Summer at Bourton
a fandom story
by stradiveritas
Part I: Stable Ground
It all seemed useless-going on being in love; going on quarrelling; going on making it up, and he wandered off alone, among outhouses, stables, looking at the horses. Peter approached the wooden door and peered inside, not really noticing the horses standing neatly in their stalls-three of them, for Clarissa loved riding-seeing instead the early afternoon light as it filtered through the dusty stable air, illuminating the interior only in part. And yet, even this he was not seeing, for his mind was occupied with the eyes of his memory, the eyes which saw Clarissa's absurd display of affection for her dog. "See how I love my Rob!" she had exclaimed, and presently, the words swirled in his ears. He had thought he'd understood Clarissa, but recently, she had seemed distant and unexpectedly peevish towards him; her change in demeanor had not surprised him as much as it had frustrated and irritated him. Her most recent outburst against the poor housemaid who had come to call upon them at Bourton was no exception.
Peter wandered through the tall grass around the back of the stable and noticed that the north side was in need of repair, or, at the very least, a coat of paint. The stable looked much more humble from this side, and Peter knew that for all of the entertaining that went on at Bourton, the Parrys were not particularly wealthy; his courtship of Clarissa was one which Mr. Parry undoubtedly looked upon as a means of financial security and therefore welcomed. His foot fell upon a hard object; lifting it up, Peter discovered that it was a pocket spyglass, undoubtedly the property of one of the stable-boys (or Sally Seton! Peter thought with a smile, for one could never rule out objects that would be of interest to Sally). It was with this thought that Peter's mind rested upon another scene, not yet three days past, which he had not considered until the present.
Indeed, it was three days ago when he had come upon Clarissa and Sally on the veranda, gazing up at the sky, Clarissa clutching a branch of azalea which he knew Sally had plucked from the nearby stone urn; for who but Sally would have plucked an azalea? They stood silently, as if enraptured by something. "Star-gazing?" That is what Peter had asked at that moment; a harmless means of announcing his presence, for the girls no doubt thought he was still inside with Joseph Breitkopf arguing the merits of Parsifal over Tristan und Isolde. Sally had simply laughed and had quizzed Joseph on the names of various stars that appeared so close to them in the country night sky. But Clarissa was sullen; a tepid hostility brewed across her face and she quitted their company soon after.
Was that the moment? Peter thought, and even as he thought this, he knew that something had indeed occurred at that moment, for it was unlike Clarissa to act in a manner that would make her appear a bad hostess. Yes, there had been something...
Hehh-ITSCHHUH! KSHOOO! Hahh...HerrrUSHHHOO!
The thought that had been in Peter's mind was interrupted by a violent series of sneezes that exploded from him unexpectedly. Instantly, Peter pressed his hand up to his nose-a creeping tickle still threatened him-and with his other hand, he fumbled through his pockets for his handkerchief.
HrrrKSSHHH! Ehh-TCHOO! Eh-TSHHH! Huhh...HEISSHHHHUH!
Peter blinked back tears which were now welling in his eyes and rubbed at his suddenly rogue nose. This was unlike him, he thought as he sniffled, fully aware that he wasn't finished sneezing yet. He glanced around him at his surroundings-the dusty stable, the tall grass, and, along the back of the stable, several chrysanthemum bushes. Would that Clarissa see him at this moment! he thought as he sneezed again, a violent series of six that left him breathless and bent double.
Yet in the midst of the battle taking place in his nose, Peter's attention turned back to Clarissa and that evening on the veranda, for that-Peter was now sure of it-was the moment that he needed to rectify. Was his comment about star-gazing so offensive to her? After all, she was an intelligent girl, not one to daydream so much; after all, she had been reading Plato in bed before breakfast-imagine, indeed!-all summer, as if to show her knowledge of the classics. Of course, this had been Sally's idea, but Clarissa had taken the effort, had she not? And thus perhaps Peter's comment had been taken to be condescending; perhaps-of course!-Clarissa had thought to fashion herself as a serious woman, and Peter had treated her as if she were still a young girl.
Peter felt his nose fill once again and he muffled three sneezes in his handkerchief before he noticed the figure of Sally Seton approaching the stables. He was still concealed from her view, and Peter sought a way escape undetected, as the last person-save Clarissa-that he cared to be seen by at this moment was Sally Seton! His eyes immediately stopped upon to the copse of birches just northeast of the stable. He would have to wait until Sally approached nearer; if she chose to enter the stable, even for a minute, Peter would be able to make it to the trees without being seen-but if only he could control his nose!
Holding his handkerchief firmly against his nose, Peter watched Sally approach from the small window on the back of the stable-her gauzy pink dress billowed in the warm summer breeze and she carried her hat in her hand as if it were a nuisance that she had only brought along with her to satisfy old Helena Parry, Clarissa's fussy and prim aunt. Peter felt his palate tingle and his eyes stream as he swallowed back the intense urge to sneeze. Sally stopped mid-way to examine a wild daisy, which she then picked and placed into her hat.
Hhrrr-mmmphhhh!
A small, painfully stifled sneeze escaped, and a second followed almost immediately after, slightly less successfully contained:
Hmm-chhhhht...huhh!
He saw Sally straighten and call out for Jonas, for that was the name of the old stable- hand; upon hearing no reply, she walked over to the stable herself.
This is my chance, thought Peter, and he darted across the short distance between the stable and the birch trees, crouching behind the largest he could find to make sure that Sally had not seen him. Even as he did so, he reprimanded himself, for this was ridiculous, hiding from an eighteen year old girl because he did not wish to be seen sneezing! And yet, there he was, still stifling each sneeze he could not hold back, making his way back to the house from tree to tree...
Part II: Becoming Dalloway
Peter retired to his room at Bourton for the remainder of the afternoon, still wondering and brooding over Clarissa, still sneezing inexplicably, still in a dreadful mood. It was an awful afternoon, for he desperately wanted to see Clarissa, to explain to her plainly how he felt, but that was impossible; there were always people about at Bourton, and she'd go on as if nothing had happened. That was the devilish part of her-this coldness, this woodenness, something very profound in her, which he had felt again this morning talking to her; an impenetrability. Yet Heaven knew he loved her! She had some queer power of fiddling on one's nerves, turning one's nerves to fiddle-strings, yes.
He went down to dinner rather late, from some idiotic idea of making himself felt, and sat down by old Miss Parry-Aunt Helena-Mr. Parry's sister, who was supposed to preside. There she sat in her white Cashmere shawl, with her head against the window-a formidable old lady, but kind to him. He sat down beside her, and couldn't speak. Everything seemed to race past him; he just sat there, eating. And then half-way through dinner he made himself look across at Clarissa for the first time. She was talking to a young man on her right. He had a sudden revelation. "She will marry that man," he said to himself. He didn't even know his name.
(For of course, it was that afternoon, that very afternoon, as Peter had been hiding behind birches from Sally, that Dalloway had come over; and Clarissa called him "Wickham"; that was the beginning of it all. Somebody had brought him over, and Clarissa got his name wrong. She introduced him to everybody as Wickham. At last he said "My name is Dalloway!"-that was Peter's first view of Richard-a fair young man, rather awkward, sitting on a desk-chair, and blurting out "My name is Dalloway!" Sally got hold of it; always after that she called him "My name is Dalloway!")
Peter's revelation-that Clarissa would marry Dalloway-was blinding, overwhelming. There was a sort of-how could he put it?-a sort of ease in her manner with him; something maternal, something gentle. They were talking about politics, and all through dinner, he tried to hear what they were saying.
It didn't help, of course, that Miss Parry continued to carry on with Peter about wild flowers-she was a great botanist, marching off in thick boots with a black collecting-box slung between her shoulders. She thought Sally's methods of cutting the heads off of flowers and making them swim on the top of water in bowls wicked, but Peter found the effect to be quite extraordinary when arriving at dinner to see the colored orbs adorning the table. It was then that Peter recognized the flowers.
They were the very chrysanthemums and wild daisies that had flocked the back side of the stable earlier that afternoon when Peter began sneezing so violently; dozens of them, floating innocently on the table; the recognition sent an immediate surge to Peter's nose, as if the recognition alone had prompted a physical response. Peter tried valiantly to prevent another attack of sneezing, for it was hardly the thing to do in such company-and to think of the chiding he would receive from Sally! He swallowed and dared not breathe, only nodding in the direction of Miss Parry-Heaven knows what she was chattering about- concentrating his very soul upon resisting the insistent and urgent tingling that crawled from his palate to the back of his nose.
Was he so proud that he could not allow himself to sneeze? Peter felt his hand slipping- the hand that had erstwhile held Clarissa's, now reaching into his breast pocket to grasp the clean handkerchief he'd placed there before dinner, and Clarissa now reaching her hand over to brush Dalloway's shoulder-yes, his hand was indeed slipping.
Hhhrr-gggkkk!
A painfully stifled sneeze escaped before Peter even had a chance to excuse himself or bring out his handkerchief; the dam had burst.
Ihhh-mmmphhh! Huh-kkmmmph! Hnnnggk-uhhh!
Peter struggled, trying to stop, trying to stifle, trying to avoid the weighty gaze of Miss Parry to his right. His body trembled in effort, but was losing battle.
Huhh-chmmmph! Chmmm-uhhh!
Suddenly, inexplicably, his eye caught Clarissa's. How transparent that moment was! She had glanced up at him, a faint smile upon her lips, and in that glance, for that moment, she revealed the entirety of her soul. She is lost to me, thought Peter in that instant; the thought engulfed him like an enormous wave, carrying away his inhibition, his pride.
Hrrr-TCHHHHOOO! Huh-CHHHSHH! Eh-SHHUHH! Hahh-KKSHHHHOO!
Now silence washed across the table and the room shifted uncomfortably until Clarissa's voice, bright but cold, mechanical like the chime of a clock, cut through the swollen air:
"My dear Peter!"
I have lost, thought Peter. For Dalloway, it was a moment of victory, though he knew not of the matter, for how could he, having just arrived? He did not see Clarissa's eyes through Peter's-that smile, that glance. It was a moment heralded not by trumpets, but- and how strange a fanfare it was!-by a paroxysm of sneezing brought upon by the bright and hopeful heads of pink flowers that still floated in clusters between them. "My dear Peter!" Clarissa had cried, but it was merely a courtesy, for it offered little relief, neither for Peter's burning nose nor his cooling heart, for in that moment, he saw her clearly: Mrs. Dalloway.
Okay, so I am a big, giant nerd. This is long, and I apologize if it's difficult to read--I've tried to imitate Woolf's style, which made it 10 times longer than I'd originally intended. But hey, I like a good challenge. So enjoy, or be very frightened
In trying to re-create Woolf's style, I have incorporated phrases and modified parts of Woolf's original text throughout. Some of them I've lifted wholesale, without quotes-- hopefully the copyright Gestapo won't come after me.