nightdog_barks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nightdog_barks) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
house_wilson2011-01-30 06:46 pm
nightdog_barks) wrote in house_wilson2011-01-30 06:46 pm
Entry tags:
A First Class House
Title: A First Class House
Author:nightdog_barks
Characters: Wilson, House, an OFC. Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: No.
Summary: If there's a roadmap to perdition, you can bet House is the tour guide. 1,808 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This fic is a 19th-century historical AU, sparked by a post in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
namasteyoga's LJ, regarding a certain 'gentleman's companion' as it appeared in a NY Times article. Many of the terms, descriptions, and locations in this story are taken from the actual book, The Gentleman's Directory. The cut text is a slight paraphrase of a Mae West line.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks toblackmare and topaz_eyes.
A First Class House
Doctor James Wilson allowed himself a small smile as he settled back into his cushioned seat. The streets of New York seemed to bloom with the loveliest of young women in the spring, and this season was no exception. His smile grew wider as he recalled the fair flower he'd seen upon arriving in the city this morning. She'd looked shyly away when he'd tipped his derby to her; pretending to ignore his gesture, she had instead focused her attention upon the tiny dog she carried.
His pleasant reverie was interrupted by the small trap door above his head opening, and the coachman, a surly fellow with an upturned nose, calling down from his perch.
"Sorry, sir, could I have the address again?"
Wilson sighed as he leaned forward a bit, the better to convey his instructions. "Number 128," he said, "on West 27th Street."
The driver's face split into a broad smile. "Ah," he exclaimed. "Mrs. Lizzie's place!"
Wilson frowned at him, taken aback by the man's sudden familiarity. "Lizzie?"
"Mrs. Goodrich," the coachman affirmed. "One of the best establishments in town, if you ask me, sir. You'll find just what you're looking for there!"
"What I am looking for," Wilson replied, "is the residence of my best friend, whom I am here to visit. Which is Number 128, West 27th Street."
The driver nodded in a knowing manner. "Aye," he said, "I'd like to call them all my best friend, if'n my wife would allow it!" And before Wilson could ask him what he meant by this most cryptic of pronouncements, the coachman winked and closed the trap door. In another moment Wilson heard him chirrup to his horse, and the cab started forward.
The facade of Number 128 was an unpretentious red brick, to all outside appearances a neat and orderly parlor house. A large red lamp by the front stoop marked the entrance to the "establishment."
"Thirty cents, sir," the coachman said as Wilson disembarked. "And if I may suggest, sir, after you've wet your whistle -- " And here the man winked again in a remarkable display of effrontery -- "you can quench your thirst at one of the Concert Saloons down the street there. Mind the badgers, though, sir!"
"The ... badgers?" a thoroughly confused Wilson began, but before he could inquire further, the cab was gone, rattling away and almost immediately lost amid the other horse-traffic plying its way along the avenue.
Wilson sighed as he patted at his derby and straightened his frock coat. The common patois of the city changed so quickly these days, he thought, and immersed as he was in his private practice in New Jersey, the Gotham slang was virtually a foreign language. House would be able to decipher this alien tongue, but not him. He shook his head and cast these thoughts aside, pulling out his pocket watch instead. Three o'clock on the dot -- he was right on time, and his spirits immediately lifted at the prospect of seeing his friend. Giving one last tug to his vest, he stepped forward.
The housemaid who smiled and curtsied as she took possession of his hat and walking stick was a comely young thing, a shining example of the fairer sex.
"Good afternoon," Wilson said, "I am here to -- " But before he could say anything more, the girl was gone. He gazed appreciatively at her retreating back before he crossed through the archway into the front parlor.
Where, to his surprise, he was greeted by the amused eyes and sparkling smiles of seven young ladies, clad in the briefest of feminine attire. The consequent rush of blood warmed Wilson's cheeks to a blush as he hastily sketched out a bow.
"Excuse me," he stammered, acutely aware of the beguiling gazes upon him. "I did not expect ... I did not think ... " A presence bustled behind him, and he turned, grateful for the diversion. It was another woman, but, unlike her younger compatriots, she was dressed sensibly in an ivory pinstripe blouse and a simple black skirt. She beamed at Wilson.
"Good afternoon, sir," she said. "It is always a pleasure to receive a new customer wishing to avail himself of the services of Cupid."
Wilson was very much afraid he was gaping at her, but the woman continued to speak in the same blithely engaging tone.
"I am Mrs. Goodrich. Please, -- " She stopped, and looked at him questioningly.
"James Wilson," Wilson said. "I am Doctor James Wilson."
Mrs. Goodrich's smile grew exponentially larger, exposing small, even teeth. "A Doctor!" she fluttered. "We have had many physicians here, ready to dispel their clouds of melancholy with my lively and accomplished girls. There are no bears in our cellars!"
"Bears? What could you possibly -- "
His plea came too late; the mistress of the house had already swept past him, into the front parlor with its dark rosewood furniture, shining French mirrors and rich Brussels carpet. The seven young women, their interest piqued, turned their luminous eyes on him once more. "Now," Mrs. Goodrich said, "is there one among these young lady scholars that particularly interests you?"
Wilson could not help himself -- he stared. The young women were dressed scandalously, in bloomers and pantaloons, camisoles and petticoats. There were blondes and brunettes, dark skin and light, soft brown eyes and bold blue ones. Even though the spring weather was temperate, a fire blazed beneath an elaborately-carved mantel. He swallowed.
"I'm afraid there's been a mistake," Wilson said helplessly.
Mrs. Goodrich took his arm. "Now, Doctor," she soothed. "It's understandable that cultured men such as yourself -- "
"No," Wilson said, "I really think there's been -- "
"Wilson! About time you got here!"
The familiar voice broke through Wilson's confusion, and he turned to greet House with a surge of welcome relief.
"Sorry about ... that," House said, although he didn't appear to be. He turned up the gas lamp in the small room, but it only cast new shadows against the bookshelves, stacked with dusty volumes. "They're all nice girls, though, in their own way. I'm teaching one of them the piano. They wouldn't have -- "
"House," Wilson said, "what are you doing here?"
House looked surprised. "I work here," he said, in what Wilson suspected he thought was a perfectly reasonable voice. He propped his left foot on the rolling ottoman, then lifted his right leg to join it.
"You work here? This is your place of employment?"
House regarded him with a narrow gaze.
"House," Wilson hissed. "This is a ... a brothel!"
"Took you long enough to figure that out."
"House!"
House shook his head. "Will you cease your worrying? I am the physician on-call of the establishment, and receive compensation as well as board for the service." He sat back in his chair and looked at Wilson with a gleam in his eye. "Of course, there are other benefits as well ... "
"I do not want to know," Wilson said. "What about your former practice? Your career?"
"I ... may have underestimated the irritability factor of a former patient," House admitted. "After a series of consultations with a certain police detective, I decided to ... take a sabbatical."
"A police detective? House, did the patient threaten you?"
"The police detective was the patient," House said. He perused the contents of a vest pocket, and, after a moment, withdrew a pipe, which he proceeded to insert between his lips and light with a spare match. "Come now," he said between puffs, "it's almost dinner time. We'll go to Delmonico's, and have a drink afterwards at McSorley's Ale House."
"No," Wilson said, although truthfully this course of action did sound most appealing. "House, really. Sabbatical or not, this position is beneath you."
"And yet," House replied, "it is quite suitable for a man of my ... temperament." He puffed some more on his pipe. "This isn't the sort of flea-ridden bordello you'd find on Greene Street," he said. "The girls are clean. I have instructed them to require all their customers to don French safes, whether of skin or India rubber. I have time to read, to write ... I even dispense seminal pills for nervous disabilities, for an excellent and profitable mark-up. Can you say that you are as satisfied with your practice in Princeton?"
"Are you really so satisfied with this?"
House did not answer, and after a long moment he tapped out his pipe into a small Chinese dish already overflowing with burnt tobacco leaf. He looked away from Wilson, directing his restless gaze toward the window above his desk. "I listen to the customers," he said at last. "To the girls' stories, to Lizzie's patter. I walk the city, as much as I can. I create mysteries for myself, and solve them."
"Ratiocination," Wilson murmured, and was rewarded with the all-too-rare look of a startled House.
"Yes," House said. "Poe knew what he was about." He looked out the window again; from the street below came the faint sounds of men arguing, of merchants hawking their wares, of boys selling newspapers. "Sometimes I do not want this to be just a test."
Wilson smiled. "It does not have to be," he said.
"It is not, always," House said, and then he smiled -- a fleeting, genuine smile that was gone too soon. He swung his legs off the ottoman and stood up. He clapped a battered derby atop his head and reached for his cane. "Come on," he said. "Dinner, and then a drink. I'll tell you tales of daring assignations, and you can relate more of your boring life in Princeton."
"House ... " Wilson began, but House was already out the door and talking to someone in the hallway -- one of the paragons of young womanhood, from the sound of it. Wilson shook his head and followed, mentally surveying his patient schedule over the coming months. He was already planning his next visit to his friend, when a sudden thought struck him. "House," he said, "come back to Princeton for a while." Before House could object, Wilson continued. "A certain patient of mine -- his symptoms are so diverse that no one has yet managed a diagnosis. I've called in every specialist, consulted the latest professional papers. If it's a mystery you're looking for ... " He allowed his voice to trail off suggestively; House's only response was a raised eyebrow, but soon enough his eyes grew thoughtful.
Wilson looked away, lest the pleasure in his own eyes betray him. Very well, the seed was planted. Still, he could not help but ask, as they bade their farewells to the young ladies and stepped outside,
"House, why would there be a bear in the cellar?"
A hint of the earlier smile returned as House raised one hand to summon a cab.
"Now that, Wilson," he declared, "is another story."
~ fin
Notes:
According to The Gentleman's Directory, "badgers" are blackmailers, women who rob their victims and then threaten to expose them to their families.
The original detective of ratiocination was C. Auguste Dupin, a creation of Edgar Allan Poe.
The actual text of The Gentlemen's Directory is here. It is a truly amazing read.
Author:
nightdog_barks Characters: Wilson, House, an OFC. Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: No.
Summary: If there's a roadmap to perdition, you can bet House is the tour guide. 1,808 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This fic is a 19th-century historical AU, sparked by a post in
namasteyoga's LJ, regarding a certain 'gentleman's companion' as it appeared in a NY Times article. Many of the terms, descriptions, and locations in this story are taken from the actual book, The Gentleman's Directory. The cut text is a slight paraphrase of a Mae West line. Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to
blackmare and topaz_eyes.A First Class House
Doctor James Wilson allowed himself a small smile as he settled back into his cushioned seat. The streets of New York seemed to bloom with the loveliest of young women in the spring, and this season was no exception. His smile grew wider as he recalled the fair flower he'd seen upon arriving in the city this morning. She'd looked shyly away when he'd tipped his derby to her; pretending to ignore his gesture, she had instead focused her attention upon the tiny dog she carried.
His pleasant reverie was interrupted by the small trap door above his head opening, and the coachman, a surly fellow with an upturned nose, calling down from his perch.
"Sorry, sir, could I have the address again?"
Wilson sighed as he leaned forward a bit, the better to convey his instructions. "Number 128," he said, "on West 27th Street."
The driver's face split into a broad smile. "Ah," he exclaimed. "Mrs. Lizzie's place!"
Wilson frowned at him, taken aback by the man's sudden familiarity. "Lizzie?"
"Mrs. Goodrich," the coachman affirmed. "One of the best establishments in town, if you ask me, sir. You'll find just what you're looking for there!"
"What I am looking for," Wilson replied, "is the residence of my best friend, whom I am here to visit. Which is Number 128, West 27th Street."
The driver nodded in a knowing manner. "Aye," he said, "I'd like to call them all my best friend, if'n my wife would allow it!" And before Wilson could ask him what he meant by this most cryptic of pronouncements, the coachman winked and closed the trap door. In another moment Wilson heard him chirrup to his horse, and the cab started forward.
The facade of Number 128 was an unpretentious red brick, to all outside appearances a neat and orderly parlor house. A large red lamp by the front stoop marked the entrance to the "establishment."
"Thirty cents, sir," the coachman said as Wilson disembarked. "And if I may suggest, sir, after you've wet your whistle -- " And here the man winked again in a remarkable display of effrontery -- "you can quench your thirst at one of the Concert Saloons down the street there. Mind the badgers, though, sir!"
"The ... badgers?" a thoroughly confused Wilson began, but before he could inquire further, the cab was gone, rattling away and almost immediately lost amid the other horse-traffic plying its way along the avenue.
Wilson sighed as he patted at his derby and straightened his frock coat. The common patois of the city changed so quickly these days, he thought, and immersed as he was in his private practice in New Jersey, the Gotham slang was virtually a foreign language. House would be able to decipher this alien tongue, but not him. He shook his head and cast these thoughts aside, pulling out his pocket watch instead. Three o'clock on the dot -- he was right on time, and his spirits immediately lifted at the prospect of seeing his friend. Giving one last tug to his vest, he stepped forward.
The housemaid who smiled and curtsied as she took possession of his hat and walking stick was a comely young thing, a shining example of the fairer sex.
"Good afternoon," Wilson said, "I am here to -- " But before he could say anything more, the girl was gone. He gazed appreciatively at her retreating back before he crossed through the archway into the front parlor.
Where, to his surprise, he was greeted by the amused eyes and sparkling smiles of seven young ladies, clad in the briefest of feminine attire. The consequent rush of blood warmed Wilson's cheeks to a blush as he hastily sketched out a bow.
"Excuse me," he stammered, acutely aware of the beguiling gazes upon him. "I did not expect ... I did not think ... " A presence bustled behind him, and he turned, grateful for the diversion. It was another woman, but, unlike her younger compatriots, she was dressed sensibly in an ivory pinstripe blouse and a simple black skirt. She beamed at Wilson.
"Good afternoon, sir," she said. "It is always a pleasure to receive a new customer wishing to avail himself of the services of Cupid."
Wilson was very much afraid he was gaping at her, but the woman continued to speak in the same blithely engaging tone.
"I am Mrs. Goodrich. Please, -- " She stopped, and looked at him questioningly.
"James Wilson," Wilson said. "I am Doctor James Wilson."
Mrs. Goodrich's smile grew exponentially larger, exposing small, even teeth. "A Doctor!" she fluttered. "We have had many physicians here, ready to dispel their clouds of melancholy with my lively and accomplished girls. There are no bears in our cellars!"
"Bears? What could you possibly -- "
His plea came too late; the mistress of the house had already swept past him, into the front parlor with its dark rosewood furniture, shining French mirrors and rich Brussels carpet. The seven young women, their interest piqued, turned their luminous eyes on him once more. "Now," Mrs. Goodrich said, "is there one among these young lady scholars that particularly interests you?"
Wilson could not help himself -- he stared. The young women were dressed scandalously, in bloomers and pantaloons, camisoles and petticoats. There were blondes and brunettes, dark skin and light, soft brown eyes and bold blue ones. Even though the spring weather was temperate, a fire blazed beneath an elaborately-carved mantel. He swallowed.
"I'm afraid there's been a mistake," Wilson said helplessly.
Mrs. Goodrich took his arm. "Now, Doctor," she soothed. "It's understandable that cultured men such as yourself -- "
"No," Wilson said, "I really think there's been -- "
"Wilson! About time you got here!"
The familiar voice broke through Wilson's confusion, and he turned to greet House with a surge of welcome relief.
"Sorry about ... that," House said, although he didn't appear to be. He turned up the gas lamp in the small room, but it only cast new shadows against the bookshelves, stacked with dusty volumes. "They're all nice girls, though, in their own way. I'm teaching one of them the piano. They wouldn't have -- "
"House," Wilson said, "what are you doing here?"
House looked surprised. "I work here," he said, in what Wilson suspected he thought was a perfectly reasonable voice. He propped his left foot on the rolling ottoman, then lifted his right leg to join it.
"You work here? This is your place of employment?"
House regarded him with a narrow gaze.
"House," Wilson hissed. "This is a ... a brothel!"
"Took you long enough to figure that out."
"House!"
House shook his head. "Will you cease your worrying? I am the physician on-call of the establishment, and receive compensation as well as board for the service." He sat back in his chair and looked at Wilson with a gleam in his eye. "Of course, there are other benefits as well ... "
"I do not want to know," Wilson said. "What about your former practice? Your career?"
"I ... may have underestimated the irritability factor of a former patient," House admitted. "After a series of consultations with a certain police detective, I decided to ... take a sabbatical."
"A police detective? House, did the patient threaten you?"
"The police detective was the patient," House said. He perused the contents of a vest pocket, and, after a moment, withdrew a pipe, which he proceeded to insert between his lips and light with a spare match. "Come now," he said between puffs, "it's almost dinner time. We'll go to Delmonico's, and have a drink afterwards at McSorley's Ale House."
"No," Wilson said, although truthfully this course of action did sound most appealing. "House, really. Sabbatical or not, this position is beneath you."
"And yet," House replied, "it is quite suitable for a man of my ... temperament." He puffed some more on his pipe. "This isn't the sort of flea-ridden bordello you'd find on Greene Street," he said. "The girls are clean. I have instructed them to require all their customers to don French safes, whether of skin or India rubber. I have time to read, to write ... I even dispense seminal pills for nervous disabilities, for an excellent and profitable mark-up. Can you say that you are as satisfied with your practice in Princeton?"
"Are you really so satisfied with this?"
House did not answer, and after a long moment he tapped out his pipe into a small Chinese dish already overflowing with burnt tobacco leaf. He looked away from Wilson, directing his restless gaze toward the window above his desk. "I listen to the customers," he said at last. "To the girls' stories, to Lizzie's patter. I walk the city, as much as I can. I create mysteries for myself, and solve them."
"Ratiocination," Wilson murmured, and was rewarded with the all-too-rare look of a startled House.
"Yes," House said. "Poe knew what he was about." He looked out the window again; from the street below came the faint sounds of men arguing, of merchants hawking their wares, of boys selling newspapers. "Sometimes I do not want this to be just a test."
Wilson smiled. "It does not have to be," he said.
"It is not, always," House said, and then he smiled -- a fleeting, genuine smile that was gone too soon. He swung his legs off the ottoman and stood up. He clapped a battered derby atop his head and reached for his cane. "Come on," he said. "Dinner, and then a drink. I'll tell you tales of daring assignations, and you can relate more of your boring life in Princeton."
"House ... " Wilson began, but House was already out the door and talking to someone in the hallway -- one of the paragons of young womanhood, from the sound of it. Wilson shook his head and followed, mentally surveying his patient schedule over the coming months. He was already planning his next visit to his friend, when a sudden thought struck him. "House," he said, "come back to Princeton for a while." Before House could object, Wilson continued. "A certain patient of mine -- his symptoms are so diverse that no one has yet managed a diagnosis. I've called in every specialist, consulted the latest professional papers. If it's a mystery you're looking for ... " He allowed his voice to trail off suggestively; House's only response was a raised eyebrow, but soon enough his eyes grew thoughtful.
Wilson looked away, lest the pleasure in his own eyes betray him. Very well, the seed was planted. Still, he could not help but ask, as they bade their farewells to the young ladies and stepped outside,
"House, why would there be a bear in the cellar?"
A hint of the earlier smile returned as House raised one hand to summon a cab.
"Now that, Wilson," he declared, "is another story."
~ fin
Notes:
According to The Gentleman's Directory, "badgers" are blackmailers, women who rob their victims and then threaten to expose them to their families.
The original detective of ratiocination was C. Auguste Dupin, a creation of Edgar Allan Poe.
The actual text of The Gentlemen's Directory is here. It is a truly amazing read.