Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Moral Fiber ❯ Sunday, Week One ( Chapter 1 )

Title: Moral Fiber: Sunday, 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: This is set in the Victorian era. Resembles Figgy's Reincarnated Sins, I suppose, but inspired by a play I recently saw called The Little Foxes. Also, I shifted around one or two family relations for the purpose of dramatic tension. I promise, you'll barely notice. ^.~

Warnings: AU, brief sexual content/allusions

Duke Dermail's funeral was well-attended. His two children were there, in their cool, calm, dry-eyed grief. His granddaughter was there, attended to by her nurse, and his legion of servants. The friends of the family stood behind them. The Peacecraft family's daughter consoled Dermail's daughter with a hand on her shoulder, and they all looked properly red-eyed. The Winner family was present and accounted for, across the pit. The locals were all there, including the constable in his uniform and a young female journalist with a pad, to record the event. The priest raised his head and finished the sermon.

They stood, a sea of people in fresh mourning weeds, around the body of a man none had liked, saying things that had never been true about him. At last, they were able to toss the obligatory flowers onto his grave and leave, in silence.

Hilde hung up Mistress's gowns in the armoire. They'd arrived that afternoon from being finished, and the black clothing looked familiar and fresh in the closet. Mistress had such beautiful clothing, such good taste, that even in mourning she managed to look perfect. She looked down at her own clothes, her stiff and starched uniform in dismay.

She liked her uniform, the soft yellow of the dress and the collar and apron so starched they could stand on their own. But sometimes she wished for something more than that, more than the little room she slept in at the top of the stairs, more than the rather generous wages she earned.

She snapped out of her reverie, scolding herself. Housemaids should know better than to daydream like that, she thought to herself. They needed to work, and they might better themselves that way. After all, the rich needed help. They were virtually helpless on their own.

She was just leaving the Mistress's boudoir, carrying a basket of soiled clothing, when she collided in the hall with Walker. The young butler caught her even as the basket fell down the stairs into a lump at the bottom, the clothing making strange designs on the thick carpeting.

"Hilde," Walker murmured, brushing a straying lock of her dark hair back behind one ear. She was pressed against the wall in a most uncomfortable position. "Hilde, why do you keep hiding from me?"

She turned her head, uncomfortable in the situation. There was no one else in the house right then save the maid-of-all-work, the cook, and the scullery maid. The stable-hands were outside...she was on her own, and men hated to be told no. "I've just been...working very hard lately," she said quickly. She didn't have time to dally with the butler just then, did she? "I haven't been hiding from you, really Walker."

"Then why has it been so long since you've come to my bed?" He murmured in her ear. Because I don't love you, she thought angrily, even as he began kissing the soft underside of her jaw. She had thought she loved the butler, after the master's death, when he told her he understood about the master forcing the maids into his bed at night. Hilde had loved him for not caring that she had been ruined, and had gone to bed with him thinking they would be married. Now she wasn't so sure.

"Look," she said briskly, pushing him off her, "I haven't time to be dallying about with the butler. I have washing to take out," and she rushed down the stairs to deal with the laundry at the bottom. Walker, please forgive me...

The carriage stopped in front of the local inn, and from it climbed a nimble man, handsome with brown hair and green eyes. He wore a neat, clean black suit, free from patches and stains, even if it was slightly out of style. He held his hand out to the other person in the carriage, and a beautiful young woman with brown hair perfectly swept up placed her hand in his, then allowed herself to be helped out of the carriage. Her skirts, black for mourning but embroidered with small flowers at the hem, swept out even as she bent over into the man's arms, coughing. Blood spattered her monogrammed lace-edged hankerchief in a most-ladylike manner. She was wrapped in several shawls and a jacket under her coat, but no one could see them. She shivered in the cool air, though no one else seemed so affected.

"Are you alright, Cathy?" Asked the young man, concern stark on his face. She stood straight, coughed once more - though this time it was a light, throat-clearing cough - and adjusted her hat with a smile.

"Of course I am, Trowa. I'm just a little tired from the ride," she told him, her lies ringing false in the dust that swirled around them in the street. "Let's go inside. I want to get established before the reading of the will," she murmured, and headed in. Trowa snapped his fingers at the stable boys, and they began grabbing valises off the back of the carriage.

"But you know how poorly we get along!" Iria cried, stamping her foot in a most unladylike manner at the thought of it.

"Iria," her brother said softly, taking her hands in his own, "Miss Dorothy is a kind person. I am sure you two would get along quite well if you made an effort." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, the blonde strands standing up in an amusing manner. What will she say when I tell her? She'll kill me, that's what'll happen. She'll pick up a meat cleaver and..."She's had such tragedy that would make anyone hard inside. First, to lose her father's love to an illegitimate brother, and then to have her husband die so soon after their wedding...you of all people should understand that!" Iria looked at him, hurt. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. But now, her father's death. You must be kind to her today." He softened to smile at her.

"Very well, Quatre," his sister said after a moment, smoothing the black satin of her skirt and glancing in a mirror. "I will be kind to her because it's important to you. But I am not going to invite her over for tea, or whatever else it is you're thinking of. It's no sign of friendship!" She informed the younger man with a wag of one lace-covered finger.

His face lit up. "Thank you, Iria." He took his hat and coat from Rasid and smiled at her. "You won't regret it, I promise. Once you show her some kindness, I am certain she'll return it to you!"

Iria smiled slowly, a little sadly. "My brother, you are too kind for your own good, I'm sure," she said with a laugh. "Oh dear!" She cried then. "I've left my fan upstairs. Do run along, Quatre, I'll meet you in the carriage in just a moment." Her brother nodded and left the room.

She watched him go, then pulled her fan from her beaded bag. Rasid smiled at her as he slipped her shawl about her shoulders.

"Miss Iria, you're getting better and better at finding ways to have time alone with me," he informed her, his voice gentle and soft. She turned to him slowly, smiled, and fixed his collar.

"I love you, Rasid. And we will get married, as soon as I can find a chance for us to get away long enough." She leaned up and kissed him gently, a brush of the lips, then turned away. "I have to go now, before he gets suspicious."

"Of course, Mistress," Rasid said, and she left. A piece of his heart died as he watched her go. He loved her back, and after the death of her husband in a riding accident a year ago, it seemed she might be able to marry for love. She was in her mid-twenties, past marrying age, but he was hardly young himself. Yet, for all her years, she was still as naive as any other girl. She honestly believe they might one day be more than mistress and servant, but he knew better. He knew her brother would marry her off to someone powerful and moneyed.

He remembered the night she'd come to his bed, expecting - hoping, even - he would take advantage of her. "Miss Iria," he'd told her then, taking her back to her room. "Miss Iria, you know I love you. And it is because I love you that I will not compromise your virtue." It had broken his heart to turn her down, but he'd done it because it was right.

He was tired of being right.

"Doesn't matter if it's a reception, it's high time a good girl like yourself is in bed!" Une told the little girl who tried to wriggle out of her grasp.

"But I don't want to!" Mariemaia cried out, glaring at her nurse. Her red curls poured over her back like wine, and Une pulled a brush through them at a painful rate. "Ow, that hurts!" The girl cried out again.

"Then you'd best hold still," Une told her, getting testy. "It'd be best for you, don't you agree?" The girl whimpered an assent. "I want you to look perfect when your father comes in here to wish you a good night." And I want to prove that I'm a good enough nurse to get the she-demon under control when there's a party started downstairs, Une thought to herself. The girl held still and allowed her hair to be brushed, then tied back with a silky ribbon.

There was a knock on the door, and Treize entered in complete, black-clad splendor. He knelt by his daughter's bed and whispered a good night to her.

"Good night, Papa!" The girl cried, wrapping her arms around him and kissing his cheek. He smiled and tucked her in, wrapping the blankets firmly about her body. Une watched from the background with a smile. The two left the room and the little girl to sleep, two much-larger black forms fleeing the land of dreams and shutting it behind them with a heavy wooden door. Une held the candelabra with one hand, the light casting shadows on both their faces.

"Une, I appreciate the work you've done with my girl lately. She seems to be doing much better than she was under her last nurse." Une's face fairly glowed with pride in the candlelight, and Treize favored her with a smile. "Where did you learn all this, how to take care of children this way?"

From my nurse. Would you love me if you knew my family had as much money as yours? "It's a gift, Mister Treize," she said with a bob of her head."

"Please, keep up all the good work," he said, then turned and headed downstairs to the reception, where his fiancee-to-be was waiting.

Relena Peacecraft.

Young. Virginal. Pretty. Rich.

That one word had sealed the deal for him. When her brother had approached him a year ago, asking him to wed his sister and join his family, Treize had been reluctant at first. Although Relena was barely six months younger than his sister, she lacked the worldliness Dorothy possessed. This soon was shown to be a good thing for him, however, as Relena knew little about society and was kind enough to overlook the fact that he was illegitimate. She was young enough and naive enough to that she would readily bend to his will, learn that wives were to stay out of the way and produce sons. Learn that wives had no real place in society.

And she was rich. That was the best part. He'd been courting her for almost a full year now and planned to propose to her later this week, when she would be feeling more sympathetic towards him.

Humming happily to himself, he headed downstairs.

Sally sat in a corner and watched the quiet reception. Although the children of the deceased looked properly down in the dumps over the whole thing, she doubted the sincerity of their tears and red eyes. She'd covered enough funeral receptions for The Ladies' Journal that she had an idea of what true grief looked like.

There was something slightly wrong about their grief, but perhaps they were simply good at hiding it. Or perhaps it hadn't been entirely unexpected. Dermail had been in his sixties, quite old, even for a man of his stature, and active. So perhaps it wasn't such a surprise that he'd simply keeled over one day, in the midst of writing a letter to an old friend.

Still, she had to wonder...

"Oh but Relena, he still had so many years to live!" Dorothy said softly to her friend. She smiled under her hankerchief, where no one could see her. Part of her was disgusted at how easily the young girl next to her was deceived. She was barely older than her, but the differences between the two of them were as vast as an ocean. Dorothy was widowed, and wore her hair in the style of a married woman still. Every morning, Hilde pulled her corset as tight as Dorothy could bear to have it and still breathe, and her gowns were low cut, revealing, borderline inappropriate, despite the fact that she was still in mourning for her husband, and now for her father as well.

In contrast, Relena's gowns were high-cut. Her clothing had simply been dyed black for the occasion, and her honey-brown hair was only partly pulled back, most of it hanging girlishly down her back. Where Dorothy wore opulent jewels, displaying her wealth, Relena wore no more than a simple necklace of pearls. Relena's eyes were still always wide at any party where jokes of a slightly crude humor were made, whereas it had always taken a lot to shock her friend.

"I know Dorothy, but God called him," Relena told her, as reassuring as she knew how to be. She patted her friend on the back, then thought for a moment. "Let me get Father Maxwell. I'm sure he'll know what to say!" She jumped up and darted across the vast room.

Dermail's parlor was dark, out of fashion. The paper was old and rather ugly, furniture under stuffed and hard as a rock. Dorothy watched her friend hurry across the room, laughing into her hankerchief, the lace edges shaking as if in glee. Relena, you twit, she thought to herself, betraying none of her emotions on her face. I hope my brother shall wed you and bed you and ruin you. You know nothing about life or how the world works and must learn straightaway.

She buried her face in the hankerchief again, rubbing her eyes until they watered with redness and looked up as Relena returned with Father Maxwell. She stood and offered her hand. She hadn't seen the priest before this day because she rarely went to church, but looking at him, she wondered how she could have missed him in the village.

He was barely taller than her and young - he couldn't be even twenty yet, and already a priest? Catholic, but then so was she, by upbringing. He wore all black, of course, and a heavy gold cross about his neck. He was tan though, from work, and his eyes sparkled even through his sorrow at her loss, glittered like a thousand violet stars. His hair had to be as long as hers, unusual for a man, and the color of the hair on her favorite bay. He took her hand and bowed over it, his lips brushing the pale knuckles.

Zing.

There was something electric in it, and he looked up as she took her hand back.

"Mistress Catalonia," he began, sitting to join her. "People are called home when God wants them. You can rest assured that your father, with his generosity to the church all these years, is certainly in heaven with God." She smiled briefly, a wan look, unusual for her. He smiled back, sympathetic to her bravery.

"Of course. You're right, Father." You certainly are.

"Mistress Catalonia, I haven't seen you at church recently, have I?" He asked, looking at her with just the briefest glimpse of mischief in his eyes again. "I don't forget a face, but I don't think I've seen yours."

She looked at her lap, the perfect picture of feminine humility. He thought to himself that the man he'd met in a bar who'd told him to watch out for her must have been absolutely mad. This sane, sensitive creature could not have been the same woman he had been warned about. "I'm sorry, Father, believe me I am. My late husband was not fond of the Catholic church. I persuaded him to have a Catholic wedding, but on the condition that I would not go to church throughout the duration of our marriage." A lie. Her husband hadn't cared either way about the church, but she refused to tell anyone that. And now that Anthony Catalonia was dead, no one had to know the difference. "I can assure you, Father, that I will be returning to church this Sunday."

His face lit up happily. "I am delighted to hear that, Mistress Catalonia." He glanced down at her decolletage, wondering what she might taste like, then around the room in a frenzy, wondering what had overcome him to look at her that way. No impure thoughts for a woman, he reminded himself. 'Tis a sin against the God I have sworn to serve. Nothing may come between me and my God. He stood and nodded to her. "I will see you then, Mistress." Then he turned and left as quietly as he'd come.

Yes, thought Dorothy. And perhaps sooner. After all, I haven't gone to confession in far too long.

He knew Treize would share the money with him. It would be a great business venture anyway to unite the Dermail and Peacecraft families, and if his sister was the cost, he wasn't too worried about it. She was young enough that she'd bounce back, after all. She'd make a good wife, and she wasn't ruined, like so many girls who hadn't gone to school.

As for him, he'd talked with Quatre, and the two had already drawn up a contract for his sister, Iria. Although the other woman was much older than him and a widow, she would unite the Winner family with his family. If all went as planned, he would be in control of a small fortune eventually, and his children...his sons, he amended. His sons would control half the countryside. He chuckled to himself and the woman who stood beside him gave him a strange look.

"Is something happening, Mister Milliardo?" Noin asked. That maid was a little to sharp, he told himself. He had to remember to chastise her at some point. He certainly didn't want Relena picking up any of her common habits. On a woman like her, they might be normal, but on Relena they would be crass, vulgar, make her unattractive to men.

Unattractive to Treize.

He couldn't relax until they were wed.

"Everything is fine, Noin. I'll thank you not to speak to me like I am some common manservant," he said, aiming a glare at her. The maid nodded an assent, but hadn't the shame to blush at his words. "Now, go and see if Mister Winner and his sister have arrived yet."

"Very good, sir," the maid said, bobbed her head at him in a curtsy, and disappeared into the crowd. He watched her go, noticing the way her hips swung and the delicacy of her thin neck. There was, after all, more than one way to chastise a housemaid...

"Quiet, please," the black-haired constable said from his position at the front of the parlor. "I have been asked to read the will." Instantly, the room was plunged into silence, even the servants at the back of the room who stood, hands folded, ceased their conversations about whose master or mistress was the most absurd or bizarre.

"It's about time Chang got to this," Dorothy murmered under her breath and Hilde rubbed her mistress's shoulder consolingly.

"The will reads as follows," Chang began, glancing around the room. The daughter was here, the son, their friends. The Winners sat near the Peacecraft's, and Relena held a hankerchief in both hands. The servants stood in the back, and, at that moment, a pair of people he'd never seen before entered.

"Is this the reading of the will?" The pretty brunette asked, glancing around the room. Chang nodded, curtly, and they sat, in the middle of the room, between the family and the servants, where the middle class belonged. Chang continued as the rest of the audience turned back around to face him. Treize was looking decidedly taut around the eyes.

"'I, Duke Mortimer Dermail, of sound mind and body do bequeth my fortune as follows:

'Ten percent to the church, as to serve God's house is to serve him and his children.'" Father Maxwell's face broke into a wide grin, and it was obvious that he was thinking of all the poor it could help, of the new candlesticks he could buy for the altar.

"'Ten percent to my granddaughter, Mariemaia Khushrenada, in the hopes that this will go to her education. The education of women is as important as the education of men, and I hope that she will learn arithmetic and numbers as well as needlepoint and painting.

'Twenty percent to my son, Treize Khushrenada, so that he may continue his lifestyle and hopefully do even more than he already does for the poor.'" Treize nodded politely in acknowledgement of this statement.

"'Thirty percent to my daughter, Dorothy Catalonia, so that she may always remember me and my legacy.'" Dorothy looked up, her face damp with tears. No one saw the glance that passed between her and her brother save Hilde, who saw the daughter wrinkle her nose at her brother in a teasing look and the son's eyes darken.

"'I pass on to my daughter as well my title, so that she might well attract another husband.'" Dorothy glared at the piece of paper in Chang's hand, then returned to her grief-sodden state.

"'And I leave fifteen percent equally to my step-grandchildren, Catherine and Trowa Barton.'" A murmur rose up in the room of people wondering who these mysterious Bartons were, and Treize turned to glare at the pretty brunette and her handsome companion.

"'I leave also to them my home, complete with furnishings, so they might live in the style none of their parents ever allowed. Family is family, even if it is adopted.' That's it," Chang said, and a roar rose from Treize. No one was entirely able to make out what the words were, but it sounded something like 'usurpers' and 'free-loaders' and 'baggage'.

Trowa and Catherine sat back, placid.