by Doctor Who
'Good. They'l be here soon. Surprised Oblonsky hasn't arrived already, actual y. He's always early, drat him.
Must be the military training.'
The doorbel sounded insistently from downstairs.
'You see? That'l be him now. Playing Wagner on the bel .'
'Tchaikovsky, more likely,' Anna said. 'Dickson wil look after him until we are ready.'
Sir George nodded. 'Yes, good man, Dickson.' He reached for his jacket. 'Where's Freddie?'
'In bed. And I don't want you going in and disturbing him. Dilys has only just got him settled, and you know you only excite the child.'
'Me?' Sir George was scandalised. 'Never!'
'We have to keep him calm. Calm and safe.' She turned away, but he could stil see her sad face reflected in the mirror. 'You know that.'
'Of course I do.' He put his hand on her trembling shoulder. 'The boy wil be al right. We mustn't fuss too much, you know.'
She reached up, put her hand over his without turning, nodded without smiling. If she was about to reply, she was interrupted by the urgent knock at the door, then the frightened cal : 'Sir, madam! Can you come, please?
Only it's Mr Dickson, he's been hurt. There's a lady and gentleman...'
The Doctor insisted on taking Dickson to the front door and ringing the bel . No point, he said, in dragging him through the servants' quarters. 'If in doubt, go to the top.'
The woman who eventual y opened the door looked about sixteen, little more than a kid. She was wearing an apron, wiping her hands on it. 'Mr Dickson, sir!' she exclaimed.
'He'l be fine,' the Doctor assured her, helping Dickson into the extensive hal way.
'Could you inform Sir George,' Dickson croaked.
The girl nodded silently, looking pale as she saw the red marks on Dickson's neck. She turned and ran up the stairs, holding up apron and skirts. The stairs turned halfway up, and Rose could see the girl on the gal eried landing, flickering behind the balusters as she ran.
'Let's put you in here,' the Doctor said, leading Dickson through to a large room.
Dickson tried to pul away. 'But that's the drawing room, sir.'
'I don't mind.'
'And I don't draw,' Rose told him.
It was a large, square room with a high ceiling. Dark oil portraits leaned in from several wal s, the severe expressions of the subjects making the place seem even darker. Three long sofas dominated the centre of the room, arranged in front of a huge fireplace. The logs on the fire crackled and smoked.
The Doctor helped Dickson to the nearest sofa and sat him down. 'Let's get a proper look at those bruises.'
'I'l be fine, sir,' Dickson protested. 'I should get to work. We are expecting guests.'
'Guests can wait,' Rose told him.
'Indeed they can, young lady.'
She turned quickly, surprised by the voice from behind her. A man was standing in the doorway. He looked to be in his fifties, hair grey and thinning, slicked back over his pale scalp. He was wearing a suit that was just too smal . Rose doubted the jacket would do up. His whole appearance was slightly down at heel and dishevel ed except for his perfect bow tie. But his face was round and kindly. His eyes sparkled with interest and friendliness, though this changed to concern as he looked past Rose and saw Dickson slumped on the sofa. He hurried across, mumbling an 'excuse me', as he passed Rose. She fol owed him to the sofa and stood behind it as he leaned over Dickson.
'I'l be fine, sir,' Dickson croaked. The doorbel rang, and he struggled to get up.
But the newcomer gently pushed him back into the sofa. Nonsense, man. You sit there for a bit. Let us sort you out. Dilys can answer the door.' He raised his voice and shouted across towards the open door: 'Put them in the library, Dilys.'
'This gentleman and the lady helped me, sir,' Dickson said. 'I was... attacked.' He seemed to surprise himself with the word, as if it had not occurred to him until now what had real y happened.
'Who by?' the man – Sir George, Rose assumed – demanded.
Dickson was shaking his head. 'Not sure, sir. Didn't see. But they were asking questions, or someone was.
Someone else who was there, I think.'
'Questions?'
'About tonight. About the guests.'
Sir George reached out to the arm of the sofa and lowered himself careful y down beside his manservant.
'They have found us,' he said, so quietly that Rose could only just hear him. She looked at the Doctor, and saw that he had heard too.
'These people rescued me,' Dickson said.
Sir George was staring off into space. But Dickson's words seemed to bring him back to reality. 'I am indebted, sir, madam.' He nodded. 'Very much indebted. I thank you.' He stood up, squared his shoulders and solemnly offered the Doctor his hand. 'Sir George Harding. I apologise if you have been inconvenienced.'
'No problem,' the Doctor assured him, shaking his hand.
Rose nipped round the sofa and took Sir George's hand when the Doctor was done with it. 'Rose Tyler,' she said, smiling at him. 'And this is the Doctor.'
'A medical man?'
'Not real y,' the Doctor admitted. 'But I know a thing or two.' He sucked in his cheeks. 'You were expecting this?'
'No,' Sir George said at once. 'Wel , no more than anyone else. There have been several... incidents local y in the last few months. Those of us with any smal wealth or possessions always fear the worst.'
The Doctor nodded, as if he completely understood. 'But some more than others, perhaps.'
'They're expecting guests,' Rose reminded him. 'We should leave them to it. If Mr Dickson's OK.'
'I'l be fine, miss, thank you,' he croaked.
'We have a fairly ful table,' Sir George said, 'but the least I can do under the circumstances is offer you some dinner.' He seemed genuinely eager for them to stay. 'Shouldn't be too much of a squeeze and cook always provides far more than we need.'
'Thank you, Sir George,' the Doctor said. 'But I'm sure we'd be in the way.'
'As you wish.'
'Another time, p'raps,' Rose said.
'Wel , let me offer you a drink at least.'
'In the library?' the Doctor asked.
'Does it matter where?'
'Of course. I love books.'
Rose cleared her throat. 'I'd love a drink too,' she said. 'But, maybe I can wash my hands?'
The Doctor was at once concerned as she showed them her palms – muddy and scraped, lines of dried blood tracing out the scratches from where she had fal en. 'Is it stil bleeding? I can cauterise the wounds with my sonic
–'
'No, thanks,' she said quickly. 'I'l be fine. I just need to wash the mud off and clean up a bit. That's al .'
Sir George took a step backwards, looking pale. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'The sight of blood. I know it's not much, but just the thought of it...' He sighed and forced a smile. 'Forgive me. So long as there's no real harm done.'
'I'l show Miss Tyler to the guest bathroom,' Dickson said. Sir George looked dubious, but Dickson got to his feet, determined. 'It is the least that I can do, sir.'
'Very wel .' Sir George smiled at Rose. 'Join us as soon as you wish.' His smile broadened as he looked past Rose towards the door. 'Ah, my dear. Let me introduce Miss Tyler and Doctor umm...' He glanced at the Doctor, but got no help. 'And the Doctor,' he finished.
A woman had come in. She looked much younger than Sir George, though Rose guessed she was older than she seemed. She was tal and slim, elegantly dressed ready for dinner. Her hair was fixed up elaborately, grey streaked with the last vestiges of blonde.
'My wife, Anna,' Sir George said, and his affection for her was evident in his voice.
'Everyone is here, George, if you are ready to join us,' Anna said. Rose could see the lines of worry etched round the woman's eyes, though she was smiling now. 'Or almost everyone.'
'Knew Oblonsky would be here on time,' Sir George mumbled. 'So who are we waiting for? That Repple fel ow and his companion?'
'No, Mr Repple is here. We're just waiting for the Painted Lady.'
Everything in the bathroom was big and chunky. Even the taps on the large square washbasin were large silver affairs with ears sticking out of the top. But the water ran hot, and once the stinging from the soap – a big, chunky bar of soap – had subsided, the water was soothing. Rose spent several minutes with her hands plunged into the warm water, watching her face blur and fade as the mirror over the basin misted to grey.
Dickson had taken her cloak, and she was feeling less worried about her pale green dress now that she had seen what Sir George's wife, Anna, was wearing. And no one had remarked on her clothes, one way or another.
So maybe the Doctor was right and they would simply blend in, despite his own unorthodox approach.
Leaving the bathroom, Rose started down the corridor back towards the stairs. At least, she realised as she made her way past several closed doors, she thought this was the way back to the stairs. Surely the bathroom had been on their left. Or had it? She paused, trying to remember. There was a bend in the corridor ahead of her. Did she recal that? Maybe the stairs were just the other side of the turn.
But they were not. Back the other way then, she decided. She felt a pang of unreasonable guilt as one of the doors close to her swung open. A face peered out from the darkness beyond. A boy of about ten, with fair hair.
His eyes widened as he caught sight of Rose, and the door began to swing shut again.
'No, wait,' she cal ed. 'I'm lost, can you help?'
The door opened again, more cautiously this time. She could see the shape of the boy's head against the darkness inside. 'Who are you? Are you here for the party?'
'I don't know about that. I'm looking for the library. I'm supposed to see my friend there for a drink before we leave.'
The boy's head poked out into the light and he inspected her. 'I'm supposed to be asleep,' he said.
'Wel , just tel me the way back to the stairs, then. I'l find my way from there.' She took a step towards him, careful not to startle the boy. 'I'm Rose, nice to meet you.'
The boy sniffed, and shuffled out into the corridor. 'Freddie,' he said.
In the light she could see he was very pale. His eyes were the darkest thing about him – an almost deathly white face, fair hair that could do with a comb, and he was wearing pale blue striped pyjamas. The shape of his face was so like Anna's that it was obvious whose child he was. Rose might have laughed at the shuffling figure, but for the crutch. He had it crooked under his left arm and leaned on it as he shuffled forwards. She tried not to look at it, not to make him aware that she had noticed.
'I can walk without it,' he said. 'But it's harder, when I'm tired.'
Good one, Rose, she thought. 'Shouldn't you be in bed?' she said. 'Your mum and dad have guests.'
'Mother and stepfather,' he corrected her. 'Like I said, they think I'm asleep, but I want to see who's coming.
Sometimes they let me stay up.'
'But not tonight.'
He shook his head. 'They're in the library?' Rose nodded.
'I'l show you the secret way,' Freddie said. He set off down the corridor, surprisingly quickly, hardly leaning on the crutch at al . 'Come on.'
Rose was soon lost as Freddie led her down another passageway. This one was more narrow, the wal s panel ed with dark wood. He paused before several steps up to a smal door.
'Shhh.' Freddie put his finger to his lips. 'You'l have to be quiet. We can whisper, but we mustn't let them hear, or...'
'Or your stepfather wil give you a good thrashing?' Rose wondered. He had not seemed the type, but she could imagine Freddie did not want to anger Sir George.
The boy's answer surprised her. 'He wouldn't dare,' he said quietly. Then he opened the door and stepped through.
Rose fol owed and found herself on a narrow wooden gal ery. Freddie was sitting on the floor, his crutch beside him. He had produced a smal notebook and a stub of pencil and was scribbling away. He put his finger to his lips again as he caught sight of Rose, and motioned for her to sit down beside him on the bare wooden floor. Rose crouched down. She could already hear the sounds of voices from the room below, and now she saw that the gal ery was high up above the library.
Further along there were wooden shelves, packed with dusty books. Steep steps spiral ed down into the main room. The library itself was as big as the drawing room, and every wal was covered with bookshelves. She only realised where the door was when a section of shelving swung open to al ow Dickson to enter. He seemed to have recovered from his ordeal and was wearing clean white gloves. He carried a round silver tray with glasses on. Rose watched him walk stiffly across to where the Doctor and Sir George were standing with several other people.
'Is that your friend?' Freddie whispered, pointing through the balusters.
'The Doctor, yeah.' She leaned forward to see what he was writing.
But Freddie snapped the notebook shut. 'Private,' he hissed.
'Sorry. Who are the others?'
Freddie eased himself further forward so he could see more easily. Rose wondered if the people below would notice them, but the gal ery was unlit and it was unlikely anyone would look up so high.
'You know Mother and Father,' Freddie whispered, pointing them out.
Rose nodded. 'Stepfather, you said.'
'My real father died when I was two. Before we came here.'
'I'm sorry,' Rose murmured, but the boy seemed not to hear.
Freddie pointed to a large man, broad-shouldered and round-faced. He had a large bushy moustache that was as black as his hair, and he was wearing a smart, white military uniform. 'That's Colonel Oblonsky. He comes here a lot to see Father, and they talk in the study.' Freddie stifled a giggle.
'He salutes me and cal s me sir.'
Rose smiled with him. The colonel looked so serious it was hard to imagine him playing with the child. 'And those two?' She pointed to a frail-looking couple who were sitting on upright chairs at the reading table, talking to Freddie's mother. They both looked in their seventies – a thin-faced man who was completely bald, his scalp crinkled and blotchy, and a woman who was painful y thin with hair as white as cotton wool and a jutting nose and chin. The woman reminded Rose of the wicked witch in Disney's Snow White, though her expression was kindly.
'They're cousins of Mother, or something. But I cal them Uncle Alex and Aunt Nadia. They're very kind.'
This left only one other person – a man who had been taking a drink from Dickson's tray. He went over to join Colonel Oblonsky, who greeted him warmly.
'Lord Chitterington,' Freddie said. 'He works in the government. The British government,' he added, as if there might be any confusion. 'Father tel s him off if he tries to play with me because he's too rough and I mustn't get hurt.'
That seemed to be everyone. Colonel Oblonsky and Lord Chitterington were standing almost below the gallery now, and Rose leaned forward slightly in an attempt to hear what they were saying. They certainly seemed very earnest. But she could make out only a few words and phrases from the louder Oblonsky.
'Did you talk with Reil y?' he was asking. 'Is he with us?'
Lord Chitterington replied in a quiet voice that Rose could not hear, and Oblonsky muttered something back.
But Rose was no longer listening. She had all but dismissed the other guests from her mind. Further under the gal ery stood two more people. She caught barely a glimpse of them, except that Sir George had now excused himself from the Doctor and joined the two men. Their voices were clear, floating up through the gal ery to where Rose and Freddie were sitting.
'I trust you are not bored already with our company,' Sir George was saying.
'Who are they?' Rose mouthed to Freddie, suddenly worried that the men below might hear her.
Freddie shrugged and shook his head. Rose strained to hear, listening so intently she could just make out a clock ticking somewhere under the gal ery.
'Forgive me, Sir George,' o
ne of the men replied. His voice was clear and without a noticeable accent. Upper class without being posh. English without a region. 'Major Aske and myself have had a long day. And you wil appreciate that until we hear what you have to say I am not inclined to give away too much about my own plans and ambitions.'
'Of course, sir. I quite understand.'
The second man – Major Aske – said, 'But Repple is keen to offer what help he can to your noble cause. We can see, as you can, the similarity between your own plight and ours.'
'Or rather, the boy's plight,' the first man – Repple – added. Rose saw Freddie frown at the words. Perhaps they were talking about a different boy.
'You are very kind. And it is good of you to accept my invitation,' Sir George said. 'Forgive me, sir, but I am not sure quite how you prefer to be addressed.'
'Until I can use my proper title without fear or competition, I use none. Please address me simply as Repple.'
The general sound of people talking seemed to increase, perhaps as the guests drank and felt more at ease.
It made it difficult to catch anything other than the odd word here and there. Beside Rose, Freddie was yawning.
'I think it's time to go,' Rose whispered. 'You need to get back to bed.'
The boy looked for a moment as if he was about to protest. But then he yawned again, and that seemed to convince him and he nodded. Rose helped him to his feet and they crept quietly from the gal ery and back down the narrow passage beyond.
On the way back to his room, Freddie hardly seemed to use his crutch. 'Is your leg feeling better?' Rose asked.
'It just gets tired,' he said, as if it was nothing. 'Mum likes me to use the crutch at home so I won't fal and hurt myself. I don't use it in public. That would look like weakness.'
They were back at his room now. Freddie opened the door, and paused long enough to give Rose quick directions to the main stairs. He turned to go inside, then changed his mind and turned back.
'Thank you, Rose,' he said.
She laughed. 'For what? You're helping me, remember?'
He nodded, suddenly solemn. 'It was fun though, seeing the grown-ups.' He yawned again, then went inside the room. 'Goodbye.' The door closed quietly behind him.