Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bunty fairly flounces away from the car, to Lady Felicia’s amusement. “Darling, I did say your father would be cross,” she says, following after rolling her eyes at Sid.

“Well, I had hoped he'd be cross with you too, which would at least have taken the sting out of it,” Bunty snaps.

Felicia folds her arms, eyebrow raised. “You charming girl,” she says, mild as she can.

“I'm not a girl.”

“No, Bunty, you're a spoilt child.” Bunty glares at her aunt and sweeps into the hallway. Her scarf is angrily tugged off and almost ruined, the expensive silk fluttering to the floor. “Pick that up,” Felicia says, patience worn rather thin.

Bunty looks her dead in the eyes and drops her coat to join it on the floor. “You aren't my mother.”

“I should hope I would have imbued better manners if I was!” Bunty tugs off a glove to join her clothes on the floor. “You are a guest in my house, and you will pick them up! ” Lady Felicia is actually angry now, the infamous but semi-mythological Montague bark echoing throughout the large, empty house.

The last glove falls to the tiles between them.

They turn and storm apart. White with rage, Lady Felicia goes upstairs; red with shame and hurt, Bunty goes into the gardens.

An hour later, Mrs M calls Felicia to the kitchens. “Sid let me in,” she explains. “The oven at the Presbytry has become much more temperamental since Father Brown tried to mend it and I needed to practise my strawberry scones. And now, I need taste testers.”

“Oh, Mrs M, you know they're good, you surely don't need-” Felicia starts, then stops when she sees Bunty, eyes still red-rimmed from crying. Mrs M closes the door after herself.

There is a pause. Felicia sits at the table, picking up a plate and scone and picking at it.

Bunty, resolved to move, promptly does so all at once. She tugs out a chair, collapses into it and grabs her aunt's hands. “I'm sorry,” she says desperately and quickly. “I was rude and I didn't mean it and I do like it here; please don't send me home.”

Lady Felicia looks shocked. “Bunty, of course I won't send you home. I know you didn't mean it, and I'm sorry too. It's rough to be shouted at, and rotten from family.” She squeezes her hands and Bunty musters a smile, before reclaiming them to wipe her eyes and pick up a scone.

Mrs M opens the door again. “How are we feeling now?”

Bunty beams at her. “Much better, thanks.”

“My scones are well-known to have restorative powers,” she says, nodding wisely with no small amount of pride.

“Mrs M, you are a superhero,” Lady Felicia declares. “What would we do without you?”

Chapter Text

The happy couple is quite young, but a lot of the guests are quite old, and Susie is going to scream.

She fumes gently, subtly, smiling all the while, as she serves drinks and tiny stupid canapes to stupid smarmy people. As soon as she opens her mouth, the looks begin: it's instantly clear that she's not English, dangerously foreign and a job-stealing immigrant.

Susie Jasinski, MA, is going to beat the lot of them round the head with her tray.

It doesn't help that they are all clearly Catholic like her, and she doesn't remember the part which says “love thy neighbour, unless she's Polish and just doing her job.” It also doesn't help that she's generalising wildly and many of them have been perfectly lovely, which is making her feel unreasonable and uncharitable. She's being gaslighted by her own conscience.

Tray emptied, she returns to the corridor by the kitchen and leans against the wall. She huffs, blowing her fringe off her forehead, and rubs her heel. She's going to have blisters, she knows it.

“Mama, it's a wedding; how badly-behaved can I be?” a crisp, aristocratic voice rings out, triumphant and deliberately vexing. It is followed by possibly the most elegant woman Susie has ever seen, a picture in black silk and crimson lipstick, grinning down her phone. She spots Susie, who reminds her mouth to shut, and winks at her. “Oh, would you know, mama?” Susie suppresses a grin as the lady holds the phone an exaggerated distance from her ear. They can both hear the tinny anger, and when it quietens slightly it is returned to her ear. “Mama, there is a simply beautiful young lady here, and it would be criminal not to flirt with her. Talk soon.” With an elegantly manicured nail, she ends the call on yet more tinny shouting. The lady flashes Susie a bright smile, and the waitress blushes. “I'm Bunty, professional disappointment and troublemaker.”

Susie shakes the proffered hand nervously, willing her palms not to sweat. “Susie. I restore paintings.” She feels the inexplicable need to prove that she is not staff.

Bunty’s eyes light up. “Really? My aunt’s got dozens of old paintings which need TLC. Come on,” she says, catching Susie’s wrist and dragging her towards the ballroom, “she'd love to meet you.”

“I couldn't!” she protests. “I'm working.”

Bunty rolls her eyes affectionately. “I know, she's employing you. Come on.”

Susie has time enough to lean the tray against the wall before she is swept up and in amongst the guests and - dancing with Bunty.

Susie frowns in confusion, scrunching her nose up. “Oh, goodness,” Bunty says softly. “That is adorable.”

“Why are we dancing?” Susie manages.

“We're at a wedding. Dancing is the only fun bit.” Bunty spins her neatly and sweeps them around the room in a way that suggests an expensive education. Susie tries valiantly to keep her feet underneath her and not on Bunty’s toes.

“I thought we were going to see your aunt,” she says helplessly, relaxing into Bunty’s hold in concession to this turn of events.

“We will,” Bunty grins. “But Lady Felicia Montague is chatting to her best friend-slash-arch nemesis, and we can't disturb her yet.”

As they twirl, Susie catches sight of two women exchanging sharp comments and delighting in every moment of it and giggles. Bunty sweeps her into a dip, faces inches apart. “Wait. Montague?”

Bunty looks slightly disappointed, but mostly confused. “Yes. Why?”

Susie beams. “One of the best privately-owned art collections in the whole country, Bunty, is in your aunt's house. And I might be able to see it. Work on it.” She drops a hand from Bunty’s shoulder to press it to her chest. “Can you imagine!”

Bunty grins at her. “Susie, you are adorable, and you will have your art nerd dream.” Susie giggles at that and Bunty tilts her head. “But this position is becoming hard to hold, so could I kiss you now?”

“Oh. Um, yes, I'd like that.”

Across the room, two ladies sigh and sip their drinks in tandem. “Well, I'm not telling her mother.”

“Why should you? She'll probably tell her herself,” Mrs M says.

Chapter Text

Lady Felicia sips her tea thoughtfully, and Mrs McCarthy sighs. “Well?” she demands. “What is it now?”

Startled, Felicia raises her eyebrows. “I don't know what you mean.”

“What's got you so pensive? You aren't usually deep in thought about anything.”

She sends the older woman a withering look. “Thanks, Mrs M.” They sip their tea in silence for a moment. “It's my husband,” she says suddenly.

Mrs McCarthy looks up at her from across the table, but she won't meet her eyes.

“He's gone away again, you see.” Mrs M nods, knowing this, but not seeing the significance. “It's just...not how it happens in books. Not what I had imagined.”

“Well,” Mrs M says, practical but unsure, “You could go with him sometimes.”

Lady Felicia shakes her head. “It isn't that. I had just imagined that...well, that I would mind more. I like him, I really do,” she says, at her friend's shocked look. “But that's it. I just like him.”

“Not love, then?” Felicia shakes her head again and Mrs M hums. “Why did you marry him?”

She shrugs. “Expectations. Seemed like a good idea. I wanted to; I wanted him.” Mrs M looks at her lap, blushing, but Felicia just stares out the window at the grey clouds and sips her tea again. “It always seems to have been that way.”

There is a long pause, and a small part of Felicia is amused by Mrs M, finally without words. But it is not Felicia who breaks the silence.

“It always seems to have been the other way with me.” Felicia looks back at her, surprised, but Mrs M is engaged with the contents of her teacup. “I never - wanted anyone. But I did love my husband. He wanted more of me than I did of him, I think.”

Felicia smiles, soft and sympathetic, and reaches over to squeeze her friend's hand. Mrs McCarthy offers her a small smile in return and offers her a biscuit.

It isn't a conversation either will have again with anyone; it is their nameless secret, a little more understandable for having been shared. For knowing that they are not alone.