Chapter Text
Hair in a chignon. Silken dress draped over her body.
Cressida was as ready as she would ever be for the concert in but a few hours.
She waited in the wings with other students who had spent just as many months studying and practicing. They were known by association, but they did not greet her, nor she, them. She was happy to find she was situated in the middle of the pack and would make no statement either way. Guests would not use her as a yardstick for performance and she would not close the event when people were fatigued.
Cressida did not entirely trust anyone would be there for her.
Her parents would not be in attendance as they never had been while she was at Aubrey. Too far a trip, they would say, or it was not that notable a concert. Perhaps they would deign to attend her final concert, the one that would decide whether she earned her degree—but even that was unlikely. It struck her as off, if a little sad, that her parents would not make this effort, but they loved to trot her out in front of their London contemporaries as if she was just a crystalline decoration to be admired but not touched. Unless by her husband.
She would be damned to allow Fife to ever touch her with such familiarity.
A hush came upon them as the concert began in earnest. From their antechamber they could hear the muffled voice of the person making their introductions, to speak of their accomplishments and expectations. The first student was ushered in.
They listened. They waited.
One by one, students were led through until it was Cressida’s turn.
About her performance, she was not nervous. As to whether anyone she cared about was in attendance, that constricted her throat like tightening vines. She stepped out on the stage and was promptly blinded when she glanced toward the audience for how brightly the lights shone. It was an uncomfortable heat, just the faintest line of sweat across her hairline. She situated herself; she did not need her music.
She played.
It was always a surreal experience for her when she performed as such. She fell into the music, felt it sweep over her, and yet—she did not lose herself. She had never felt such divine inspiration to finally signal that yes, this was her life’s pursuit. Forget opening a door and finding no one behind; she had no key. Abstractly, she knew she was playing well, her fingers flying, nary a note out of place. She may not have loved what she did, but she would never be anything less than perfect. She could not afford otherwise.
Her final note rang out, a beat of silence, then applause. It was not a raucous thing, no standing ovation, simply just applause. That was the culmination of countless hours of hard work. She had not expected anything different. She stood, she curtseyed, then sightlessly gave one glance toward light and blurred color, then left as she came. It was over.
She was alone again.
An indeterminate amount of time later, they were shuffled toward a banquet room where there were food and drinks, where attendees could mingle with and congratulate those who had performed. Normally, Cressida would make a note of finding an instructor, to smile and nod and take in any appreciation, then quietly slip out the door and walk home.
Against her better judgment, she looked for Penelope. She looked for Alfred.
She found no one.
She allowed herself one short laugh, a mocking little thing, then found the closest of her instructors she could find. Congratulations were given—she had performed well—and a note for them to follow up at her next lesson. She smiled and nodded, a delicate thing carved onto her face, then turned and left.
She didn’t make it to the exit.
Penelope and Colin and Alfred were waiting for her.
“Cressida, that was wonderful,” Penelope breathed, just briefly taking her hand. “I knew you practiced a lot, but that was—” she shook her head. “That was something.”
Cressida flushed, surprised and pleased. “I—thank you.” No one had ever said as such to her, no one who was not a part of her program.
“I’ll admit, that wasn’t what I expected,” Colin said, his easy smile in place. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”
“I’ll take it,” she said dryly.
She was afraid to look at Alfred; she was afraid if she glanced at him, he would feel obligated to say such things as well.
But Alfred simply nodded and said, “Well done.”
Cressida took it for what it was, smiling in return.
“How long do you normally stay here?” Penelope asked, looking around.
“Oh, I’m usually gone by now,” Cressida admitted. More quietly, she added, “The food usually isn’t that good, though feel free to grab anything you like.”
“I’m hardly one to say no to free food,” Colin said, then took Penelope’s hand as easy as breathing. “Join me?”
Drawn to his orbit, Penelope nodded, allowing herself to be led away.
It took everything in Cressida to appear unaffected in front of Alfred, though her inclination was to press a hand to her stomach to keep the nerves from spilling over.
“Cressida,” Alfred murmured. “Truly, that was something special.”
She did not quite believe him, did not quite believe anyone, but she nodded.
“How did it feel?” he asked.
It took her a moment to understand what he was saying. “How it felt? It was—” Normal. Expected. A little boring. “I’m glad it went well.”
He watched her, then nodded. “It went more than well.”
She hoped her cheeks did not look as warm as they felt. “Thank you,” she said shyly.
Colin and Penelope came back to them empty handed.
“You weren’t wrong, this is pretty terrible,” Colin whispered, but it felt like a shared joke.
Penelope looked between Cressida and Alfred. “Cressida, we should do brunch soon.”
“Oh, alright,” Cressida said. “That—sure.”
“Colin, we should head out, we don’t want to overstay,” she said, just a touch too pointed for Cressida’s comfort.
“We should—yes, of course. Cressida, seriously, this was great, thank you for inviting us.”
Cressida nodded. “Perhaps I can come to your next reading then, both of you.”
Colin lit up. “I’d like that.”
Penelope took her hand once more, a gentle squeeze. “Text me later. I’m in the mood for bottomless mimosas.”
Cressida laughed. “I think we can make that work.” She smiled as they exited.
It was only her and Alfred now.
“Do you want to stay?” he asked politely.
“God, no,” Cressida said. “I just want to change and breathe for the first time in ages.”
“Did you walk here?”
“I did, it’s not terribly far,” she said, though the weather was cold and her dress was thin.
He nodded slowly, then said. “Do you want a ride?”
It took her but a moment to consider. “Yes.”
They made their way to the exit, him opening the door for her.
“Oh, shit,” she laughed as a blast of cold air met them. “It’s so hot up there, you forget.”
“Is it?” he prompted, steering them toward the parking lot.
“The lights are unbearable sometimes,” she admitted. “Can’t see a thing and they’re just blasting heat at you.”
“I don’t think I could ever perform like that,” he said, then stopped them at an unassuming compact that she couldn’t pick out of a lineup. He came around the side to open her door, no production of it.
She murmured a thank you as she got in, then froze once he closed the door.
This was Alfred’s space, a peek into a life she was just beginning to understand. It was clean, it was uninteresting, it was simply a car. As he walked around, she chanced a look at the back seat and was a little charmed to find several thick books haphazardly piled.
The door opened and he folded his tall frame in.
“Do you need a bigger car?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said. “This works. Great gas mileage.”
“How many road trips has this car seen on the way to study birds?”
“Oh, plenty,” he said, shifting the car into gear. “Your timing is apt, normally I keep a pair of field boots in the well there. Must be kismet. So where are we going?”
But she only half heard him, very much aware of his hand on the gear shift, long fingers curled around it. She knew the feel of that hand, if only briefly. He turned on the heat, which was both welcome and made her a touch sleepy after everything. She gave directions; it was mostly a straight shot.
It emboldened her to say, “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” he said as if it were a given. “I enjoyed seeing you in your element.”
“My element,” she mused, unsure how to parse that.
A pause. “Perhaps that’s not how you would put it,” he gathered. “I’m not—unaware that this isn’t exactly what you’re passionate about.”
She looked at him sharply, but his eyes were on the road.
“What does that mean?” she said a little more tersely than she wanted.
He glanced at her, his mouth twisting. “Sorry, forget I said anything.”
But she couldn’t, not when she felt so exposed. “Does it come across that way when I play?” Her stomach ached. “I’ve worked so hard to—”
“No, no,” he quickly said. “That comment had nothing to do with how well you played. You’re more than proficient. It’s just based on previous conversation we’ve had, is all.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
It welled in her, feeling like she wanted to cry. It was too much, too revealing, to have someone see past her and poke at such an open wound that refused to heal. “I’m trying my best,” she whispered.
“I know you are,” he said quietly as they pulled up in front of her building. He shut off the engine. They sat in silence.
She needed to leave, to blindly find the handle and throw herself out the car and strive as hard as she could to simply walk past him up the stairs before she fell apart. It was supposed to be a secret, something even she wouldn’t name, and this man she had just met pressed on it perhaps without realizing.
“I’m sorry,” she sighed, embarrassed.
He finally twisted in his seat to look at her. “Please don’t apologize,” he murmured, brow furrowed. “I’m not sure why I said it.”
“Maybe because it’s true,” she said faintly, tasting the words as they left her mouth. “You would think by now I would have a better grasp on it.”
“It’s not a thing to grasp, not the way you’re saying,” he said, sounding pained. “It’s not for me or anyone else to tell you how you feel. Whether you enjoy the piano or not is entirely up to you. If you’re passionate about it, that’s wonderful. If you’re—if you’re not, then that’s OK, too.”
She shook her head. “It’s not OK. If my mother ever found out,” she said, more to herself. She looked at him in return, saw the unease in his face. “It’s fine, truly. I only need to work on how it comes across.”
“But Cressida,” he murmured, “Do you enjoy it? Oh,” he added and she realized her cheeks were wet.
She scrubbed at them, mortified to be found crying in his car after he was nice enough to offer her a ride. “I don’t think so,” she confessed, then laughed wetly. “I don’t think so. Why are you asking me this?”
He shrugged helplessly against his seatbelt. “I just want you to be happy. I didn’t realize how—”
How loaded this was. And how could he possibly, with the way she kept him at arm’s length?
“I should go,” she said, but made no move to leave. She was tired and raw and for all the conversation she had, she still found comfort being around him.
He nodded, earnestly remorseful.
She sobbed.
“Oh,” he said again, then tentatively put a hand on her arm.
“Just give me a moment,” she gasped, her embarrassment having peaked and come out the other side where she was too burnt to feel it anymore. His hand was a warm, grounding brand on her arm. After a moment, his arm slid down her wrist featherlight, then gently took her hand; she clutched it.
He quietly held her hand as she composed herself.
She sniffled, then loosened her hand; he let her go. “And after all the effort you went to see me play.”
“I’m honored you shared it with me,” he said.
Nodding, she put her hand on the handle, then hesitated. “Can I text you later or is that too much?”
His eyes widened. “You still want to talk to me? After I said all of—this?”
“I don’t like you any less, it’s just a sore subject,” she murmured. “Unless you don’t want to talk to me after I just cried all over you—”
“Please text me,” he said.
They stared at each other. Her makeup must have been a mess, she certainly felt raw to touch. But he just watched her, waiting, and it ached to have someone see such a side of her and still want—that he wanted—
She wanted to lean forward.
She opened the car door instead.
“Goodnight, Alfred,” she said.
“Goodnight,” he replied.
She made it to the front door, heard him turn the engine.
He waited until she entered.
Cressida needed her mimosa bottomless.
She was bleary the next morning, her face puffy from having cried; she stared at herself in the mirror for five minutes before pushing herself away. It was not as if Penelope would care what she looked like. It was—she shouldn’t care what anyone thought of how she looked.
Except she hadn’t spoken to Alfred since last night. She wasn’t sure if she was to reach out first. She wasn’t sure if he had wanted her to or if he was just being polite in the face of a sobbing woman. She simply wasn’t sure.
Penelope was blunt, she would tell her the truth.
“You look like shit,” Penelope said as Cressida joined her at the restaurant table. “I thought last night went well.” She frowned. “Did something happen between you and Alfred?”
She wasn’t ready yet. “Do you often go to social events with Colin or was I a special occasion?”
Penelope narrowed her eyes, then huffed. “It’s pretty often these days.”
Cressida hummed, looking over the menu.
“Do I need to beat Alfred up?” Penelope asked.
“What does Colin do when he walks you home at night?” Cressida said.
“Cressida.”
“Penelope.”
“Did he hurt you,” Penelope asked softly.
“No,” Cressida said quickly. “We perhaps had, I don’t know. Not a disagreement. He just pushed a button I hadn’t quite realized was so—fraught.”
“About your mother?” Penelope guessed.
Cressida hesitated, but Penelope was different. Alfred was someone she was still trying to impress. She assumed Penelope already thought little of her.
“About not wanting to perform,” Cressida offered quietly. “About not necessarily enjoying it much. So, well, I suppose in a way, this is about my mother.”
“That’s complicated,” Penelope acknowledged. “Mothers are always hot buttons to press. I know Colin tries to be mindful about speaking of my family, my mother and sisters both.”
“He cares for you,” Cressida murmured. “I hope you see that, if nothing else.”
“I know he does. But he’s a very generous person, his love for others is abundant. That, and we’ve known each other for ages. How could I—”
A server came with their mimosas; he read the room, quietly dropping them off and leaving.
“How could I believe there is anything more to it,” Penelope continued.
Cressida took a careful sip of her drink. “Tell me, what signs should I look for if Alfred was interested in me?”
“If—alright,” Penelope said. “I would think of how he looks at you, the way you are when you talk, how it is when it’s quiet between you. Does he speak to you strictly as a friend or do you ever stop to wonder—why does this make my stomach flutter? Does he touch you at all? What does your body say when he does and does it feel as such when others. Do you ever read or see something and think, I need to tell him as soon as I see him. Um, does he seek you out at social events? Does he look for you, text you, want your attention—”
“Penelope,” Cressida sighed, looking at her over the rim of her glass.
“I don’t—oh, I see what you did there. It cannot be that simple,” Penelope insisted on a quick inhale.
“It can for me, but not for you? What would you need to see or hear from him to make you believe he wants you the way you want him?”
Penelope was quiet as she considered, running her finger along the base of her glass. “I think I would need to hear it. We’ve had such intimacy between us for so long, I’m not sure I’m capable of reading anymore between what is platonic this is my sister’s friend or I want this woman in my life. Romantically.”
“Pardon me for asking, but is it possible you could say it to him first?” Cressida asked, echoing an earlier conversation.
“I’m sorry, do we want to talk about who shares what first?” Penelope groused. “I thought we were here to talk about you.”
“It can go both ways, can’t it?” Cressida asked tentatively. She did not want to examine too closely why she wanted Penelope to confide in her, too.
Penelope sighed. “It can. It should. We all have our own buttons, do we not?”
“Buttons for days,” Cressida muttered. “Sounds like maybe we both need to be a little more courageous. By the way, how was it with Alfred last night? Did you only find him at the end?”
“We sat together,” Penelope said breezily. “He’s easy to find, tall and blonde as he is. Or rather Colin found him first. He seemed a little skittish but was happy enough to sit with us.”
Cressida drummed the fingers of one hand on the tabletop. “And?”
“And? Cressida,” Penelope said, “He’s lovely.”
Cressida blushed. “I think I like him.” Her eyes widened. She thought of how he held her hand last night, the unassuming way he grounded her. She thought of how he made her laugh, made her smile when he went on about his birds. She thought of how it felt to know he really heard her, really listened to her when she stumbled her way through her musings. She thought of how kind his blue eyes were, the feel of his hands, the breadth of his shoulders in those flannel shirts.
“Oh,” Cressida said faintly. “I like him.”