Chapter Text
Two days later, Jane was finishing a twenty-four-hour shift at Verity Cross Hospital, busying herself with discharge paperwork before she left for the day. It was just before 8:00 AM and she was very much looking forward to crawling into her bed until the late afternoon.
Dr. Seymour, Jane’s attending physician and a royal pain in her ass, had run her ragged all night. She had been up to her eyeballs in ER admissions – splinting limbs, administering albuterol, placing IVs, and inspecting varying degrees of rashes – but Seymour kept her pager beeping incessantly, running back and forth between the ICU and his research lab in the opposite wing. While she hated answering to Dr. Seymour, he was the head of Verity Cross’ oncology department and somewhat of an idol of Jane’s. She couldn’t deny that she was fascinated by his accolades and the clinical trial he was spearheading.
And she was dog-tired, but at least the oncology research commanded enough of Jane’s attention to keep her from thinking about him.
At least, that was true until her shift ended.
“Grey.” Jane turned around to find her attending staring at her with unmasked disdain. Jane was slumped over a desk at one of the nurses’ stations, sipping coffee and catching up with her favorite oncology nurse, Fitz.
“Dr. Seymour,” she quickly responded, straightening her posture.
He tapped his tablet impatiently before coldly saying, “You’ve maxed your hours. Clock out and don’t come back until Sunday,” and stomping away.
Jane released a breath, turning to scowl at Fitz who hid his smile behind his tumbler of coffee. “He hates your guts,” Fitz offered with sympathy. “I can’t see how you can keep working with him.” Fitz had witnessed firsthand how often Seymour borderline abused his power when it came to Jane. He’d asked her out once, a long time ago when she was still an intern, and when she rejected him he took to making her life hell and treating her like a rabid rodent in his vegetable garden.
Rolling her eyes, Jane muttered, “If you have any leads on oncology gods who aren’t complete prats, please send them my way.” Hands trembling, she chugged the rest of her lukewarm coffee, said goodbye to Fitz, and headed to the locker room.
Once Jane was freshly showered and dressed in clean clothes, she strolled out of the hospital and began her commute to West Kensington. She spent her time on the Tube as she always did: checking her emails, texts, and never-ending to-do lists. An email from her mother’s assistant caught her attention and she tapped on the subject line.
Dr. Grey,
Please see the attached photos of gowns Mrs. Grey would like you to consider wearing for her showcase in two weeks.
Cheers,
Esther Corrigan
Executive Assistant, Grey Wardrobe Co.
Swiping through the images of gowns her mother wished to stuff and sew her into, Jane screenshotted the two she liked most and texted the images to Susannah. If anyone could be trusted to help Jane make a couture decision, it was Susannah. Or Katherine, even.
Jane fielded a few more emails from colleagues and the occasional social media influencer who wished to invite her to a party or podcast (or both) until she finally reached her stop and exited the train to walk toward her flat. The weather was warm and muggy which Jane detested. If she could live in constant fifteen-degree weather, she would absolutely thrive.
When she was a few blocks from home, her phone began vibrating in her back pocket.
“Did you see the dresses I sent you?” Jane asked without saying hello.
“Obviously,” Susannah scoffed. “I’m slightly offended you had to ask – you know I’m always going to tell you to wear the green option.”
“I like that one, too,” Jane agreed. “I just don’t know if it’s too… sexy.”
Susannah grunted and said, “It is impossible to be too sexy. Have I taught you nothing? Wear the slutty green dress and give the Hadids a run for their money, I say.”
Jane could always count on Susannah to empower and encourage her through any wardrobe uncertainty. “Fine, right, I’ll tell Esther to pull the green one. What are you doing today?” Jane slipped an AirPod into her ear so that she could talk to Susannah while she emailed her mother’s assistant.
“That’s my girl! And eh, not much. I have a client meeting in a couple of hours but other than that, my day is dull. Are you home from work yet? Wanna grab breakfast?”
Groaning, Jane said apologetically, “Please, don’t hate me, but I am so tired I’m hallucinating. I need to sleep.”
“Wow,” Susannah said dryly. “What, you think because you save lives and shit, you don’t have to make time for your friends?” Her sarcasm was not lost on Jane who giggled tiredly into the phone. “Jokes. I still love you.”
“And I love you.” Jane meant it.
“Think you’ll be up for drinks later, though? Edward wants to go to Ethian Tavern to play pool. It’ll be fuuun!” Susannah sang that last word, drawing out the syllables. The idea of spending time with her best friend and her cousin, another best friend, was enticing.
“Yeah, that sounds good to me. I’m off for a few days. Dickhead Seymour made sure to tell me I can’t work until Sunday. I’ve hit my hours, I guess.”
“Honestly? It disgusts me that your hospital wants its doctors to keep healthy work-life balances. You should be able to cut into terminal old men regardless of how much sleep you’ve had.”
“I don’t cut into anyone,” Jane snorted. “I’m not a surgeon.”
“Well, I think you should be able to cut old men, anyway. It’s the principle.”
“Somehow I feel like the common constituent would disagree with you.”
“Yeah, ‘cause of the patriarchy.”
“Because cutting random people is assault,” Jane said with a massive smile, shaking her head at Susannah’s insanity.
“Bah,” she scoffed. “Well, then. You get some sleep, you sweet angel. I’ll see you at Ethian later – around 6?”
“I’ll see you there,” Jane grinned. “Later.”
—
After a much-deserved rest, Jane woke feeling refreshed and excited to spend her free time at a silly little pub instead of some posh socialite party. She padded into her kitchen to make some quick pesto pasta for supper and checked more emails as she devoured her food. Glancing at the time, she cursed when she noticed it was already almost 5 and dumped her bowl into the sink before rushing to her room.
As Jane sat at her vanity to apply her makeup, she heard the distinct sound of her front door opening and groaned.
“Jane, dear – are you home?” her mother’s voice sang, her heels clicking on the wooden floors towards Jane’s room.
“You know, they make phones for these circumstances,” Jane muttered with dripping sarcasm as she filled in her dark brows. In the mirror, she watched as Frances propped her hands to her hips, looking as annoyed as ever by her daughter’s brassy retort.
“You never answer when I call,” Frances stated. “Where are you going?”
Jane sighed, reaching for her concealer. “Out with Susannah and Edward,” was all she offered to her mother.
Wrinkling her nose, Frances inspected the clothes spread across Jane’s duvet. “And you’re wearing… that.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m going to a pub, Mother. Not The Ritz.”
Frances stepped away from Jane’s bed as if the clothing might jump out and bite her – or worse as if a pap might jump from Jane’s closet to snap photos of Frances Grey in the same vicinity as cotton blends and denim. “Pub,” she quipped. “Charming.”
Another sigh from Jane. Frances was quite efficient at eliciting such a response from her daughter.
“Is there a reason you’ve let yourself into my home? Or are you only here to patronize me and insult my wardrobe?”
“Straight to it, then,” Frances said, going to sit on an antique, upholstered armchair in front of Jane’s bedroom window. “I came to talk to you about the other night, with Guildford Dudley.”
Jane turned on her stool to face Frances. “What about it?” she asked through barred teeth.
Frances threw her hands into the air, waving them as if to say “You know what!” which Jane ignored, only arching a brow and shaking her head slightly.
“You were rude, Jane. You need to apologize.”
The cackle that escaped her mouth was involuntary. “Apologize? Are you insane? I have nothing to apologize for and I certainly won’t gift Guildford Dudley with a false admission of guilt to coddle his bruised ego.” Jane scoffed, turned back to her vanity, and began applying her mascara. “I can’t believe you barged into my flat without an invitation to ask something so nonsensical of me.”
“Oh, Jane,” Frances said sweetly without flinching. “I’m not asking you to do anything.” She stalked to Jane and stood behind her, glaring through the mirror. “You will apologize to that man. The way you sprinted out of the gala without even saying goodbye! It was mortifying! When John and I approached you and Guildford, your tongues were almost down each other’s throats. And you think you can embarrass me by just – scampering out of there like a runaway bride?”
“For fuck’s sake, Mum.” Jane pushed back from the vanity and stood to square her shoulders with Frances. “First, I did not sprint or scamper – or any other synonym of ‘flee’ that you can think of. I left because he was dishonest with me, and I don’t care for dishonest men. Second, you have no power to make me do anything. I am a grown woman. I have a career and my own life outside of you and your old-money circle. When I say, ‘I do not care what John or Guildford Dudley think about me,’ I want you to understand that I genuinely do not give a fuck. My life does not revolve around spoon-feeding perfectly capable men.” Jane took a deep breath, superbly annoyed that Frances did not seem even slightly put out by her speech. “Are we done here?”
“No,” Frances answered easily. “John has spent weeks talking you up to his son, only for you to behave like you were raised in Essex.” Jane snorted at her mother’s blatant classism.
“Who cares?” she asked, exasperated. “Why does it matter what John Dudley or his wanker son think of me? Or of you, for that matter?”
“You know, Jane. You can stand around here with your degrees and your books and your political activism, but let’s not pretend you would have any of your accomplishments without your family’s name. At the end of the day, you’re still a Grey. And you have a duty to your family to find someone worthy of marrying – “
“ – Oh, we’re talking about marriage? Silly me, I thought this was a conversation about apologizing for my alleged impudence.”
“We’re always talking about marriage! You ended things with Workeye months ago and have shown no initiative to find someone new! People talk, Jane. And the talk hasn’t been in your favor.”
Jane’s jaw dropped and she worked diligently to hide the hurt from her face before saying, “He broke my heart, Mum. I’m your daughter. When my heart is broken, yours should be, too.”
“Jane,” Frances drawled, rolling her eyes. “No one cares about love or heartbreak. What’s important is wealth.”
Seething, Jane turned on her heel to snatch her clothing from her bed and storm into her walk-in closet. “Just curious,” she called from behind her closet door. “Do you hear yourself when you talk? Or do you speak as if it’s 1811 on purpose?”
“In 1811, daughters respected their mothers.”
“In 1811, daughters were forced to marry inadequate men for money, and they killed themselves.” Dressed in a black, long-sleeved, square-neck bodysuit and light boyfriend jeans, Jane waltzed back into her bedroom and crossed her arms, eyeing her mother expectantly. “Or did we forget that I don’t need to marry a man for his change purse, considering my degrees and books my nepotism has so graciously afforded me?”
Just then, Frances’ phone pinged and she reached into her trousers to check the device and typed a reply to whoever texted her – probably Esther. Hopefully not John Dudley.
Shortly after, she pocketed the phone and appraised Jane’s appearance, inspecting her from head to toe. “I have a dinner meeting,” she said finally. “Denim is woefully unbecoming, but you make it work somehow.”
That’s as close as Frances Grey ever gets to saying “You look nice” to her daughter.
Without another word, she sniffed and sashayed from Jane’s bedroom and, thankfully, her flat.
“Shit,” Jane hissed, looking at the time. It was almost 6 – she was running late. She stuffed her feet into white, lugged Chuck Taylor high-tops, hopping across the floor comically before snatching her keys and purse from her dresser.
—
“Your mother needs to be institutionalized.” Jane barked a laugh, agreeing with Susannah, and clinked her glass against hers in cheers. The pair sat at the bar at Ethian Tavern while they waited for Edward. “I think Frances thinks she lives in a Jane Austen novel.”
“Must be why she’s so hell-bent on selling me off like cattle,” Jane giggled.
“Do you ever think about Katherine and Margaret still living with her, and just get like, really sad?”
“Only all the time,” Jane shrugged. “Though history ascertains she’s always been a little crazier when it comes to me – “
“ – Bollocks!” Susannah interrupted, whispering. “Don’t turn around… Archer is here, sitting at a back table with his band of heathens.” She squinted menacingly.
Jane’s heart plummeted into her chest and her pulse suddenly felt dangerously high.
This cannot be fucking happening.
“We can leave,” Susannah offered, already thinking of damage control. “Fuck him, Jane. Let’s get out of here.”
Suddenly, Jane and Susannah were enveloped in a set of broad, strong arms. Edward’s kind face appeared between their shoulders with an entirely too wide, perfect grin. “My favorite ladies!” he bellowed, gripping their shoulders affectionately. “I’ve missed you!”
Jane beamed at her cousin and wrapped her arm around his waist. “I miss you every moment you aren’t near,” she said with a genuine smile. “How are you? What’s new? Do you want to fucking leave maybe?”
Edward’s gleeful features turned down in confusion. “Leave? I just got here.”
“Ahem,” Susannah coughed, gaining Edward’s attention. She subtly nodded toward the back of the tavern and whispered, “Persona non grata.”
Jane’s cousin risked a glance and turned back to Jane and Susannah with a scowl. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “He never comes here. Jane, we can leave – if you want to.”
Jane sighed, slumping forward in her chair, defeated. “No, no. It’s fine – I’m fine. I’ll have to learn to see him in public anyway.” Right then, Jane noticed Edward had a companion. A certain blonde, blue-eyed, last-name-Dudley companion. “Stan?” she asked, surprised.
Edward, seemingly reminded they weren’t alone, jumped and turned to Stan Dudley, pulling him closer to the trio. “Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “Stan and I went to the new art exhibit at the V&A earlier. I invited him to join us.” Edward’s cheeks blushed slightly and Stan’s eyes lingered.
She immediately clocked the awkwardness but opted not to press into Edward’s personal life.
“Well, hell yeah!” Susannah fist-bumped, sloshing her beer over the rim of her glass. “It’s a party then!”
“It’s nice to see you, Jane. Susannah.” Stan’s smile was warm, as it always was, and Jane caught herself wondering how the fuck she almost shagged his brother without knowing Colt was Stan’s brother in the first place.
“Nice to see you, Stan,” Jane offered.
See, Mother? I can be polite and ladylike. To people who deserve it.
“How’ve you been? It’s been a while since I’ve bumped into you.”
“Oh,” Stan stumbled on his words. “You know, a little of this, little of that.” He looked down at his shoes, clearly uncomfortable. Jane raised her brow at his cryptic answer but let it slide because he seemed embarrassed. Though she found that to be odd, too, because as long as she’d known Stan Dudley (her entire life) she’d never pegged him to be capable of humiliation.
“Staaan,” Susannah cut in, elongating his name into three syllables. “Our dearest Jane here met your incorrigible brother at the Red Cross gala. What are the odds?” She grinned devilishly, flinching when Jane raised her hand to swat her arm.
Stan laughed lightly and said, “The odds aren’t so slim, I’m afraid. My father and Frances were scheming to introduce them for quite some time.” He turned to Jane, frowning. “Incorrigible?”
Susannah giggled into her beer and Jane felt her entire face flame crimson.
“Wait, you met Guildford at the charity ball?” Edward looked between Jane and Susannah, trying to figure out where the conversation was heading. “Why didn’t I know about this?”
“Well, you weren’t there, for one,” Jane sighed, scowling. “Thanks for that, by the way. It would have been nice to have backup. I brought Susannah but she had ulterior motives.” Jane cut a mocking, disappointing glare to her best friend.
Shrugging, Susannah said, “I make no apologies. I pegged a model.”
Edward and Stan both choked. Jane’s face remained indifferent.
“A model?” Stan asked.
“Pegged?” Edward asked at the same time.
“Bow before me,” Susannah grinned, waving her hand like a princess.
An easy, breathy giggle bubbled from Jane. These were her favorite moments – huddled together with Edward and Susannah (and Stan?) sharing secrets and making crude jokes. These were the moments she felt whole as a person, and not just the shell of a person she was in her mother’s world.
“Sorry, I’m late.”
Gone was the smile on Jane’s face. She was suddenly stoic and postured, whipping her head to see a tall man standing next to Stan.
He looked just as delicious as he had at the hotel. Dark, messy curls. Brooding eyes. Devastating, confident smirk and swagger.
“Guildford!” Edward said with excessive enthusiasm. His eyes met Jane’s as if in apology. “We were late, too! No bother.” A very brief, very uncomfortable silence surrounded the group until Edward continued, “Guildford, this is my cousin, Jane. And Susannah. Susannah is not my cousin. She’s a dear friend.” Edward’s rambling was painful, truly, but Jane couldn’t comment because she was too busy staring at Guildford Dudley like he was a bear in the woods.
“We’ve met,” Guildford responded cooly.
“Have we?” Jane’s voice was clipped. “I remember meeting a… Colt, was it?”
Stan, looking as uncomfortable as Edward, perked up, grinning. “That’s his nickname! Colt! He was a wild one on the football field when he – “ Stan stopped short, recognizing his brother’s steely glower. “Nickname,” he offered, shrugging.
“Nickname,” Jane repeated softly. Susannah chortled. “Interesting.”
Edward clapped his hands eagerly. “Should we play a game of pool?”
—
Jane, Susannah, Edward, Stan, and Guildford moved to the billiards and played several games. First, Jane beat Stan. Then she lost to Edward. Then Edward lost to Guildford, Guildford beat Susannah, and then Guildford beat Stan. Jane was hesitant to accept the challenge but she didn’t want to seem uncomfortable or meek around Guildford, so she agreed.
After breaking, Guildford complimented her breaking abilities. Which only pissed her the fuck off.
“I’m sure it’s no surprise to you as you watched me dominate your brother, but I’m quite good at pool.”
“Well,” he shrugged. “Your wrist – it’s a little…”
Jane straightened, looking pointedly at Guildford. “It’s a little?”
He seemed to stumble over his words, trying desperately not to offend her. “Limp? It’s a little limp – I’m just saying you could get a better spread if you – “
“ – Do you know I learned how to play billiards when I was six?” Jane asked, her voice raising an octave. Guildford slumped, lowering his eyes to the ground as if he were expecting Jane’s tirade to continue. “And I bested my father, without him taking it easy on me, by eight.”
At that, Guildford barked a laugh. “You bested a grown man at pool? When you were eight? And he wasn’t holding back?” Jane’s eyes narrowed, her hip jutting to the side. “Jane, sweetheart. I hate to be the one to inform you, but your father was definitely taking it easy on you.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “If you feel so confident, let’s stop rambling and you just take your turn, hmm?”
Edward, Stan, and Susannah were all painstakingly silent throughout this verbal warfare. Guildford raised his brows and dipped into a slight bow. “As you wish,” he said with a smirk.
Edward made two balls – 10 and 14. High.
Jane shot and sank the 4 but missed on the 3.
Guildford called the 9 but missed.
Jane, preening like a peacock, pocketed the 3, 6, and the 2.
It continued like this, Jand and Guildford playing silently against each other. If Jane weren’t so wrapped up in winning, she might have noticed how Guildford watched her. Admired her. His eyes focused wholly on the lines of her body as she leaned over the table to aim her shots. He noticed how her eyes flitted between the balls and the pockets, and how she remained acutely aware of the 8 ball. Her meticulous focus was jarring.
Nevertheless, when Guildford sank his final ball, he couldn’t resist the slight gloat at Jane’s expense. Their friends laughed, tapping pint glasses, and dubbed Guildford their honorary King of Balls.
“Good game,” he offered, smiling, as he approached Jane with an outstretched hand. She stared at it like it was a snake.
“I need a beer,” she said before slinking away to the bar.
The crowd had grown since they arrived so Jane was stuck in beer-limbo, waiting for a refill, when Guildford materialized at her side. There were no more empty stools, so he shrugged into the space between Jane and the stranger who sat to her right. His elbow perched on the bar and she sucked in a breath, all too familiar with how his proximity made her body react.
“My personal space,” Jane muttered, turning her head slightly to the left to avoid Guildford’s eyes.
“Can you give me an idea of how long this detestation will last? I’m not even sure what I did to deserve it.”
Jane bristled, shooting daggers into Guildford with her eyes.
“If you’d like a list of reasons why you deserve my resignation – “
“ – Resignation?” Guildford laughed again as he did when they began their game of pool. “Your behavior has been thinly veiled animosity. Resignation is a vast understatement.”
She looked at his face as he maintained his charismatic, unbothered facade. But Jane also noted the irritation and – was that distress? – in his eyes. The top buttons of his white shirt were undone, leaving his chest partially visible. Two sparkling, beaded necklaces dangled against his tanned skin and she wondered, for whatever reason, where he got them.
“I – “ she started, hesitating. “I don’t care for liars.” Jane turned her attention to the fresh pint of beer that was thankfully placed in front of her. “I have enough experience with dishonest men.”
Guildford, thankfully, remained quiet for a moment. Jane sipped her lager, desperately hoping Guildford would just disappear instead of peeling away more of her uncomfortable layers.
After a minute or two, though, he squashed those dreams.
“Jane,” he said, desperation in his deep voice. “I’m not a liar. My name, to most people in my life, is Colt. And maybe you’re angry because I didn’t realize you were Jane Grey – but in my defense, you’re the fourth Jane I’ve met this week. I’m not kidding.”
Jane lifted her chin to assess his face. He looked at her with genuine sorrow and confusion.
“So you didn’t know that I was the Jane your father intended to introduce you to?” she asked dryly, despite his solemnity.
Guildford swallowed a lump in his throat and moved both of his hands to cover one of Jane’s that rested on the bar top. “I had no idea. I swear.” He sighed when Jane didn’t flinch away from his touch. “I knew my father wanted me to meet Jane Grey, but I didn’t care enough to think anything of it. When I started talking to you at the gala, it was because I wanted to. I realize that sounds impossible but I… I don’t know how I can even begin to prove my honesty. I just needed to tell you that I had no idea, and I’m sorry for the entire misunderstanding.”
Jane’s hand trembled slightly beneath his clasped hands and she found herself praying Guildford wouldn’t notice the tremor.
“Jane.” Her entire body stiffened at the voice that came from behind her. The first thing she noticed was Guildford’s gaze, cutting to the person who interrupted them. He wasn’t angry or intimidating or jealous – he simply observed. Then he turned his attention to Jane, waiting for her to respond to the person behind her.
She gulped another sip of her beer before swiveling on her stool, the movement causing her knees to brush into Guildford’s thighs. She didn’t not notice how his hands continued covering hers.
“Archer,” Jane said with as much indifference as she could muster. “Can I help you?”