The Influence of Italy

[nike_ravus]

 I wrote a Room with a View fanfic on the bus on the way back to school at the end of Fall Break.  It's rather atrocious, but as it's the only fic I've written in ages, I figured I would post it.

Title: The Influence of Italy
Author: Alsike
Fandom: A Room with a View, by E.M. Forster
Pairing: Charlotte Bartlett/Eleanor Lavish
Rating: R
Word Count: 705




Miss Lavish was looking for her cigarette case.  Miss Bartlett was looking for Miss Lavish.  Miss Lavish did not find her cigarette case.  Miss Bartlett found Miss Lavish, and the cigarette case, which she carefully tucked under the cushion of the firmest armchair.  There were certain habits it was better not to encourage.

 

*            *            *

It was raining.  Miss Bartlett was sopped.  She pulled her Mackintosh tighter around her and smiled fiercely as she trailed Miss Lavish down the narrow squalid streets.

“The real Italy!”

“Yes,” said Miss Bartlett, and wondered whether it was the muddy unshod cowherd or the scowling mustachioed man peering out of the door at those strange English people, mucking about in the rain.

“I don’t think I will ever find a story for Italy!  The world is so big and rich and beautiful.  How will I ever find a tale of such breadth and beauty to fit it?”

Miss Bartlett responded appropriately.  But she wondered if there would be rain, and mud.

“But what a challenge!  I cannot be daunted with such a pure and noble challenge.”

Miss Lavish turned to her and smiled.  It was daring and slightly unsettling, and Charlotte wondered if it was truly appropriate to smile back in the same manner, but, feeling daring herself, she did anyway.

*            *            *

Miss Lavish arrived in Tunbridge Wells on a bicycle, and Charlotte allowed her to come in for tea.  She did not quite approve, after what she had done to Lucy, but Eleanor Lavish was always difficult to refuse.  And anyways, it would be more impolite than righteous, and Miss Bartlett hated to be impolite. 

Charlotte brought the tea.  Miss Lavish sipped it and eyed her over the teacup.

She was working on another book.  Charlotte shook her head in disapproval.  “Have you selected another victim to be your ingénue?”

“Perhaps,” Miss Lavish smiled and described the plot.  A woman, not too young, poor and prospectless, but noble and honorable, connected to a good family.  “She meets a charming young man, a… journalist.”  Eleanor smiled.  Charlotte pressed her lips together in disapproval.  “But, of course, the young man becomes involved in a situation with her family, publishing a quite scandalous article, and she must abandon him.  Yet, when circumstances become dire, she must choose whether to trust him instead.”  Miss Lavish lit a cigarette.  “I think I will call her… Carlotta.”

Charlotte felt cross, and pushed a saucer towards her so she wouldn’t drip ash on the tablecloth.  “Well, I doubt it will be recognizable at least, even if it is just as self-serving and aggrandizing as the last.”

Miss Lavish shrugged.  “I never claimed otherwise.”

Charlotte shook her head, but couldn’t blame her.

*            *            *

Miss Lavish was not a pity, with her narrow hips and tobacco stained fingers, and she smoked, even in the bedroom, fastening the straps around her waist.  Charlotte brushed her hair and made disapproving comments about the cigarette.

“Just take off that blasted nightgown already.”

“You know I don’t approve of strong language, Eleanor.”

Miss Lavish grinned, and stubbed out her cigarette on the demitasse saucer.  She gestured with her head, and Charlotte pulled off the nightdress, tying back her hair so it wouldn’t get too mussed.  She settled onto the bed and let one knee drop, pointedly.  Miss Lavish approached, the odd leather tube bobbing amusingly.  She knelt on the bed, and Charlotte wrapped her hand around it, with an arched eyebrow.  “Really, Eleanor.”

Their mouths rubbed together inelegantly.  Charlotte groaned and hooked her leg around Eleanor’s waist.

It was all very undignified.  But perhaps indelicate was not always unbeautiful.

*            *            *

Lucy Emerson rose up from the piano and cast a knowing, pleased look around the room.  It flickered over Charlotte, disregarding her, assuming that she would not, could not, and would not want to understand.  Charlotte smiled complacently, and slightly disapprovingly.  It was for the best.

*            *            *

Lucy being insulted in the violets had been rather picturesque, although it really didn’t compare to Miss Lavish’s version of it.  She did have some talent.  But, from that disaster of a picnic, Charlotte would always particularly remember how she had lost that mackintosh square.