Chapter Text
Lady Donna McAvoy
McAvoy Castle, Scotland
14 June, 1823
Dear Ian,
I hope this letter finds you well, if it finds you at all. That’s never a guarantee, the way you hop from place to place - and your letters home are so infrequent! If that seems like an admonishment, well, I am glad of it. One day, I hope to shame you into being a good correspondent. It’s my sisterly duty.
Things here have been well over the past year and four months, since the mourning period for our brother ended and you took off for your travels again. Mr. Jones does an admirable job running the estate in your absence; Gallifrey is doing as well as anyone could expect a ducal estate to do when its lord is absent. I’m quite sure Mr. Jones is looking forward to your return to alleviate some of the burden from his shoulders. When you return, you will likely be pleased with the work he has done for you.
There has been no change in our family’s status, and as of this moment, the titles you inherited upon Braxiatiel’s death will go to our cousin, Harold Saxon, upon your death, unless you provide an heir. Ian, I don’t think I can properly express to you the level of anxiety such a thought gives me. I know that you and he get on well, at least you did when we were younger, but you’ve spent nearly all of your adult life on the continent or in Africa or even in America. I don’t think you’ve been around enough to see him for what he has become. He is harsh, manipulative, cruel to his lessers, and a master of making himself look like an upstanding man. It’s simply unthinkable that our father’s title would go to such a scoundrel. It is my most fervent wish that you come home, to Gallifrey, and accept your life as the Duke. I know the thought of taking on that mantle of responsibility is daunting, but I’m quite sure that you will rise to the occasion admirably.
But you really must begin to think about an heir. I’ve been on the lookout for a suitable wife for you, knowing how you’d scorn the slightest mention of attending the season’s balls in Glasgow to find one yourself. You’d have better luck in London, of course, but I dare not mention such a thing. I have, however, kept an eye to the marriage mart with you in mind and managed to find several women I think would do quite well for you. First among them is a widower with a title of her own, albeit a barony, and her name is Lady River Song. Isn’t that whimsical? She’s quite comely, with blonde curls and a bright smile, and I’m certain you’ll like her. She’s a bit brash sometimes, perhaps, but you need someone to keep you in line, and she’d be just the woman to do it! When you come home, I’ll be happy to arrange an introduction to her, as well as to some of my other eligible friends...
~*~O~*~
18 August, 1823
Ian Docherty, 9th Duke of Gallifrey, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the ruckus of the coaching inn around him as best he could. He’d read the letter in his hands at least fifty times since he received it while he was in Spain three weeks ago, but the content never seemed to change. He was under no illusions that the letter was anything but a politely-worded summons home, even if the person summoning was his younger sister who held no real authority in his life. The fact that she’d been counting the months since he’d shirked his duties to Gallifrey and left to have more adventures told him plenty, as did the fact she’d already lined up at least one prospective bride for him. He’d hoped that while he was gone, his sister would find herself with child and provide an heir, since Ian had made it clear he had no intentions of ever taking a wife and producing one of his own.
As a second son, not expected to inherit the title, Ian had had the luxury of being able to attend university and become a doctor, then pass his days helping people less fortunate all around the world. His brother, the Duke, had taken over the title when their father died a decade ago, and had done well managing the duchy. Brax had, however, been of the same mindset as Ian - that marriage was an undesirable circumstance to be avoided. In Brax’s case, it couldn’t be avoided, but he’d prolonged the inevitable as long as he could. He had been forty, the same age Ian was now, when he’d met the woman he wanted to wed. The occasion had allowed Ian to rest easier, since it seemed Brax was going to step up to his duties and produce an heir. It was miserable, rotten luck that his brother had fallen off of his horse and broken his neck a week before his long-awaited wedding, leaving the title and the responsibilities of Gallifrey on Ian’s shoulders.
Once the mourning period for Brax had ended, Ian had flown the coop, so to speak, telling his stunned sister that he only had to tie up a few loose ends and would be back soon. As she noted in her letter, that had been nearly a year and a half ago.
It really was time for him to go home and take care of the duties he’d neglected - although he still had no intention of settling down and producing an heir. He and Harold, his cousin, had been fast friends as youngsters and he had no problem with his cousin taking the title and the duchy that came with it. It wasn’t like Ian wanted it, anyway, and as for Donna’s complaints about Harold’s worthiness, well, he didn’t think his sister was being duplicitous, really, but she was surely mistaken. Harold Saxon was a fine, upstanding man and would make a superb Duke - much better than Ian himself would.
But he knew very well that Donna was not going to ease up on the idea of him marrying and producing his own heir. She’d demonstrated that clearly by lining up prospective brides for him, this Lady River Song foremost among them. Ian still had no interest in taking a wife, and no high society lady that his sister could place in front of him would change his mind. If Ian were going to marry, he would do so on his own terms, not because his sister played matchmaker. Honestly, he had no intention of even meeting the women Donna had chosen for him, much less marrying them.
Ian sighed again. He was being obstinate and he knew it. Maybe he should give a little more weight to the idea of settling down, perhaps even letting Donna play Cupid. Marriage was just part of the life he was taking on as the Duke. Besides, he was a prime catch, now that he’d inherited. He could have his pick of ladies. At forty, he was a bit older than most bachelors, true, but not so old he’d repulse women - at least, he didn’t think so. Settling down is what his parents would have wanted. They had always supported him in his adventures, but lamented that he wasn’t around more and there were no grandchildren. Besides, who knew? With the right woman, marriage could very well be an adventure, though he doubted it. It was more likely to be a slow, torturous hell, but it seemed like he was doomed to matrimony at some point in his future, no matter what. Putting Donna off would only prolong the inevitable.
There was a shout nearby, then a scream, and he looked up at the mail coach just in time to see a trunk fall off the back and nearly hit a woman. The woman immediately started berating the employee who had been strapping the trunk onto the mail coach, swatting him with her satchel and, seeing that no one was injured, Ian chuckled to himself at the scene.
The coaching inn he was hiring was one of London’s better establishments from which to hire a private coach, but they did also cater to the public with mail coaches. His private coach to Glasgow was set to depart just after this coach to Cardiff, so he waited and people-watched until it was ready.
Nardole, his manservant of the last ten years or so, approached him, eyeing the mail coach with his beady eyes. “Everything alright, Doctor?”
“Perfectly fine,” Ian replied easily.
Nardole gave a look to the letter in Ian’s hand. “Regretting your decision to come home?”
He hastily folded up the letter and stuffed it into his pocket. “No. Just bracing myself for whatever hell my sister is about to put me through when I get to Glasgow, in the name of primogeniture.”
“She’s not wrong,” the bald man commented casually.
Ian gave him a withering look. Nardole had been the most devoted servant Ian had had since he left the comforts of home, but he had a tendency towards impertinence. The man was stout both in body and disposition and felt quite comfortable speaking his mind on any topic whenever he and Ian were alone, much to Ian’s frequent annoyance. He never seriously considered dismissing Nardole, though, regardless of how often he threatened to do so. His manservant had, to put it in vulgar terms, saved his arse more than once over the last decade, and Ian regarded him warmly, as something like a friend.
That didn’t lessen his annoyance, though.
“I know my duties all too well,” he snapped.
Nardole raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, keep your shirt on. I’m just making conversation.”
“Perhaps consider another topic.”
“Of course, sir,” the other man agreed, smug. Ian rolled his eyes.
At long last, the mail coach was loaded with baggage and passengers. Ian spared a moment of pity for the dispirited-looking horses that must pull such a heavy load, eyeing the people sitting on the inside and outside of the coach. The driver took his seat and, apparently content that everything was in order, slapped the reins lightly across the back of the horses. The coach lurched into motion and within a few moments was gone from the yard.
Almost immediately, the coach Ian had been waiting for replaced it - this one a bit smaller and clearly more luxurious. The coach itself was black on top, the lower half being a deep maroon. The wheels matched the coach and the whole thing gleamed, as if fresh from a good polish. He knew it would not be long before it was covered in road grit, but he appreciated the effect, for now. The four matching horses on the front seemed livelier than the beasts he’d seen hauling the mail coach, almost eager to start the journey, and it gave Ian hope that they’d make good time. He wasn’t thrilled about ending his adventures and going home, but he definitely wasn’t looking forward to spending the next week in this coach, alone. Nardole had to stay behind to tend to a little business, and while Ian could certainly stay with him, there was no sense in delaying his return to Scotland, since he’d already come so far. He had a job to do there, irritating though it was to think about. So he was going ahead.
“Where are the trunks?” he asked Nardole.
“No idea, sir. I’ll check.”
Ian nodded and Nardole left to find the trunks, leaving Ian to wait. His mind went back to Scotland, and the tasks that awaited him there. He’d go to visit Donna for a few days, since he hadn’t seen her in a year and a half and had truly missed her. But he was sure he’d only be able to tolerate a handful of days before he was back on the road, this time on the way to Gallifrey. Once there, he had no idea what he’d be walking into. The letters from the land agent had been reassuring, but he wasn’t entirely sure what all of it meant. He had a lot to learn about estate management, and very little time to learn it in. There wasn’t time for him to fail; he had to get it on the first go. People’s lives depended on him.
“Excuse me, sir,” came a female voice from behind him.
Startled, he turned around. A petite, brunette woman stood there, dressed in travelling clothes for the servant class. He was mildly irritated to be pulled from his musings, but curious, so he put on a brittle smile. “Yes?”
The woman indicated his coach. “This coach, it’s going to Scotland, correct?”
“It is.”
“Excellent! I’d like to purchase passage for two, please.”
Ian was amused in spite of himself to be mistaken for an employee, although he probably should have expected as much. His clothes were at least three years old and worn by now, not to mention out of fashion. Still, he hadn’t thought he’d looked all that out of place. In his amusement, he decided to play along for a minute. “You would?”
“Yes,” the young woman nodded. “For myself and Miss Rose Tyler.” She turned to indicate another woman standing behind her whom Ian hadn’t noticed yet. He looked up to see this Miss Rose Tyler, and his breath caught.
Standing a few feet behind the servant was a young woman, stunningly beautiful. Her blonde hair was tucked up into a pretty teal bonnet which matched her dress, with just a few tendrils framing her frankly gorgeous face. Her mouth was lush and wide and her eyes were topaz. He wondered idly whether they would sparkle when she laughed, then shook himself from the thought.
She was also dressed in traveling clothes, although hers were of decidedly higher quality than the servant’s, indicating some status. Interestingly, the clothes were just a touch worn, and although Ian had never given more than a passing thought to women’s fashion, the fact that this beautiful creature would be dressed in anything less than the best intrigued him. He wanted to know why. He didn’t dare ask, though: she looked more than a little embarrassed, a flush darkening her porcelain cheeks.
“Are you alright, m’lady?” he asked kindly. She bit her lip and nodded, her blush climbing.
“Passage for two, you say?” Ian asked mildly, turning back to the servant, who was obviously speaking on behalf of her lady.
“Yes. For myself and Miss Tyler.”
Nardole strolled up behind him, catching his attention with an, “All loaded and ready to go, Doctor.”
“Excellent. And it seems I’ll be joined by these two young ladies,” he explained, indicating the two women. “Miss Rose Tyler and…”
“Clara. Clara Oswald.”
“Miss Clara Oswald.”
Nardole looked confused. “But sir, this coach --”
“Is nearly ready to go,” Ian cut him off smoothly then turned with a smile for the women. “Do you have trunks?”
“Just over there,” Clara pointed, indicating a stack of three large trunks off to the side.
“Excellent,” Ian smiled. “By the by, my name is Ian Docherty and this is my manservant, Nardole. I’ll be joining you in the coach: unfortunately, Nardole has some business to attend to for me, so he won’t be with us. Is that acceptable to you?”
“You’re not the driver?”
“No, merely a passenger.”
Clara looked around the yard. “Then who do I pay to secure passage?”
“That can be settled when we arrive in Glasgow. The coach is about to leave, if you’d care to join?”
Clara turned and gave a questioning look to Miss Tyler, who flushed a little deeper but nodded. His curiosity about her grew.
“Yes, that will be fine,” Clara told him, turning back with a smile.
“Very good. If you ladies would like to go ahead and make yourself comfortable in the coach, I’ll oversee the loading of our trunks, and then we’ll be off.”
“Thank you,” Clara said.
“Yes, thank you,” Miss Tyler agreed, giving him her first smile, and Ian nearly staggered. He’d thought her beautiful before, but when she smiled, her entire face seemed to light up and sparkle like a chandelier.
The two women went to the coach and climbed inside, Ian watching the blonde the whole way. Nardole was clearly wanting to say something, but he held up a hand to forestall the other man until the door closed behind the women.
“What are you doing?” Nardole demanded in a low voice.
“A simple kindness,” Ian answered. “Besides, having two other passengers aboard will ease the monotony quite a bit.”
“But you don’t know anything about these women! They could be --”
“They’re just women, Nardole, who mistook me for an employee of the carriage inn - probably due to my dusty traveling clothes - and asked for transport. Nothing nefarious about that.”
Nardole huffed. “If you say so.”
“Good. Now, don’t forget to settle with my solicitor on Monday and pick up my new stethoscope from Marshall on Thursday. I’ve already booked passage for you to Glasgow on Friday.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for staying behind.”
“It’s my pleasure, sir. But Doctor, are you sure about this?”
“About what?”
Nardole tilted his head towards the coach. “The passengers.”
“It’ll be fine,” he assured his manservant. “Worst case scenario, I pretend to be asleep for the next several days.”
“If you say so,” Nardole said again.
“I do.”
“In that case, safe travels.”
Ian took the offered hand and shook it. “Same to you. See you in a couple of weeks.”
“Yes, sir.”