializing). It helped, of course, that she was unmarried and rich; the mothers of single men always swarmed around her when she arrived, always gave her escorts the evil eye even as they tried to charm her.
It had been fun to arrive with someone new, and someone who actually reacted to the swarming mothers; but the fun had worn off, and she was more than ready to go home—without Laurence. He was nice enough, but the fact was he simply lacked spark. He was too used to being appreciated for being rich and handsome; he’d never learned how to be interesting or fun.
Which might have been why the professor in Scotland was so interesting. He was certainly handsome, but he was most definitely not rich. Which meant at some point he’d had to learn how to round out his personality and work for what he wanted. She wondered—
“More Pimms?” Laurence was still there, was looking at her like a golden retriever eager to please his master.
She smiled. “That’d be lovely.”
~ - ~
It’s not his fault that he stumbles across her picture—not this time. He’s in Croy, visiting his mum to celebrate her late-October birthday; and she, as she usually does, has left one of her glossy magazines open to whatever she’d been reading when he arrived. He catches a glimpse of the picture out of the corner of his eye and immediately knows who it is. Even so, he’s unable to stop from shifting his attention, trying to get a better view of the picture.
She’s getting out of a car this time, looking harried and more than a little tired. She’s back with the man called Mickey, apparently, and he’s in full-on protective mode—his hand outstretched to push the zanzare away, the silver and even the pattern of his cufflinks visible on the arm nearest the camera. They’re going to the theatre, perhaps, or the opera—he’s not familiar enough with the seasons to know, but it’s the first time he can think of that he’s seen her and her consort dressed in black-tie—and he wonders if she enjoyed the performance. One hand is holding her skirts up as she steps out onto the pavement, the other is holding her small clutch to her chest, securing the deep red wrap she’s chosen to wear over her shoulders.
It’s the colour of my duvet, he thinks reflexively. He shakes it off, rubs his eyes briefly. He’s amazed that he still pines for her, even seven months on from their meeting in town; he’s frustrated by the realization, as well. She was the one who ended things so abruptly; she was the one who ran off.
Yet…if she turns up in front of him the next day, he knows he’ll forgive her immediately. After which he’ll have to kiss her; he’d be constitutionally unable to avoid it. There is something about her that pulls him to her; something about her eyes, perhaps, and the sadness which always, always lurks in them. Or her smile, which when true is absolutely radiant. Maybe it’s the intelligence—she’s terribly clever, as he learned during that day together, and he remains amazed that no one in the zanzare seems able to pick up on it.
“Ready for tea?” His mum bustles back into the parlour, and he takes a small step away from where he’s been looking at the picture.
“More than ready,” he replies.
~ - ~
She couldn’t believe she’d allowed Mickey to talk her into coming to opening night of the theatre. She enjoyed going, of course—but preferably on a night when there were no cameras out front, when she could show up in clothes far more casual and warm. But no, Mickey had been adamant—he’d wanted to see a particular actor in a particular role, and Jake had been called away on a case, and so she’d found herself shopping for a dress and doing her hair and make-up.
She was exhausted; the autumn always made her ankle ache most painfully, and the turning of the leaves never failed to make her a little melancholy. It was all the more reason Mickey had wanted to take her out, she suspected; but she would have been far, far happier staying at home and letting the mood pass.
“Over here! Over here!” The voices clamoured over the click of shutters; flashes fired off in her eyes as she stepped out of the limo, Mickey running interference for her. She paused, once she was fully out of the car, waiting for Mickey to take her elbow; and then they carried on along the carpet to the theatre entrance, not stopping or smiling.
What she really wanted, she supposed, was someone there with her who was more than a friend. Someone to whisper secrets with her; to hold her close to him and comfort her simply by being there. Mickey could do all of those things, of course, but it simply wasn’t the same.
A vision of the Scottish professor flashed before her eyes; she shut them, shaking her head, causing Mickey to stop.
“Y’all right, babe?”
“Yeah. Jus’ clearing my head from all those flashes.”
“Can’t get used to that,” he muttered, walking once more.
“Neither can I.”
So many pictures, taken of her so many places. Did he see them? Did his wife talk to him about what she’d been doing, nattering on over breakfast about that daft Vitex heiress and how she seemed to be everywhere? Would he look down and see her picture, and think of anything else…
No, she couldn’t think like that. He was married; he wasn’t hers to have. And it was silly, really—he’d been polite, had shown her around town as a courtesy, payment of a sort for the money and time Vitex had poured into the Research Institute. If he thought of her at all, it would most certainly be as a business acquaintance; he certainly wouldn’t think of her in the way she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him.
She tightened her hold on Mickey’s elbow and focused on following him into the theatre.
~ - ~
It’s his birthday; a time of year he adores not because of the celebration of his birth, but because of the decorations and carols for Twelfth Night. It’s a holiday he’s always loved—the mistletoe and the holly and the candles on the mantle; the sound of his mum humming to herself as she bakes the traditional feast whilst he and Martin play chess in the parlour. Martin has a long-standing tradition of beating him at the strategic game, and he is still intent on winning, just once.
“Think you’ll do it this year, Petey?”
“Shut up, Marty.”
And then he’s done it—has finally beaten his brother, and he feels lightheaded from delight. Martin shakes his head, ruffling his hair as he’s done for decades, then wanders off to the kitchen to see what kind of food he can filch from their mum.
He clears the chess pieces, neatly laying them in the drawer beneath the chessboard, then moving the chessboard to the bookshelf. He’s not prepared for what’s lurking over there—not expecting to see the face of Rose Tyler looking back at him from the cover of one of his mum’s magazines.
He flinches this time—physically flinches, as though he’s been stabbed—and he pauses to close his eyes.
He has got to stop doing this—stop reacting like this every time he comes across a picture of her. She wasn’t interested—or not enough. She’s not been to town to visit her father’s institute since they’d crossed paths, which would be understandable if not for the fact that she is supposedly one of the trustees of it and would have a vested interest in visiting.
Not that he’s been checking, of course; it’s just that as a member of the committee who helped to have it built, he remains interested in what’s going on with the building.
He swipes his hand over his face, willing himself to turn away even as he leans over to take a closer look at the picture. It looks like a formal portrait this time, and he shifts a book over to reveal Rose’s mum and younger brother. Another nudge to the book reveals her father, the four of them the picture of family bliss at the holiday season.
“Twelfth Night with the Tyler family!” the magazine boasts.
He swallows, and forces himself to turn away. He’s spending the holiday with his family, not hers.
~ - ~
She plastered the grin on her face once more as the photographer readied himself. John was shifting restlessly next to her, and she slid her hand over to his to tell him to calm down for a second. The flash fired; the picture was done.
Pete walked over to the photographer, thanking him for his patience; Rose released a sigh, looking over to John. “Y’have fun?”
He wrinkled his nose. “’s boring.”
“Yeah.”
Jackie had stood, and was brushing off her skirt. “Thank goodness—thought I’d never get to change out of this ridiculous outfit. As though some housewife is goin’ t’go wanderin’ around on the holiday dressed for church!”
“Most of them think you will,” she answered, smiling teasingly.
“Then I’ll be sure to invite the magazine ‘round again at the end of the day. ‘Twelfth Night with the Tylers!’ indeed.” Jackie laughed.
The four of them returned to the mansion, where the smells of dinner wafted through the foyer by way of greeting.
“Smells heavenly,” Pete said, closing the door behind them.
John didn’t answer, but instead ran down the hall to the kitchen; Jackie set off after him, admonishing him to not ruin his clothes.
“You alright?”
She turned to her father, noting the concern in his eyes.
“Yeah. ‘s just the season.”
Pete nodded. “I can send you somewhere, if you want a change of scenery. There’s always Spain. Or the Institute in Scotland hasn’t had a visit from us in a while.”
She swallowed, forcing a smile. “Oh, I think I’ll stay here. Better with family, you know?” She wondered, though—what was it the professor did for the holiday? She could see him as he was in the pub, candlelight and firelight dancing in his eyes, giving the brown a warm golden glow. He’d seemed entranced by what she’d had to say, his chin resting on his fist.
But she could also see that light flickering against his wedding ring, glinting off the gold, reminding her that he was married. She shouldn’t be thinking about him; shouldn’t be wondering about his personal life.
He was married. He was in Scotland.
He was married.
“Let’s get some tea, shall we?” Pete tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen.
“Yeah.” She shuffled after him, trying to leave her memories of the professor behind.
~ fin ~
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