Chapter Text
The city liked to whisper that girls raised beyond the echoes of its cobbles grew to possess an unnatural spirit. It was no wonder then, when Agatha first arrived, that Rio had looked at the girl as though she were a demon.
A thin, bruised thing with calloused fingers caked in dirt, a mess of brown hair, and terrifying blue eyes.
She must have been no more than fifteen, found on a path alone in the countryside, with no history to account for except her wit and apparent horsemanship. A charity case, many said, for the widow next door who had taken her in.
Mrs Davis sat across the table and confided in her neighbor, as she so often did.
“I'd hope your daughter might show her a kindness? The girl is,” Mrs Davis paused, “...antisocial.”
“Antisocial?” Lady Vidal inquired.
“Antagonistic is perhaps a better capture of her character,” Mrs Davis added, “A terror truly. The staff is quite unsettled. The maids, especially. I'm certain there is a lady in there. She is merely struggling to find her footing. Poor thing.”
“Poor indeed,” Lady Vidal echoed, reaching for her tea, “Though, surely my daughter would be up to it. Lord knows she could use the company, given her own, well, antisocial tendencies as you so fondly put it.”
Rio rolled her eyes as she eavesdropped from beyond the receiving rooms' doors, a small groan spilling from her lips.
Mrs Davis smiled, “Well, then it seems we have a match.”
“We certainly do not have a match!” Rio’s impulse gave way.
“Victoria Vidal!” Her mother scorned, “What did I tell you about listening in to other’s conversations?”
“To ensure anything of interest was shared with you immediately,” Rio teased, swiping a finger sandwich from the table and popping it into her cheeks.
“Sneaky little creature,” Mrs Davis laughed, “Perhaps we should cancel this whole thing. I see now that you both together may ruin us.”
Eight Years Later
Rio awoke to find her early morning peace broken by the clattering pangs of metal and a man’s voice slurring through angered phrases.
“Where is she?! Where is that wretched thing?!”
The chaos continued as she pulled herself from bed, yawning and rubbing her eyes while her mind fought through its fog. She wrapped herself in a light shawl and unlatched the window, swinging it open to face the commotion across the stone alleyway and side gardens that separated the Vidal House from that of Mrs Davis’s.
There, a short, balding gentleman in a soiled tailcoat appeared to be tripping over himself as he collected stones and hurled them at Mrs Davis’s house. Their weight pinged over and over again, colliding with the iron-wrought balconies that framed the second-story windows.
Aiming for Agatha’s, no doubt. Luckily for the rest of the Davis household, she was the only one who occupied that wing.
Rio usually would have delighted in the spectacle; another one of Agatha’s disgruntled acquaintances making a fool of themselves across the pavement. But this morning, well, frankly, it was simply too early.
“Mr Jefferies, whatever could have happened for us to be graced with your delightful presence so soon in the day?” Rio called.
The old man’s head spun to chase the sound, losing his balance as he stumbled backwards into the hedges.
At some point in time, he had been a man of notoriety, a promising second son of a Baron.
Now, he was far more known for his smell; a sour, twisted air of gin and bile.
“You! You and your, your, your…” Mr Jefferies stammered.
“My what?” Rio questioned.
“...your whore!” He screamed, fists and arms shaking as he struggled to untangle himself from the branches that clung to his coat.
Before Rio could even begin to wrap her mind around a response, her space along the windowsill was invaded by an oh-too-familiar presence pressing behind her.
“Now, now, Jeffie, we’ve been through this. I much prefer harlot,” Agatha stated as she squeezed her way into the frame.
“You vile cunt,” Mr Jefferies spat.
“Ooh, much better,” Agatha preened.
“Give me back my money!”
“What would I ever have to do with your filthy money?” Agatha questioned.
“You took it! You cheating, no good…”
“Mr Jefferies, now I'm sure there has to be a misunderstanding, one of which we can resolve when your faculties have returned,” Rio inserted, rubbing her temples, “but for now, I think it best to leave before you wake the constable.”
“Wouldn't want to spend another season behind the iron, now would we, Jeffie?” Agatha added with a feigned pout.
“To hell with the both of you!” Mr Jefferies shouted.
“See you there!” Agatha waved, blowing a kiss in the process as Mr Jefferies gathered himself to mutter his curses back through the streets.
Rio swatted her arm as she pushed past her, pulling the windows shut across them with an unamused huff.
Within her room, Agatha began her rounds about the floor, a disorganised blur of pale limbs and hair, dressing herself haphazardly as she gathered the remnants of her discarded things–boots, gloves, a pocket flask, an old riding coat.
“You know, I'd appreciate it if you would at least spare me the courtesy of a warning before using my room as your own personal refuge,” Rio sighed.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Agatha replied.
“Well, you certainly did an excellent job,” Rio quipped back, “What did you do this time?”
“The poor sot wandered into the barn last night, swinging his coin purse around and begging to play cards. It's not my fault he was too drunk to hold them to his chest.”
“Agatha.”
“Oh, Rio, don't be like that. Don't you want to know how much I made off with?”
“I'm sure you'll tell me anyway.”
“Twenty quid.”
“Twenty quid?!” Rio shouted, “Are you mad?!”
“You and I both know he won't remember come ‘morrow. The man throws enough of his money away as it is. What does it matter if some of it ends up in my pockets?”
“Just get out before my mother catches you,” she paused, “and better yet, cut me a portion.”
Agatha smiled before reaching into her coat and placing three quid on Rio’s dressing table.
“For the hospitality.” She curtsied.
Rio watched as Agatha climbed back through the window and descended the wisteria vines that climbed the walls of the Vidal House, just as she had countless times before, her incredible habit for attracting trouble matched only by her lack of boundaries.
It was a wonder how she had been granted such access in the first place. Looking back, it would have been much more convenient if Rio had pushed the troublesome girl from her window years ago. Now, surely, she was much too old for it, inclined towards more mature things like smothering. Or poison.
Though, unfortunately for her, there was also something very aggravatingly charming about the young woman. And Rio would have likely died of boredom in her absence.
With Agatha gone, she collapsed back onto her bed in a fit, her raven dark hair tangling across the sheets as she fisted her pillows and tried to return to sleep. Unable to escape the smell of Agatha, still fresh along the linen.
It must have been hours later, as the blinding rays of the midday sun began cutting through the house, that she was awoken again by the sound of light knocking at her door.
The wood creaked within its hinges as her lady’s maid entered and began to arrange Rio’s dressings.
“Dotty, please, I do not wish to rise today.”
“I'm ‘fraid you’ll have to,” Dotty said, “Your mother would like to see you, ma’am.”
“What about?”
“She didn't say. But whatever it is, it's gotten ‘er in a tizzy. She’s been pacing ‘bout the room like a madwoman. Muttering to 'erself all sorts of worked up.”
“Fine,” Rio groaned.
She slithered out of bed in a shameless display of dramatics, stripping from her nightgown and throwing her hands up in ultimate surrender.
Dotty merely shook her head and carried on with the routine. She was all too used to Rio’s ridiculous behavior. Some might have called her spoiled, others enabled. But the plain and simple truth of the matter was that Rio moved through the world with the privilege of her parents' devotion and reputation.
Her father, Lord Henry Vidal, had been a member of the royal cavalry. He was a renowned statesman and even better tactician. His accolades had earned him a high-ranking position in Germany, where most of his responsibilities were now delivered by envoys and carried out through his wife, Lady Carolina Vidal, the daughter of a highly respected foreign dignitary and a renowned socialite. It was a marriage of odd histories and ambiguous backgrounds that attracted an air of unparalleled interest across the men and women of society. Though it largely passed unquestioned. No one dared to rival their wealth, their reputation, their social performance, or the clear favor the King and Queen bestowed upon them.
Most would have expected their daughter to be the model of high society. An incomparable. Rather, both her father and her mother seemed to indulge her in her disdain, allowing Rio, far beyond a reasonable age, to maintain her independence and particular nature. They had gone so far as to petition for her to become the heir apparent, and given the lack of male relatives and her family’s standing, it was done.
Victoria Vidal, or Rio, as she called herself, became unburdened by the anxieties of her position. In doing so, she had never married, despite numerous proposals and opportunities to do so. Instead, she filled most of her time trapped within profound existentialism and the controversial company of Agatha.
Though, frankly, no one else had ever been worth her time.
When Dotty finally deemed her presentable enough, Rio began her journey across the house to meet her mother. She had chosen a cream-colored day gown embroidered in pale green thread that trailed along the beginnings of her skirt like sprawling ivy. The color was soft along Rio’s olive skin, the square cut of the bodice exposing her neck and shoulders in a casual elegance with her hair tied up into a simple twist of loose ringlets. The dress was also one of her mother’s favorites, which would surely help her case in any matter.
The library rested within the heart of the east wing. It was an expansive room of intricately carved wood, stained dark and polished with wax, and centered around a grand marble fireplace that held the room beneath a plaster garden that bloomed across the ceiling. It was broken into small collections of chairs and lounges, arranged around various tables of chess, cards, and display boxes, while the walls between shelves were full of portraits, busts, bronze boxes, and various ceramics. They called to each other in silly habits and travelled memories and the trickling of keys along a square piano. When her father was in town, it would often be filled with gentlemen and their brandy, staying up through the night in animated discussions of policy and philosophy. In his absence, it was Rio’s sanctuary, her current readings and sketches thrown about the room in a haphazard picture of wandering thought.
When she entered, Lady Vidal was pacing along the floor in an elegant blue half dress, her gaze focused on the floor, her hands animated in thought.
Her forehead was drawn into such a crease that her face seemed painted in nerves. She looked as though she were rehearsing.
“Mother?”
“Oh!” Lady Vidal startled, “Victoria, you're here. Please, come sit.”
“Is everything alright?” Rio questioned, lowering herself with hesitancy.
“Everything is quite fine, dear,” she replied with a dismissive yet suspiciously high pitch. “I simply wanted to enjoy a moment with my only child. It's been months, it feels, since we have last spoken.”
Rio crossed her arms, leaning back within her chair as she stared in suspicion at her mother, who had yet to meet her eyes.
“We spoke yesterday.”
“Oh but surely it is not enough. It never is.”
“Mmmm.” Rio thought, “Is this because of what happened with Mr Jefferies this morning?”
“Wha- What happened with Mr Jefferies? On second thought, do not tell me. It is irrelevant.”
“If there is something you need to say, Mother, you should say it,” Rio pushed.
“Very well,” Lady Vidal sighed, “but you must let me finish. I cannot sustain your interruptions. Not today.”
Rio narrowed her eyes, her curiosity inevitably winning out over her desire to argue.
“Alright then.” Rio signed a cross along her heart. “You have my word.”
Lady Vidal seemed to exhale in relief.
“People are talking,” she started, “Respectable people. Now I know I have played a hand at encouraging your friendship with that young woman, I have no intent to belittle it, but you are too old to be bosom friends, Victoria. You both are. It is time to settle. You must settle. Before your title and inheritance are called into question. You will marry this season. There is no other option.”
“I am not interest-”
“You do not have to be interested,” her mother interrupted, “It simply must be done.”
“This is preposterous. The opinions of society surely have never affected us. And to bring Agatha into-”
“Lower your voice, Victoria.”
Rio pulled her voice into an exaggerated, harsh whisper, “To bring Agatha and I’s friendship into this is irrelevant.”
Lady Vidal quickly dismissed it, “You and I both know the rumors. They’ve been there for years. Only now, well, now, they have begun to seep into the gossip of the court. Your father and I’s status can only stave off so much. If you care anything at all for this family, for your future, you will do this.”
“Even if I wanted to, which I do not, I am far past the age most gentlemen would find appropriate to marry. Not to mention that I have surely rejected half the families within this city at some time or another. What match could possibly be made that would be even remotely tolerable? Surely you could not be thinking of arranging something with one of Father’s old acquaintances?”
“No, heavens no. No.” Lady Vidal reacted as if the suggestion of it had been a spider caught within her hair. She took a deep breath and continued on, her hand reaching to her daughter’s chair in an encouraging placation, “You are still my daughter, Victoria. Despite what you might think, I do still want for your happiness.”
Rio rolled her eyes at this, “How could any of this possibly end in my happiness?”
“I intend to throw a series of masquerades,” Lady Vidal replied as though it were simple, “I believe the anonymity will give you what you need. A chance to make a choice. To find a match and procure an engagement, not based in attraction or titles, but in affection, admiration, perhaps even a friendship.”
“Does father know of this scheme of yours?” Rio questioned.
“Your Father agrees. He has already ensured he would return upon your engagement. You will not deter us. It is settled.”