Work Text:
The Rutledge Hotel had for many years attracted the very crème de la crème of society from Britain, Europe and even America. Politicians, opera stars, royalty and the extremely wealthy all mingled under the roof which covered six city blocks in London’s Mayfair district. The proprietor, Harry Rutledge, was a known technology connoisseur, and the hotel boasted the first shower-baths in the city, the first electric lights, and there was not a shilling to be spared on luxury. Even in the most standard guest rooms, everything was smooth mahogany, rich velvets, intricate gold filigree and sparkling crystal.
For the past year or so, however, Harry Rutledge (always tolerated for his eccentricities because of his widely renowned hospitality) had been seen in rages against guests, even personally ejecting two young men from the hotel with his own bare hands. These fits of temper were a great source of spectacle and rather than detracting from profits, it doubled the hotel’s already sizable business. The past summer, when London was often empty of the privileged set, who retreated to their country estates to escape the insufferable heat and stench of the city, the hotel had been completely booked out every weekend. In polite society, it was stated that the hotel’s new health spa was the draw, but behind closed doors, everyone knew the truth.
Elizabeth Rutledge had turned eighteen in May, still too young to be presented at court this year, but old enough to send the hearts (and less principled parts of anatomy) of the ton’s young men racing. Shy boys had tried to gift her with peonies (when word spread that it was her favorite flower) and bolder ones had written letters. Cleverer boys took up quoting Isaac Newton in the dining room of the Rutledge when she was in earshot, hoping to earn the approval of her father. Mostly, it earned glares, and sometimes threats, and of course, on the aforementioned two occasions, bodily removal from the premises. (In a curious reversal of roles, both sets of parents of the two boys had written epic apology letters to Harry for their sons’ behavior, fervently hoping that they would still be allowed back to the hotel.)
Harry Rutledge had endured the holy hell of watching his first, beloved daughter (the spitting image of her mother) blossoming into the quote, unquote ‘most beautiful girl in London, Britain, the world!’, each day with a growing dread that the time would soon come when he would have to relinquish her. “We have a ways to go with Anna and Caroline,” Poppy, his wife, had told him with a smile one evening, when she commented that it seemed he was always frowning these days. “You still have years yet before you have to start terrifying their suitors.” Rather than be comforted by the thought of his fourteen- and twelve-year-old daughters, Harry rather felt sick to his stomach that this would be an experience he would have to go through three times.
“It’s no less than you deserve,” Lord Ramsay, Harry’s brother-in-law, had told him one night at the end of August, while the Rutledges were visiting Poppy’s family estate in Hampshire. “What you did when you somehow finagled my sister into marrying you? It’s only fair that you have a perfectly beautiful, sweet daughter that every son-of-a-bitch peer in London will want. The universe wouldn’t have it any other way.” They were seated on the terrace in the back of the house, looking out onto the lawn where the large brood of Hathaway cousins (as they were affectionately called by their aunties, though none had that surname) were chasing fireflies in the summer twilight. Rye, the eldest of the bunch, lifted six-year-old Brenna Merripen high over his head, making her gasp with delight. It seemed they never tired of childhood games when all together.
Leo smiled at the sight of his own eighteen-year-old twins. Emmaline, his pretty, dark-haired daughter would debut at court next spring with Elizabeth, but at least the question of what filthy rogue would try to seduce her was far from his mind. Emmaline and Russell Bowman had been smitten with each other since she met him when she was ten years old at the annual summer picnic given for all the children in Stony Cross by Russell’s aunt, the Countess of Westcliff. He’d tugged on her braids, she told him he was a very rude boy, and that was it for the both of them. Russell was still very young. But he was a smart, steady lad, and best of all, not a peer. His father was American, even. Peers were too lazy, and would never know what to do with themselves- Leo was a fine example of that himself. Though it would never be easy to give his first daughter away, even the proud papa could admit that there would be no finer boy than Russell Bowman for his Emmie.
Emmaline’s twin, Edward, was bespectacled and serious, and more soft-spoken than his more boisterous cousins, though he stood firm on his honest, steady principles. He was a clear thinker, and an avid scholar like the grandfather he had been named for and would make a fine voice in Parliament one day. When the twins were twelve, (against the wishes of his wife) Leo brought Edward to America with him to work in a Philadelphia hospital after the country’s long, bloody war had ended. He watched his son grow up in those few weeks, caring for wounded soldiers, and he took up studying philosophies of peace and freedom on their return to England. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve a son to be so proud of, but he suspected Cat had more to do with it than him, anyway. Edward was also more patient than anyone else in the family with his fourteen-year-old brother Henry, always helping him fix his necktie and nudging him awake in church. Adelaide, the youngest at twelve, was still very much a princess and a child. He contented himself with that thought.
“Don’t be so damn smug with yourself,” Harry muttered to Leo, his brows knit tightly together. “A lot can happen over a season.” And if he could help it, he would avoid the whole subject of coming out (what an awful phrase for one’s daughter) as long as possible. No harm in waiting a year or two…or twelve.
Though not much did happen over the course of the next season- autumn, that is- save for a marvelous harvest at Ramsay House, leading to a quiet (as quiet as the Hathaways could be), cozy Christmas. As was her tradition, Amelia Rohan, the eldest Hathaway, read the Nativity story by firelight on Christmas Eve, with Brenna perched on her auntie’s lap. Nine-year-old Rebecca Phelan sat next to them, and Amelia’s own daughter Tali on the other, hanging onto every word. The rest of the Hathaways and their children were scattered around the room, with Griffin Rohan, John Phelan and Henry laying on their stomachs by the fireplace, each cradling a sleeping puppy. Caroline and Adelaide camped under the grand piano under one blanket. “The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.” Rebecca’s head followed the movement of her aunt closing the Bible with a sigh.
“Come now, dear,” Win reached for her daughter. “Time for bed, and for Father Christmas to come.”
“I’m not sleepy,” Brenna protested through a yawn, and her father chuckled and lifted her against his shoulder.
“You too, boys,” Kev called to his sons, eleven-year-old Tamas and nine-year-old Mihai, who pouted but followed their parents upstairs.
“Girls, I think you should retire as well,” Amelia prompted to Caroline, Tali, Rebecca and Adelaide, and then Poppy looked at her willful middle child. Anna pleaded with her father.
“Another half hour? I’m fourteen now.” She looked pointedly over her shoulder at Griffin and Henry, both her age, and John, who was even a year younger than her.
Mirela, Kev and Win’s golden-haired fifteen-year-old daughter, sighed and took her cousin’s hand. “Come on, Anna. Let’s go see if we can’t make one more Christmas wish.” The rest of the younger children followed suit, filing out of the room in two’s and three’s.
When Kev and Win had returned to the drawing room, Cam opened a bottle of ’48 champagne and poured a glass for the ladies- the first glasses for Elizabeth and Emmaline, and gave his younger son Alex and Edward a spot of brandy before pouring a more generous amount for the rest of the men, including his own son Rye and Jado Merripen. His dark eyes glinted with mischief as he stood by the fireplace, raising his glass in toast. The family expected a lengthy discourse, full of Gypsy platitudes, but he merely said, “To a prosperous 1872.”
“Here, here!” Leo replied heartily, easily downing his brandy, a very nice vintage that he had asked Cam to save for this Christmas.
“Slainte,” Win added, raising her flute. The Merripens had flourished in Ireland, with Kev coming to appreciate that side of his heritage if not his relatives.
When everyone had slowly started to sip their drinks, Elizabeth exchanged a glance with her mama, and Poppy nodded imperceptibly. She blinked very quickly at Beatrix, who was in on their little plan for the evening.
“Poppy, you will never guess who I ran into while walking the hogs the other day,” Beatrix began, with a carefully studied casualness.
“Who was that, dear?” Poppy feigned boredom.
“Well, Mrs. Simon Hunt! Here visiting Lord and Lady Westcliff for the Christmas holiday,” Beatrix said, intentionally raising her voice.
“Well, that’s just lovely,” Poppy smiled sweetly. “Did she…did she have any news to share?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, she did ask me to pass along a message to you,” Beatrix recited, perhaps gesturing a bit more than she did when they rehearsed that afternoon. Her husband raised his eyebrows at her, and chuckled into his brandy. This would be good. “She said that she would be happy to sponsor Elizabeth in her upcoming season.”
Harry had been in the process of taking a sip, upon hearing this gulped his drink down hard. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Poppy and Beatrix went on, ignoring him (which was all part of the act), and Elizabeth demurely sipped her champagne (as was her role). “Well, wasn’t that lovely of her to offer!” Poppy said. “Her papa does detest court.” Win and Amelia, catching on, hid their smiles behind their own champagne flutes.
“I do not!” Harry raised his own voice, to the amusement of Leo. “I don’t detest court!”
“Papa, but you don’t enjoy it,” Elizabeth spoke up, her wide blue eyes earnest on her father. Elizabeth was perhaps a hair more spoiled than her sisters. When she was a little girl, Harry thought her nearly too dainty and fragile to step over cracks in the sidewalk, and all it took were the slightest bright smiles for him to fall on himself to indulge her every whim. And he was rewarded tenfold, with butterfly kisses, tight hugs and adoring, “I love you, Papa’s”. Poppy kept her daughter balanced, and she had her own set of chores at the Rutledge, and lessons every day, and Elizabeth shared her mother’s sweet disposition, and her keen curiosity and intellect. By the time Anna and Caroline were born, Harry realized that little girls were not so breakable, but he still could not help his fierce, almost irrational overprotectiveness of his daughters, and his even more ludicrous wish to sometimes keep them shut away from the horror and ugliness of reality.
“Correct, dear,” Poppy smiled indulgently at her eldest. “And as the Hunts are more than willing to-“
“The Hunts!” Harry was on his feet now, and Cam hunched his head over to hide his laughter, and even Kev turned up the corners of his mouth (an expression of high amusement, coming from him). “Simon Hunt is a snake in the grass and he will be responsible for no daughter of mine! He has his own damn daughter!”
“Papa,” Elizabeth said, with no thoughts to follow. She hadn’t imagined he would be this upset. They had a rivalry, her papa and Mr. Hunt, and it had all began over patents and technologies and…other business matters. Usually her father stopped talking about such matters when she was in the room.
“Harry,” Poppy joined in, laying her smooth hand on her husband’s arm in an effort to calm him.
But he was beyond calming down now. He pointed at his daughter. “You will have a bloody coming out the likes of which the blasted ton has never seen! It will be talked about for years!”
“Papa,” Elizabeth said again, shakily. The phrase, Be careful what you wish for ran through her mind.
“And you’re not to be spared either!” Harry turned and swung his attention at Emmaline.
“Uncle Harry,” Emmaline echoed her cousin, eyes wide.
“Now look here, Rutledge,” Leo began, standing up. He couldn’t help cracking a smile though he tried to keep his face as stern as possible. “Who are you, to threaten my daughter with a lavish ball?”
“I’m her godfather, that’s who!”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” Cam stood up between Harry and Leo, gently pressing them away from each other. “It’s Christmas, no?” He steered Harry back to his wife and Leo back to his and the group began to retire for the evening, Elizabeth and Emmaline arm in arm, the boys following, and the couples last.
Kev went about the room putting out lamps while Win waited by the door for him to go upstairs. When he walked over to her, he kissed her forehead tenderly. “Merry Christmas, my wife.”
“Merry Christmas, my husband,” she answered, eyes bright with love for her husband of almost twenty years.
“May I ask you a question?” He asked, taking her hand and leading her up the stairs.
“Of course.”
He stopped as they reached the doorway of their apartments, turning her to face him, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Am I as easy to manage as Harry?”
“Oh, my love,” Win laughed softly, pulling her tall husband down for a proper Christmas kiss- they were under the mistletoe after all.
Five children later and Kev could still kiss her and take her breath away and as he pulled back, making a satisfied sound from deep inside of him, he sighed. “That’s what I thought. I’m hopeless.” He made a savage growling noise and gave her a small, sharp rap on her bottom, making her squeal with excitement before closing the world away from them.