Chapter Text
It had been an open secret for quite some time that Carter Cushing’s only daughter would never marry. Starting ever since the girl turned sixteen and hadn’t been “taken ill” once, as modern fashion would term it, tongues had wagged behind hands; the kinder gossips made excuses -- “Some girls are late bloomers, you know how it goes” -- while the less kind wondered what was wrong with her. Edith seemed happy and healthy enough, if a little more bookish than was preferable. But by her seventeenth birthday, it was too late to deny what had happened. The tell-tale scent clung to the Cushing girl the way some girls wore perfume and everyone she passed knew, on some level, that she was no good. She could tend to her father when he reached his dotage, but marriage was entirely out of the question.
There was, of course, always the McMichael boy, but everyone knew his harridan of a mother would never allow the match, despite the fact that Alan had made it clear such a match would not be unwelcome. And it was no secret that Cushing himself was making every attempt to convince his daughter of the wisdom in marrying Alan -- respectability, the guarantee of a steady societal position after he was gone, and at least grudging acceptance. There would be no children, but that was the price to pay. Some said that one could see the anxiety of it in Cushing’s face. With an Alpha daughter, there would be no grandson to pass on the business. The Cushing line would die with Edith.
That would be years off. But no matter how much the Cushings tried to keep up appearances, everyone in Buffalo knew that in spite of Edith’s dowry, no one would come to court her.
It was a cruel irony, Edith thought to herself, not for the first time, as she lifted her skirts to avoid tripping on her way down the staircase, that I was born a woman. A male Alpha could own property, could be the head of his household, could, for God’s sake, make a child…
A male Alpha would have gotten a publishing agreement.
Too late, lost in her own angry ruminations -- just because he could smell it across the desk! -- she saw Mrs. McMichael and her daughter Eunice round the corner of the street and make directly for her. Perhaps she could avoid them if she pretended she was in a great rush? But they were already upon her.
“Well, our very own Jane Austen,” said Mrs. McMichael, teeth bared, her hat creating a great shadow over her face as she more or less accosted Edith there on the building steps. “I hope your appointment was successful?” she added, nodding to the manuscript under Edith’s arm. Edith forced a smile to her face.
“Unfortunately not,” she said. “But I hope for better luck in the future.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. McMichael. “Best of luck. But I’m afraid Eunice and I must be getting along,” she added in a tone that suggested she’d been waiting the entire conversation for just this moment. “We have a very important visitor coming to call.” She was bursting with pride and it was too much fun for Edith not to egg her on.
“Who’s the visitor?”
“Thomas Sharpe. He’s a Baronet, all the way from England,” she said. If her smile grew wider, it would burst through her cheeks. “Between you and me, Edith --” She lowered her voice. “-- I think our Baronet has developed an attachment.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully to Eunice, who flushed red but couldn’t hide her look of pride.
“How nice,” said Edith. Mrs. McMichael patted her arm.
“Don’t fret, Edith, darling.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Married life isn’t for everyone, you know. You keep writing your novels.”
Edith wondered privately how proud Mrs. McMichael would feel if she were to explain courtship as she viewed it -- a facade of respectability masking the instinct to breed, Alpha and Omega, heat cycles, the carnal urge...
… which she felt just as strongly. Eunice had been thirteen when she’d first “fallen ill,” and the gradual change in her scent had caught Edith’s attention very quickly, till it had been all she could think about as she and her father made small talk. By the time the others noticed and Mrs. McMichael was helping the flushed, feverish Eunice to bed, Edith had been rather red herself, weak in the knees with her heart racing.
It wouldn’t be until a year and a half later that she would admit how delicious she had looked.
“I’ve been doing some reading, Father,” she said over dinner a few hours later. Her father lowered his knife and fork to listen to what she had to say. Edith stared down at her own plate, trying to choose her words with the utmost care. They’d had conversations like this before, all of them ending the same way. “I’d like to try one of the… the treatments they have. For women like me.” She could already read the expression on her father’s face, one she’d seen too many times.
“Edith…” He covered her hand with his own. “Do you know how many of these so-called doctors have come before me begging an investment?”
“But they’re --” she began.
“-- nd do you know why I haven’t backed one of them? Because they’re not safe.” He gave her an earnest look. “The women who use these products put themselves at terrible risk. Many die.”
She couldn’t argue with what he was saying. But if he knew what it was like to be seen as fundamentally useless… his answer would have been different, she knew. But he only wanted the best for her, and there would be no way she could change his mind, so she demurred with a yes, Father, and then turned the subject to her plans to send her manuscript to The Atlantic.
“I’ll type it on your typewriter, Father,” she said. “I don’t want anything, not even my handwriting, to give me away.”
“I don’t understand how you can concentrate through all this noise,” said her father, laying a hand briefly on Edith’s shoulder as he passed by the desk that she had arranged for herself: typewriter before her, manuscript to the side. She shrugged, grinning as she carefully pressed her finger into the first key.
“Oh, that’s handsome,” she said to herself as the letter appeared on the page in jet-colored ink. She went on typing, growing in confidence as the clacking of the keys quickened in succession. Occasionally she would leave the typewriter altogether and make revisions in pen on her manuscript, not wanting to use any phrase that was less than perfect in her typed copy. Hmm. Was it truly in character for Cavendish to let Sophie go into the forest on her own, or would he insist on accompanying her? Lost in the dilemma, she didn’t notice the figure standing in front of her desk until he coughed. Blue eyes flicked up to meet eyes just as blue.
“I’m sorry,” the man before her said, balancing his top hat under one arm while removing his gloves. She realized with a start that he was English. “I’m looking for a Carter Cushing, but I wasn’t told where he was in the building.”
“Oh,” she said, a little resentful for being dragged away from her work. “He’s probably upstairs. The third door on the right.”
“Thank you,” he said. To her irritation, he didn’t immediately go for the staircase. “Tell me,” he went on, nodding to the stack of paper beside her that was her manuscript, “you don’t have to transcribe all of that, do you?” He smiled.
“It’s hardly a chore,” she said shortly. “It’s mine.”
“Yours?” He looked astonished, the way most people did when she told them she’d written a novel and was planning another one. Reaching a hand out towards it, he hesitated. “May I?” With a look of longing at the typewriter, fingers itching to return to what she’d been doing, she nodded tersely. As he reached over, she caught his scent: rough, dark, Alpha.
Ha. That explained her sudden animosity, at any rate. Not that she’d met many men who weren’t Alphas. But the strength of his scent was surprising, particularly in one so slight.
His eyes roved over the first page. A rustling sound told her that he’d turned the page, was continuing. Edith stared hard at the table, disliking having her work read in front of her.
“This is…” He sounded… well, surprised wasn’t quite the word, perhaps. Perhaps taken aback. “This is… you have a very strong voice.”
“I do?” In spite of herself, she caught his eye and hated how eager she’d suddenly felt. “I was told that it was too strong.”
“Whoever told you that, don’t listen.” He held the pages back out to her. “This is your first foray into the literary world?”
“Yes.”
“Then I would say that you have a natural gift.”
She took the pages from him, bemused and angry at how quickly her pulse had elevated. Every time someone gave her a compliment… well. That was because it happened so rarely.
“Thank you,” she said, settling back into her chair. “Er, didn’t you say you had an appointment?”
“I’m rather early actually,” he said, smiling apologetically. “Oh, forgive me. What you must think of me, demanding to read your manuscript and not giving you my name.” He held out a hand. “Sir Thomas Sharpe. I’m here on business.” Well-spoken, English, fine clothes, Sir… with a start, Edith realized that this must be the baronet that Mrs. McMichael had mentioned the other day. It gave her a good deal of cathartic joy to think of how the woman would feel if she’d heard what he’d said: I’m here on business. No mention of her daughter at all. But then, that would hardly be the way of a wealthy Alpha courting a wife.
Realizing that he was still holding his hand out to her, she took it, noting a rather strange look come into his eyes for a moment. He exhaled.
“Edith Cushing,” Edith said, and he looked surprised.
“Carter Cushing’s daughter?” he asked. She nodded, wondering how much he’d heard about her. If he spent as much time with the McMichaels as Mrs. McMichael would no doubt like the world to believe, he’d probably heard something of her condition. Perhaps that explained the odd change in his countenance when she’d taken his hand. The idea that he knew exactly what she was left her feeling somehow disappointed. For some frivolous reason, she thought she might have enjoyed it if Thomas Sharpe had thought her an Omega. If only for a little while.
She pushed that thought cleanly out of her head.
“You should probably go up,” she said. “My father doesn’t like lateness.”
“Of course,” he said. “It was a pleasure.”
She nodded, unsure of how to reply, and breathed a private sigh of relief when he finally moved to the staircase. After quickly casting about to ascertain that there was no one to see, she laid the back of her hands against her cheeks in an effort to cool the flush.
What is wrong with me? she wondered. I never flush with an Alpha.
Thinking about the encounter in her father’s offices had cast a pall over the rest of Edith’s day. She went through the motions readily enough but was internally going over and over her meeting with Thomas Sharpe. It didn’t make any sense! Why had she grown so flustered? She was an Alpha; she was quite sure of that. Perhaps she was falling sick.
Her father had noticed how downcast and distracted she was and now came knocking on her bedroom door.
“You know,” he said, sitting down on her bed beside her, “no one would think less of you if you decided not to go tonight.”
The McMichaels were holding a gala that night and had been planning it for weeks. Edith stared up at her ceiling, feeling stressed and awkward in her silk gown.
“No, I’ll go,” she said. “It would be rude to refuse at the last minute.”
There was a sudden clamor of male voices downstairs and her father stood.
“That’ll be Alan,” he said, then hesitated. “Now, know that you’re under no obligation. But I think that if you were to marry --”
“Father, we’ve spoken about this. I like Alan, but not enough to bind myself to him forever.” Edith went to her mirror and adjusted the placement of several blonde curls. “If I marry -- or if I fall in love -- I want to feel -- I don’t know… as though I have a part to play. I want to feel needed. And I would never have that with Alan.”
“Well, Edith,” said her father, who knew what she was driving at and now felt slightly uncomfortable, “if… if you find a young lady with whom --” He stopped. “My first priority is your happiness. Just please be careful.”
She knew that he meant what he said, as it applied to her. Society took a dim view of women who turned to other women where a man would do, but that was the only medium through which she would likely be able to find a partner.
“Thank you, Father.”
“Now,” said her father in a lighter tone, stretching. “We must get downstairs and collect Alan and that Sir Thomas.”
“Sir Thomas is here?” she said, brow furrowing in surprise as she followed him out the door.
“Yes, he had business at the office. And since he’s coming to the gala anyway, it was only practical to take him along.” Her father gave her a sidelong glance at the top of the stairs. “Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered,” said Edith, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
Alan and Sir Thomas were waiting at the foot of the staircase for them, coats shiny with rain. Again, Edith found herself growing rather hot under the Baron’s gaze and wondered what was wrong with her.
“Sir Thomas, Alan.” She nodded to them quickly, hoping to avoid lengthy conversation.
“You’ll be the belle of the ball,” Alan said with a smile.
“Actually, I feel a little unwell.”
Was it just her, or had Sir Thomas gone slightly red? Then she realized what he must have thought she meant. Why couldn’t they just say heat and dispense with those euphemisms that only caused confusion…
“That is,” she continued, trying to amend what she’d said before, “I’m a little tired.”
There was a tight silence and Edith did her best to not appear self-conscious. She’d had many years of practice at it.
“Shall we on?” her father suggested finally, and the others seemed to accept with relief.
Edith was not quite as prepared as she should have been for the crush there was at the McMichael’s. Mrs. McMichael always gave quite extravagant dinners, balls, galas, what-have-you, but she seemed to have outdone herself this time. Flowers adorned every corner, every surface had been polished to utmost brilliance, and guests filled every available room in the townhouse. And at the center of it all was Mrs. McMichael herself, bony clavicle bedecked with pearls and her teeth bared in a smile: the image of a mother with a marriageable daughter.
It was still a shock to see so many heads turn in her direction when she entered the drawing room on Sir Thomas’s arm -- although the shock was likely due more to her shattering nerves after being confined in a carriage opposite the Baron, his confusing scent flooding her senses.
He drew off her cape and there it was again: Alpha, but somehow more engaging to her. She caught his eye and he looked away. Hm. He was a strange one, this baron.
“Baron!” To Edith’s horror, Mrs. McMichael was swanning over to welcome them. Sir Thomas kissed her hand and gave her a brief bow -- eliciting a giggle that sounded almost girlish -- and then the woman turned to Edith. “And little Edith. How nice to see you again.” One didn’t need to see the suddenly frozen smile pasted on the woman’s face to know that her appearance was not wholly welcome. Especially on the arm of her daughter’s suitor. As Mrs. McMichael brushed past to greet Edith’s father and Alan, Edith noticed Eunice standing near the back of the crowd, nervously trying to catch Sir Thomas’s eye.
Sir Thomas placed a gentle hand at the center of her back.
“Come meet my sister,” he said. For a wild moment, Edith thought he meant Eunice; then she saw the tall, dark-haired woman beside her and wondered how she’d failed to notice her before. Her gown was a deep, bloody red, and those eyes -- Edith found herself unable to meet them for more than a few seconds.
“This is my sister, Lucille. Lucille, this is Miss Edith Cushing.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Cushing.” They shook hands and immediately Edith caught her scent: Omega. She seemed very closed-off, though, which was rare from what Edith had seen. When Sir Thomas leaned over to kiss her cheek, she smiled just a little. Her eyes flashed back to Edith, who looked away and fought the urge to blush. This Lucille had the scent of one who was recovering from a heat, which in turn was beginning to set Edith off.
“How -- how are you?” she asked, turning to Eunice to cover for herself. Eunice very pointedly did not reply, which didn’t surprise Edith very much. After it had become apparent what Edith was, Eunice had begun to distance herself from her.
“Please, everyone!” Mrs. McMichael was at the center of things once again, clapping her hands and smiling. “Make some space! We’ll have some dancing now!” She turned, seemingly without design, to Sir Thomas. “Baron, if you’d like to open…?”
The Baron laughed a little self-consciously -- again, rather strange.
"I'm sure that's not --"
"Baron, I insist," she said.
"I merely --"
"Baron, must I take onto this floor myself?" Mrs. McMichael said in mock affront. There was a murmur of laughter around the room, but Edith didn't join in, sensing his self-consciousness. Beside her, Lucille's jaw tightened.
"Alright then," he said, laughing tightly again. He turned to Edith.
“Miss Cushing, will you do me the honor?”
All conversation in the room seemed to die at once and Edith found herself unsure that she’d heard him correctly. There was no possible way that he could have asked to her dance with him. Not her. He was courting Eunice. Good God, Eunice was by far the most practical match: with wealth and a womb that wouldn’t fail them --
Aware that she’d suddenly jumped from a single dance to marriage and children, Edith drew in the reins on her thoughts and smiled. It would appear rude if she refused, after all.
“Of course,” she said, and took his hand. She was dimly aware of a ripple of murmuring sweeping around the room -- does he know about her? -- but somehow, when he escorted her into the center of the floor and she placed her hand on his shoulder, none of what they said seemed to matter.
“Why are we doing this?” she murmured.
“Why not?” he said.
The band struck up a waltz, and it was as if they’d been born for the dance, their feet flying with ease across the floor, Edith’s skirts sweeping just so. But after a moment, Edith realized that he was not leading her; rather, he was allowing her to direct them both across the highly polished wood. A touch of anger rose within her. It felt too much as if he were humoring both her and her condition. But anger was quickly overruled by her other feelings. Satisfaction. Pride, almost. Confidence. Was this how male Alphas felt every day? It was intoxicating.
The Baron was shaking very slightly and when she met his eyes mid-whirl, she saw nervousness lingering there and wondered at it.
Another whirl and suddenly she caught the edge of a scent, coming quite clearly from the Baron, but not… well… it couldn’t be… it couldn’t be right. The Alpha scent was still there. But a flame began to kindle in her belly at her detection of it and she recognized both the feeling and the scent itself.
She’d scented it on Eunice before, on women in the street, a strong shadow of it in Lucille.
Sir Thomas was an Omega.
The shock of it wouldn’t leave her brain for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t that she couldn’t understand why he was masquerading as an Alpha -- God knew, she could understand that. It was simply that… well… why? Why would he come overseas ostensibly to court Eunice if there was no chance at all that they’d have children? She wasn’t stupid; it was common knowledge, if not commonly addressed, how male Omegas became, well, pregnant. Not with women. And certainly not an Omega woman.
Now that she knew, she wondered how the others didn’t catch on. As Sir Thomas obligingly took Mrs. McMichael’s arm to lead her into dinner, she found it impossible that the woman couldn’t realize. Walking with her father behind them, she was all-too-conscious both of his scent -- confusing, making her feel antagonistic even as it tantalized her -- and of what Mrs. McMichael was saying to him, just quietly enough that only those in the immediate vicinity could hear.
“Such a lovely girl, too. Of course, it is as shame that she’ll never marry, if you know what I mean. A sworn spinster. But of course, one can’t have everything, can one?”
Edith clenched her jaw and said nothing as the baron pulled Mrs. McMichael’s chair out for her. She found herself hoping as she herself sat that he’d pull it out from beneath her and send her sprawling.
She felt his eyes on her several times throughout dinner; they were fleeting, yet curious glances, as if the dance and what Mrs. McMichael had said had only sparked his curiosity. And when they were, at last, saying their goodbyes, the rest of the party took good note of how his lips brushed her fingers, their hands lingering just a shade longer than what was deemed proper. The Omega scent was strong in her nose now, and she couldn’t believe that she’d not noticed it earlier. Off to the side, Eunice watched with her mother, a look of dismay on her face.
Lucille said goodbye as well, arm linked with her brother’s. Once more, Edith wanted to both look away and drink her in. The raw scent of her was quite heady as they shook hands. And Lucille did not once take her eyes from her face.
“A pleasure, Miss Cushing,” she said. “Perhaps we could meet one day soon and take a stroll? I hear there are some lovely parks here in the city. It would be a shame to miss them.”
“I would love to,” said Edith, her heart fluttering at the thought.
Inside the carriage on the way home, Edith’s father gave her an assessing look.
“Why did the baron dance with you?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Father, I did not ask him.”
Her father settled back against the upholstery and said nothing more, leaving Edith to gaze out the carriage window at the orange street lamps that floated by and wonder what the two of them were doing -- why they had come to Buffalo, and why, in spite of herself, they had captured her imagination so completely.