Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Moral Fiber ❯ Tuesday, Week One ( Chapter 2 )

Title: Moral Fiber: Tuesday, Week One

Author: mao

Disclaimer: GundamW characters, likenesses, and plot lines are property of T.V. Asahi, Sunrise, the Sotsu Agency, Bandai, and the Cartoon Network. The story is mine and you may have it if you ask nicely.

Author's Notes: I have two reviews so far...not nearly enough! Come, on guys! Just reassure me, here!!

Warnings: Big AU

They hadn't any servants yet. They'd only moved into the manor Sunday night, and hadn't had time to even place adds for any servants of a decent character in the small paper the village had. More accurately, they had placed the ad, but the paper was a weekly, and wouldn't be out until Thursday.

Which is how, exactly, Catherine found herself in the kitchen, dank and dark as it was, attempting to prepare breakfast. They were planning a housewarming for Friday, once they would hopefully have some decent servants, or even half-decent ones to stand around in uniform and offer drinks to the guests and they wouldn't bring shame upon the Barton name by giving a poor party. They'd drawn straws and Trowa was upstairs writing the invitations, which they would give out that day to the local people.

She was dressed in her wrapper and her nightgown, clanging about the kitchen with her hair still hanging about her shoulders like a cloak. It was cold down there, walking on hard stones, barefoot as she was. She found herself holding a hankerchief to her mouth, a fit of coughing overcoming her, blood coming from her lungs and into the clean, starched white. She stumbled to a cupboard and took out the tonic the doctor had given her. She uncorked it, took a gulp, and sighed. Bitter as the stuff was, it was certainly better than hacking her lungs up.

"I'll make breakfast," her brother stood in the doorway, hair rumpled from sleep, clothing rumpled from lying in a bundle on the floor all night. If we don't get a maid soon, I may have to do all the washing myself, she groaned inwardly at the thought. Sweet, funny, and cute were her brother. Neat, unfortunately, was not.

"No, we drew straws, it's my job," she murmured, digging through the cupboards, searching for a pan. He placed a hand on her shoulder and helped her rise.

"Cathy, your handwriting is better than mine anyway. Go upstairs, where it's warm, and write them up. I got you some paper, so you can make up calling cards for yourself as well, like a proper lady." Catherine looked at him for a long moment, then nodded and left the kitchen. Trowa dug out the pan, and began the bacon.

Their mother had married a man named Barton when she was very young, and shortly after Trowa's birth, Barton had died. Leia, their mother, had ended up marrying Treize Khushrenada, a younger man, to pay the bills and the debts Barton had left them with. After her death, the two children - then fourteen and eleven, respectively - had been on their own. Catherine had taken in sewing and Trowa had worked as a stable boy when Treize moved away, leaving them with not enough money to survive for a month. Later, Catherine had gotten a job in a manor house, as a maid-of-all-work.

He tossed the eggs in, but the story wouldn't stop playing in his mind, reel after terrible reel. One day she'd come home from coughing up blood at work. She'd had to quit working and he'd tried day after day to bring home enough money for them to survive. The tonic she needed just to stop the pain was more expensive than it should have been, and it took almost all the money he earned. When they discovered Dermail was not only dead but had left them something in his will, they had departed immediately for his home.

It was more than he could have hoped for, Trowa reflected, looking at the eggs as they scrambled and attacked the fatty bacon. With this kind of money, he could pay for Catherine to go to a cure cottage and get better, even if it meant selling some of the things in the fine house, selling the house, working as a servant. He would not allow his sister to die.

"Miss Relena, you have to get up now," Noin said softly to her mistress.

"What time is it, Noin?" Relena asked, rolling over in the soft pink bed. The down feathers cushioned her as she turned her head, and briefly, Noin thought of the cold, hard lump of a bed she'd left only four hours before.

"Nine fifteen, ma'am," she said. "Shall I draw you a bath?"

After mistress had her bath, Noin helped put her hair up, helped her into her corset, lacing it tightly to push up mistress's modest bosom and tighten her tiny waist. Noin herself wore a much smaller corset, lighter, with more room for movement.

It was as she was helping mistress apply the last of her lotions and creams to her soft cheeks that the knock came on the door.

"See who it is, Noin," Relena said as she fastened the cameo at her throat. The maid opened the door and looked out. Alex stood there, his blonde hair rumpled with his dash. Noin clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

"Don't let the mistress see you like that!" She scolded, her head poking from the door. It wouldn't be appropriate for the butler to see the inside of the mistress's room.

"There new people are here to see Miss Relena and Mister Milliardo," Alex said. "Master already said they would meet them in the parlor and Mueller's getting tea ready. Miss Relena's to come down straightaway." Noin nodded and shut the door.

"Miss Relena, you have company."

Catherine and Trowa looked around the parlor. It was clear that Miss Peacecraft had had the larger part in decorating it, with the soft pastels and flower-printed furniture. They sat around a softly-colored pine table, swathed in doilies and with a large vase of roses and babysbreath in all colors on it. Catherine sat on one end of a comfortable pine-legged mint green and sunshine yellow sofa, and Trowa sat near her, glancing around the room from his place in an armchair that nearly swallowed him up. The room, he noticed, had two kinds of wallpaper, and was a simple square. Sepia toned photographs of old relatives hung in pale frames from pink ribbons on the walls, and the windows were open, allowing the cool breeze to dance with the soft white and pale blue curtains.

The manservant entered the room again, and bowed neatly to the two of them. "Milliardo and Relena Peacecraft," he announced, before turning on his heel and exiting.The Peacecrafts were both beautiful, if remarkably different from one another. The man, clad in a gray morning suit similar to Trowa's brown one, had flowing hair almost the color of silver and golden skin that seemed to blind. He nodded to Trowa, kissed Catherine's hand, and sat in another of the overstuffed chairs. His sister followed, genteel with golden hair with a slight auburn tint to it and a dress that, though baby pink, swept out around her in a womanly fashion. Both Peacecrafts, Trowa noticed, had similar blue eyes. He kissed Miss Peacecraft's hand, then sat as Relena joined Catherine on the couch.

"So I understand that you just moved to this area," Relena began. "How delightful!" Her smile seemed to light up the entire room, and Catherine knew instantly that they would be great friends. At that moment, a young maidservant, her black hair neatly bound up and a glittering silver tray in her hands, entered. She set the tray on the table, then backed out of the way as Relena began serving the tea, barely pausing a moment.

"Yes, it is a lovely area, indeed," Catherine said, smiling openly at the younger girl. "We were planning on having a housewarming this Friday evening, in fact. No cream, thank you," she accepted her tea and took a sip. The thickness in her throat relaxed, and she felt rather relieved.

"A housewarming party!" Milliardo eyed her for a long moment, noticing the tiny waist, the fine - if slightly out of style - visiting gown, the lovely hat, the small tendrils of dark hair just touching her soft, creamy skin. "How marvelous," he murmured, relaxing back in his seat as Trowa shot him a look.

"Of course, you are both invited," Catherine told them as Relena handed Trowa his cup of tea. "But since you seem so kind and open, Miss Peacecraft, I was wondering if you would mind advising me. On who to invite. Because, as I am sure you have figured out by now, we don't know anyone here yet." She softened her awkward words with a smile, and Relena nodded.

"Of course I will, Miss Barton! I understand how difficult that might be, and wouldn't imagine leaving you to your own devices!" Relena took a sip of her own tea and thought a moment. "You should certainly go to the Winner house. Mr. Winner and his sister are close friends of ours, and they will certainly be kind to you. And Mistress Catalonia! You mustn't forget her," Relena advised. "She is a kind person, a good friend, but I wouldn't recommend ever leaving her out of something, because she is a terrible enemy!"

"I will be certain to invite her, then," Catherine said gently, taking a biscuit from the tea tray and nibbling on it.

"And Father Maxwell."

"A priest at a party?" Trowa's voice was distinctly deadpan, and one eyebrow was raised in visible surprise.

"Oh yes!" Relena cried. "Father Maxwell is a man of God, but he is still a great joy to be around."

"An unusual sort of priest," Catherine joked. "Where we used to live, priests were all joyless wonders."

"And Mr. and Mistress Chang!" Relena said as if it had just occurred to her. "Mr. Chang is the local constable, but he and his wife and very nice people once you get to know them. They live just on the edge of town. In fact, near them is a boarding house, and that's where Miss Po is staying. She is a great joy to have around as well. You should certainly invite her." There was a long pause, awkward and pregnant, and then Relena spoke again. "Are you planning on inviting Mr. Khushrenada and his daughter?"

No one said anything for a long moment, and Relena spoke again.

"I know he was quite rude at the reading of the will, but usually he is not so bad a person," she said softly. "And unfortunately, if you do not invite him, it will be taken as a sign that you have no desire to belong to good society."

Catherine sat a moment, remembering the way Treize had neglected her and her brother. Then she smiled. It was past. Everything was going to be fine now. "Of course we'll invite him. I am certain he merely forgot his composure." Both girls laughed, and the conversation turned to lighter things, such as who would wear what at the party, and how to dress so as not to offend anyone.

Iria pulled out a small cherry wood box from her desk drawer. She opened it, pulled out a single sheet of creamy paper, and began penning a missive.

Dearest;

Salutations, my love.There is a lovely party being given on Friday. I am certain I will be able to escape for some time, so we may borrow the carriage and finish our business.

I cannot wait to kiss you as a married woman!

Your ever-affectionate I.

She folded it neatly, and, unable to use her seal for fear of it being noticed and someone recognizing it, she tied the note shut with a single burgundy ribbon.

"Iria!" The young woman started and turned to the door of her boudoir.

"Quatre," she gasped, hiding the letter with her voluminous sleeve. "Whatever is it, little brother?"

"This just arrived for us. I thought you might like to open it," her brother said with a mischievous smile. He handed her a lavender colored enveloped, and she took it, her hands shaking. She reached across her desk for her letter-opener, neatly dashing her own letter into the crack where the desk split, hiding it from view. Relaxed now, she slit the envelope open and unfolded a short note, decorated with dried flowers.

Every home in the village that Relena had mentioned received one of those around midday. Miss Po thanked Catherine in person for the invitation and guaranteed to be there and could she write about it for the society pages of the magazine she wrote for?

Of course she could, reassured Catherine. She would be most flattered if Miss Po did, in fact, and she left smiling.

The woman who answered the door at the Chang residence spoke little English, but seemed delighted at the prospect of a party and hurried away to tell her Mistress. When Mistress Chang came to the door, Catherine was shocked at how young she was - she was barely more than fourteen, still dressed in traditional Chinese garments. She listened to the maid, listened to Catherine, then nodded and smiled a delightful smile, and told her in heavily accented - though clearly fluent - English that they would both be quite glad to attend and to count on them. There was something familiar about the small girl, but Catherine couldn't place it and simply ended up smiling and leaving, unable to explain why she might know her.

She did not ask to see Mr. Khushrenada, but simply left the note with the severe woman who answered the door, then fled.

She left Father Maxwell's invitation at the Church, because he was nowhere to be found, and hoped he might find it before Friday came.

Mistress Catalonia was not in, said the quiet fair-haired maid at the imposing Catalonia manor. But when she did return, she would certainly send along a note to let Miss Barton know whether or not she would be attending.

Catherine hurried back home and collapsed in bed. Running around as she had been all morning was taking its toll on her sick body, and her fever had gone up. She ran a cloth over her head, collecting the sweat on it, and fell asleep, still in her morning gown.

It was early afternoon when Dorothy finally rose from her bed and bathed. As she sat at her dressing table, Hilde brought in her mail.

"A missive from Miss Po," she murmured through her mail, tossing that which did not immediately interest her aside. "A letter to subscribe to a magazine - how wretched - the paper, an invitation!" She opened it as Hilde began twisting and pulling her long blonde hair up into her signature style. "How lovely - my dear step-cousins are having a party," she laughed.

"Will you be going Mistress?" Hilde asked, pinning the hair into place. Dorothy stood and dropped her wrapper, and Hilde helped her into a corset - black, with lace. Her favorite.

"Yes, Hilde," Dorothy said, huffing as Hilde made her twenty-six inch waist into a twenty-inch waist. As the maid helped her mistress into a simple black gown of mourning - though her period of mourning for her husband was at long last drawing to a close and her time of mourning for her father was significantly shorter - she began speaking again. "You may pen them a brief note saying that I will indeed attend." She lifted her arms so Hilde might close her dress tightly. "And while you're at it, invite them both here for tea on Saturday." She pulled a hat from the closet and positioned it on her head. Then, brandishing a hat pin, she grinned. "We must be kind to them, after all," she said as she stuck the pin through the hat, keeping the opulent thing firmly attached to her head.

"Very good, Mistress," Hilde said with a nod as Dorothy picked up her silver and pearl-beaded rosary. "Where are we going now?"

"Get your coat and mine, Hilde," Dorothy told her. "And have Walker bring the carriage around front. We're going to Church. I haven't confessed in three years, and now it's time," she said as she lowered the veil on her hat.

As much as Duo enjoyed the company of other people, parties, bars, drinks, and the idea of beautiful women, he enjoyed the church even more. It was a small one, for they lived far out in the country, but the crucifix over the altar was beautifully made, and the stone building, though always cool, was quiet and comfortable. The pews were well-worn, the Bibles situated in the small shelves by the door worn and well-used, and the rows of candles in the back were often dotted with flames. The confessional was intricately made of wood, and the candle scones, while simple, were made of silver. It was a fine church, if simple. And on Tuesday afternoons, it was usually quiet.

Except today. He was upstairs, in the library of the church, poring over ancient texts when he saw the carriage pull up. It was black like all the other carriages in the area, for it was winter, and he avoided noticing anything specific about it as he headed downstairs. Anyone who came on a Tuesday afternoon was most certainly coming to confess, and he preferred to give his parishioners as much anonymity as possible. He hurried into his half of the confessional and closed the door behind himself.

He heard footsteps, which paused by the door, where the candles were. He heard the sound of two coins dropping into the box - whoever it was was buying two candles! - and the flicker of a match as two candles were lit. Then the footsteps started forwards again, with a pause in front of the altar, where whoever it was probably stopped for a moment to cross them self. He could hear the swishing of skirts and the sound of a rosary clinking along itself. The door of the confessional opened, and the woman - it had to be a woman - walked in and sat down. She opened the little gate in the wall that separated them, and his ears perked up.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned," said the soft voice on the other side of the confessional. "It has been three years since my last confession."

Dorothy. It has to be. No one else in this area has avoided church for so long. He felt his body tensing up at the very thought of her - though he tried to avoid it, the picture of her the other evening, pale and beautiful, corseted up to the nines and tens, her hair sleek and smooth, floated into his mind and refused to be swayed. He shook his head, trying to get her out, and spoke.

"Go on my child." His voice had dropped to a husky degree. How long had it been since I've had a woman? Two years at the seminary, and one as a priest. Three years.

"Tell me of your sins," he murmured, hoping she wouldn't notice the way his voice shook slightly.

She did, of course, though she didn't say anything about it. She simply adjusted her hat and began her litany of sins. "I have been avaricious four times, been slothful seventeen times, behaved wrathfully towards my servants several times, and had lustful thoughts for a man not my husband." She paused, wondering what he would say.

Duo was pressed against the wall of the confessional, his breathing difficult. He battled with himself. His first thought had been to hope that those lustful thoughts were for him, but he admonished that idea immediately, thinking, No. See in me, God. Be in me, God. Help me to be pure.

Three years.

Three years of sleeping alone, of stifling his thoughts of a woman.

Surely God wouldn't damn him for once...?

See in me, God. Be in me.

"You did nothing of these lustful thoughts?" He asked carefully.

She paused, just a moment too long. Then, hesitant sounding, "No, Father, of course not. He is a man of the cloth. I would never," and he could tell the very idea sounded shocking to her.

It was shocking to him, too. A man of the cloth...but I am the only man with that distinction in the area, he realized with a start. God, he addressed silently. Why oh why the hell did you bring me here? Is this a test of my faith? Because I have faith and I trust in you and love you, but I don't love this taunting!

"Father?" She asked. "Father, why are you so quiet? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, my child, it's not you at all," he said quickly. It suddenly struck him funny, and he stifled a giggle. I call her my child, yet we're the same age. God, why are you filling me with this lust if I'm not supposed to do anything about it?

"Father, what should I do?" She sounded so innocent, so desperate. Like she wanted to be good, to be pure and free of the enormous guilt she must be feeling.

"Repent, child," he told her. "Repent. Say ten Hail Marys and three Paster Naters, and repent. Come to Mass tomorrow night and on Sunday, and come to confession more often." He was shaking, leaning against the wall for support. He heard the other side of the confessional open, and she stepped out. He peered through the window, abandoning the idea of anonymity for once, and watched Dorothy's slim form pause in front of the altar, curtsy towards God, cross herself, and head for the back. Her maid, a slim, black-haired girl, hurried behind her, throwing the young Duchess's coat about her.

Then she did a strange thing. She glanced back at the confessional, smiled ever so slightly, and dropped another coin in the box. She lit one more candle, then swept out of the church as gloriously as he imagined she'd swept in. Her carriage took off, presumably for her house farther towards the country.

He headed to the back of the church, and looked down at the candles; a candle for each lost soul. There were three.

Rasid paused in the doorway of his tiny room behind the kitchen - as a senior servant, he received some special privileges, and having his own room was one of them - and glanced at the bed. Poking out, just barely, almost enough to make him miss it, was a piece of paper, tucked under the pillow. Creamy ivory paper, with swirly black writing, and a single burgundy ribbon binding it up.

He shut the door as calmly as he could, and lit a candle. He set the candle on his bedside table and sat, practically shaking in excitement. He loved Iria, honestly and deep into his soul, but he worried about her methods of communication. If one little thing went wrong...but nothing ever did, and he needed to stop worrying.

He pulled the letter out and opened it, allowing the ribbon to fall into his lap. He read the note quickly, memorizing its contents, then stood to look in the bit of a mirror he had in his room. He slowly, clumsily, fashioned the ribbon into a bow, then pinned it to his vest. It was subtle, but cheered him, and would let Iria know that he had read the letter and would follow her instructions exactly. He turned back to the letter, picked up, and lowered it into the flame of the candle.

He'd barely touched it there when there was a knock on the door, and Abdul stood there. Rasid quickly turned towards him, whipping the letter out of the flame and behind his back, patting the flame out as he stood there.

"Rasid, we need help serving tonight. Ramon is sick and can't work," Abdul said, noting Rasid's slightly guilty expression and...was he blushing? The man was going mad, he decided. Mad, or he was guilty. Was Rasid hiding something?

"Yes, of course," Rasid boomed. "I'll be right along for supper then."

Abdul stood there. Rasid stood there.

"Very well then," Abdul said, giving Rasid a strange look, and turning to leave. Rasid waited until he was out of sight before turning, tucking the whole letter under his pillow, and extinguishing the candle.

Supper at the Khushrenada home was lovely, but lacking somehow. For just a moment, Une closed her eyes and remembered supper at her father's home, only a few weeks ago. They would have had duckling, she decided. Duckling with orange sauce, and a white wine. Fresh bread, still chalky from the oven, light enough to melt in her mouth. Potatoes sliced and diced and salted with just a pinch of some spice or other. Stew, heavy with vegetables that still tasted fresh from the cold cellar the servants had built months before. And supper at Monroe Hall had never been taken lightly. In her mind, she dressed herself, imagining the gown she would wear - the dark blue, with embroidery around the hem like stars and a silver sash about her waist. Her hair would be done up with sparkling pins, but curled tendrils would fall to the dress's short sleeves, and her shoes would be almost invisible on her tiny feet - black shoes with a million minuscule buttons to hold them closed.

She opened her eyes and found a sigh escaping her lips.

"Homesick, Une?" Treize looked at her over his wine glass, and it was clear he was slightly confused by here.

"Yes. I miss -" real food. "My family. We were very close," she covered. The food here was decent, but nothing compared to Monroe's. Treize nodded and went back to his salmon. She would never become used to eating so much fish.

"Une taught me how to spell incongruity today!" Mariemaia told her father proudly over her plate. Treize paused, smiled.

"Really? And how do you?" He asked gamely.

"Incongruity. I-N in, C-O-N con, G-R-U gru, I-T-Y ity. Incongruity!" The girl said cheerfully, then went back to stabbing at her plate. Treize raised an eyebrow at the choice of word, then turned back to his own meal. Une herself was quite an incongruity, he thought. Slender, pale, and not quite servant-like. She despised getting up early - of course she did, everyone he knew did, but she was the first servant he'd ever met who was honest about it. She had soft hands, as if she had never worked, and preferred to bathe every day, given the chance. She looked the part, yes, with her stern hairstyle, her practical dark dress - but there was a clear streak of vanity in her, in the pink ribbons she always put in her hair, in the fineness of the wool of her dress.

And she seemed so familiar. He knew it was somewhere in his brain - he could almost figure out why he felt he knew her, but everything he thought he had it, it would vanish, like a kite with a torn string. Shaking his head, he went back to his meal.

Hilde hung her dress up, her weary bones begging her to lie down and go to sleep. With a groan, she obliged, slipping into her night dress and climbing into bed.

But sleep wouldn't come. She stood, paced about the room, looked out the window, lit and candle and read briefly in the romance she was currently involved in, but nothing soothed her. A cup of tea, she thought. A cup of tea might be just the thing. She pulled on her wrapper and climbed silently down the stairs, hoping no one was awake to hear her.

In the kitchen, the flagstones fairly burned her feet where she walked, they were so cold. She set the water to boiling and sat back in a chair to read quietly by the firelight. She sat, drowsy at last, but refusing to give up her tea now that she was down there. The water began to boil, and she removed the kettle from the stove, pouring it, with some tea leaves, into a small pot. The had just begun to steep and she had just settled into her chair again when she heard a sound behind her. She stood quickly and turned, the chair falling over with a loud clatter.

"Walker," she suppressed a groan as she saw the young man. "What is it? What do you want?" Please don't start this now. It'd been a long day, and all I want is a cup of tea and to go to bed.

"I just want to know why you won't marry me," Walker said, walking behind her and standing her chair up. He walked back around, and poured himself a cup of tea, then poured her one. He sat, but she remained standing.

"That's none of your concern," Hilde told him, a touch of annoyance in her voice. How many times will we have to go through it before he understands? "I simply d - I can't."

"But Hilde," his voice was as soft as a lover's. "We practically are married. In everything but title. And you know it." He didn't more from his seat, didn't change expression, but she grabbed her teacup and fled the kitchen.

Walker didn't follow, didn't press her, but stayed and finished his tea, cleaned up the pot and his cup, and went to bed. Neither of them, throughout their discussion, noticed the blonde girl sitting in the shadows of the kitchen, who'd overheard the whole thing.

Rasid headed to bed after an eighteen-hour day, exhausted. Iria had seen the ribbon pinned to his vest at supper, and his heart had leapt at the expression she'd favored him with as he served her the soup.

He undressed and climbed into bed to sleep the few hours he would get before he must awake again, completely forgetting about the piece of paper he'd left under his pillow, that crinkled with every movement he made. Soon, his snoring joined the sounds of sleep in the Winner household.