Chapter Text
By the time it had become known to you, caught in tittered fragments from passing maids in the servants’ quarters, the rumor had been well traveled through most of Gotham.
Duke Wayne was considering marriage, they said.
And this time, he had a suitor in mind.
This rumor had come and gone in the past, although most high society seemed so certain of its veracity this time around. The young girls employed by the Earl were entirely absorbed in the idea, leaving you to wrestle the heavy laundry as they simpered. Names passed in whispers—Elizabeth, Jane, a cousin connected with the stables—and always the same refrain.
“The Wayne carriage—”
“—Elizabeth swore—”
“—even a bouquet!”
They traded names and secondhand assurances with breathless certainty, as though repetition alone might make such an idea true.
The good Duke Wayne was undeniably eccentric, even you were privy to that. Whatever virtues the late Duke and Duchess Wayne had possessed, they had clearly not troubled themselves to pass them on. His attentions were notoriously undiscerning, and Gotham had long since learned not to look too closely at where—or with whom—he chose to spend his time, while his discourtesy preceded him wherever he went. And yet the whole of Gotham insisted he possessed a certain charm, at least one that requires patience. Even so, you could not bring yourself to believe that even he would make such a spectacle of a proposal.
Although, you thought as you wrung out the excess water from a swollen blouse, Duke Wayne had disappointed Gotham before.
The norms and connections of Gotham never seemed to register in Duke Wayne, so maybe he would be so bold to announce a marriage in such a grandiose way. You could not fathom the idea of such a "distinguished" man prostrate on his knee, declaring his love.
You would truly be astonished if Gotham's most ill-considered man chose, at last, to behave with some propriety.
Accepting the fact you were to hang the rest of the laundry yourself, as the other girls were far from useful at the moment, you rolled up the damp sleeves of your dull frock and set off to make use of the evening sun. Perched on the stool precariously, you pinned the clothing to the line and, although your attentions were lacking, you overheard the head maid break up the incessant gossip with a sharp clap.
"Back to work! We are expecting guests!"
As they scurried, you huffed a breath inaudibly to yourself. Guests were common but far from desirable in this household. And yet, you still made quick work of the remaining clothes, descending to sturdier ground and turning to face the old maid as she stomped purposefully toward you. You schooled your features into a contrite expression as she relayed her instructions.
"The Lady is calling for you. Do not leave her waiting."
"Yes ma'am."
It was a tenuous balance, between dragging your feet and briskly walking to the Lady's room. You didn't want to leave her waiting and incur her ire, but simultaneously you had no desire to enter the lion's den. When you did reach her door you bowed your head, even though she couldn't see you, and knocked.
"You may enter."
You opened the door, "Pardon me, my lady."
She was seated by the window, the setting sun's light hitting her tea gown just so, making it blush a coral pink. In her lap an embroidery loop pinned a swatch of white linen in its grasp sat innocently. You weren't close enough to see the pattern, nor would you wager a glance.
"How unfortunate."
"Yes, my lady?"
“I had assumed you understood the value of punctuality.” She turned her head at last, a sigh escaping her as though in mild regret. “Or were you unaware that my father is to receive company this evening?”
"No, my lady."
"And yet you were aware of our guests?” Her brow lifted as graceful and precise as the bow of Eros. “How curious, then, that their importance should have escaped you.”
"I beg your pardon, my lady." You response was tailored, "I did not presume to know what was required of me."
“No,” She hummed, taking the embroidery in hand and rising to stand. Once she moved from the sunlight, you noticed her gown was actually an off-white shade and billowed around her, with no underskirt to support it, “I imagine presumption is not among your failings."
She did not spare you a glance over her shoulder, simply stating to her reflection in the ornate mirror, "You will attend me this evening"
"Yes, my lady." You had yet to take a step past the doorway before she stopped you.
Her voice wasn't demanding nor hurried, but rather cold and detached, "You may leave your shoes at the door."
"My lady?"
"I should prefer the room to remain how it is," Your eyes met her in the mirror and you flinched at the cold disdain in her eyes. "Do remember that."
Your gaze fell to your feet, which is how you noticed your time outside had left remain inf grass and soil still clinging to your shoes. With some hesitation, you slipped your stocking clad feet out and padded cautiously into the room. Her delicate features did not waver, and you accepted that as a small mercy.
It wasn't an foreign sensation, dressing her that is. Your hands feel into a tentative rhythm, barely passing over her bare, unblemished skin to garb her in a modest chemise and stockings before fitting her corset in place. And as you tied the cinches, you briefly considered tying too tight. Not enough to hurt, you did not possess enough bravery, but enough to leave her winded. You dispelled that thought and finished adjusting the skirts over her petticoat.
It was when she ordered you to style her hair, sat daintily in front of her vanity, that she deigned to inform you, "Duke Bruce of the Wayne Family is expected this evening."
You caught a knot in her hair, which hid your slight pause of confusion and surprise.
"There is talk of marriage between our houses." She closed her eyes, "I'm sure you heard of it."
"I...would not dare presume to know of such matters, my lady."
“I sometimes forget that your observations rarely extend beyond the customary niceties.”
You bit your tongue subtly, but confusion and astonishment warred in you.
The maids had spoken the truth, which in itself was a surprise: Duke Wayne was indeed to arrive at the Earl’s estate, seemingly with the purpose of marriage in mind. The notion was so improbable, so preposterous, that it bordered on the absurd, as if plucked from the pages of some tawdry penny dreadful sold upon the street corners. One could scarcely speak in terms of pedigree, being born of a former maid of the Earl’s household, scarcely more than an insect. Yet, if the Earl was a steed, then Duke Wayne appeared as the sun, dazzling and unattainable.
Parting her shiny tresses, you tried to focus on the intricate bun you were tasked with, but your mind continued to wander even as your hands worked.
The Wayne Family lacked neither wealth nor name and, if anything, were unparalleled in both aspects. Therefore, there would be no practical reason for that man to lower himself in marriage. If such a concession were ever required, there were families across Gotham who would gladly present daughters of unblemished blood and adequate fortune—families far better suited than the Earl’s household could ever hope to be. That man had never shown any inclination towards matrimony to begin with, despite having more than enough dalliances on whim. Marriage, then, could not be necessity, nor could it be desire, at least not as Gotham understood it.
Which left only the uneasy conclusion that this union served some other purpose entirely; one that lay well beyond your understanding, and, perhaps, beyond your place to question.
"I have finished, my lady." She rose soon after you uttered those words, but did not turn to acknowledge you. Silence stretched like a chasm between the two of you.
"And where were you meant to be this evening?” she asked at last.
"The scullery, my Lady. There is still laundry to—”
“No,” she interrupted lightly. “You will attend in the parlor.”
You hesitated, only a fraction of a second.
“A certain standard of comportment will be expected of you,” She spoke into the mirror. “I trust I need not explain that.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
"My lady," A moment passed for you to recognize that voice as not your own but of another maid, behind you and coming from the doorway. "The master requests your presence to receive the guests."
The Lady did not answer, simply waving her away in dismissal of both of you, like one who was wafting away the lingering whisper of smoke, “Attend to your duties.”
“Yes, my Lady,” the maid said quickly, and you echoed her a heartbeat later.
As she passed you, the Lady’s voice floated by you with a pleasant and precise cadence.
"And do not make a habit of presenting yourself in such a condition. The servants of this house are expected to reflect its dignity.”
“I—”
“See that she is corrected,” she finished, already leaving.
Her parting words didn't invoke fear, as they once had, but rather a quiet sense of resignation. Dull and familiar, it sunk to the pit of your stomach. The maid, turning to take in the state of you.
The maid looked you over, her mouth thinning. “What are you standing about for?” she hissed. “Get to the parlor.”
She hurried off before you could answer.
The others were always emboldened after such moments, eager to imitate the Lady’s displeasure in cruder ways. This one lingered only long enough to watch. Perhaps she possessed less courage than most.
The notion left you once you fetched your worn loafers, glass splintering beneath your feet.
Discarding the bloodied shards required very little time, but it not lend itself to allow you to properly dress young wounds. Any attempt at haste was answered with searing pain, each step a reminder as you threaded your way through the ceaseless movement of servants hurrying to and fro. Beneath the low hum of their voices, the unmistakable roll of carriage wheels reached you from the drive, iron rims striking against the cobbled stone.
Had you been inclined—or sufficiently at leisure—you might have joined the others at the tall windows, straining for a glimpse of the duke’s arrival. Such indulgence, however, was not permitted you. The silver platter awaited polishing before the tea could be prepared, and there was no one upon whom you might rely for assistance. Most of the household had been drawn to the foyer to receive the guests, while those remaining occupied themselves with tasks of questionable necessity—dusting already spotless tables, adjusting flowers that required no correction—anything, it seemed, to avoid offering you even the smallest aid.
"Can you see hi—"
"—does he look—"
" —coming this way!"
The sound of approaching footsteps cut the whispers short. At once, all three of you fell into proper order, heads bowed, hands folded, the appearance of quiet industry assumed as though by instinct. The footsteps neither hurried nor lingered for effect, crossing the threshold with the unremarkable sound of well-made boots upon polished floor as a man entered.
From the reflection of the platter in your hands, he was dressed as any gentleman of his station might be, in sober black relieved only by the faint sheen of well-kept cloth, with no flourish announcing him, nor dramatic pause that demanded attention. His posture was pulled upright, carried with a sense of natural fluidity rather than conscious effort. He removed his gloves as he walked, fingers methodical, eyes already lifted to survey the room with a quiet thoroughness that made no distinction between servant and master.
If there was disappointment at the absence of grandeur, it passed quickly. Duke Wayne did not appear the sort of man who relied upon display.
You refrained from looking directly at him, a result of instincts rather than any discipline. The very air within the parlor room seemed to swell with his presence, leaving scant enough room for you to breathe and the more primitive side of your mind to cower in submission, though you were loathed to act as such. Your fellow attendants stood on either side of you, that much you could discern through the side of your eyesight, and the only inclination that suggested they too felt the demeanor of the Master's guest were a slight quiver of their hands.
"—And I do hope you enjoy your evening at my humble estate, Your Grace" The Master followed behind him, ever so considerate, and gestured for the lot of you to prepare the tea.
You hesitated and gave the girl to your right the opportunity to pour the tea, while the girl to your left drew out the seats and left you to stand in solitude. The Lady, graceful with a poised and demure smile, was seated next to her father, while the Master sat across from Duke Wayne.
Duke Wayne graced the two with a nod of acknowledgement, "I will be more than gratified to spend my time within your estate."
He relented his felt top hat to the willing grasp of the closest maid, "And if your warm reception is the least bit indicative of your consideration, then I believe I will be in good hands."
"We are thankful this household has met your expectations, Your Grace." The Lady intoned with a gentle eloquence, and Duke Wayne deigned her a single glance before continuing.
"I do hope the brevity of my notice did not inconvenience you, my Lord."
To which the Master quickly assured the man while he sipped at his own cup, "Oh, please think nothing of it, Your Grace. If you had not arrived, then there would be no one to enjoy this Assam blend with."
Duke Wayne allowed a polite smile over the brim of his cup as the Master spoke, though his gaze did not linger upon him for long. It drifted instead, though briefly, almost incidentally, to girls who stand back at attention beside you.
“You need not stand so still,” he said mildly, as though the remark was meant for the room at large. “It gives the impression that one is being watched.”
The Master chuckled at this, mistaking it for a jest. “Ah—yes. They do tend toward solemnity when company arrives.”
“So I have observed,” Duke Wayne replied.
He set his cup down with deliberate care, the sound carrying farther than it ought to have.
“You,” he added, without turning.
Your breath caught before you could help it and so did the other maids. There was a pause that was just long enough to be unmistakable, before he continued, his tone unaltered.
“There is no need for you to remain on your feet. You may go while I speak to your master.”
The Lady’s smile tightened, ever so slightly.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the Master said at once, already waving a hand in dismissal, eager to please. “Leave us be.”
You moved because you were expected to rather than you wished to. As you stepped away, the pain in your foot flared sharply and betrayed you with a falter you could not entirely disguise. Pitching yourself forward, you stumbled a half-stride and the maids distanced themselves from your ungraceful display. The Master's brow furrowed in displeasure and the Lady eyed you with cool disdain. Your only saving grace was that your grip on the silver platter had remained steady.
And yet, Duke Wayne’s voice followed, calm and precise.
“Careful.”
It was spoken softly; too gentle to be a rebuke, too measured to be concern. When you dared a glance at the polished surface of the sideboard as you passed, his eyes were there watching you with a steely blue gaze. The intensity darkened his eyes to fierce shade, with intentions you could scarcely deduce before quickly bowing and making a retreat.