A/N: Okay, so, I had every intention of never writing again after my first story. That is, until I was sitting in class on Friday, bored out of my mind, and this came to mind and wouldn't go away. :) I suspect this will be around 15 chapters, give or take, depending on if people like it or not. I'm not going to bother writing it if no one likes it, haha. :) Anyway, let's get on with some admin stuff, shall we? Okay!

This is a period piece. It is set in San Francisco in 1906. So, obviously this story is AU. Also, the Brittana will be slow to form, but the outcome will be all the richer for it, right? ...right? Oh, and this chapter sets up backstories and the general feel of the time and plot, etc, etc, so not too too much happens by way of actual action, but it's still important. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. It would be vastly different if I did.

The piercing shriek of the northbound train's whistle woke Brittany Pierce. Blinking the sleep from her eyes and staring into the darkness, it took her a few seconds to remember why this was an important day. When she did, she shivered in eager anticipation and threw back her blanket. Mrs. Sylvester had given it to her. It was worn and patched, but the thick wool was still warm.

The train whistle came again, louder. Brittany could clearly picture in her mind the long, dark cars of the Central Pacific freight train clattering around the bend below the Channels Street station. Brittany pulled the blanket back up to cover her face, waiting, listening. A minute later, it came. The third hollow whistle-screech, fading into the strong, steady rhythm of the steam engine as the train rolled north toward Napa.

Brittany laid still for a minute more, trying in vain not to think about Arthur, her heartbeat racing. She forced her rapid breathing to slow, straining to hear the first of the Chinese lily wagons. There it was. Right on time, as usual. Wheels creaking over the soft, huffing breath of the horses, the wagon passed beneath her window, the scent of the flowers it was bringing in from the fields wafting through Brittany's thin window pane.

At the first muffled crow of Mrs. Sylvester's rooster, shut up in the coop behind the boardinghouse, Brittany sighed. She stretched her long, lean limbs. These were the daily sounds that meant it was almost 4:00—about an hour before sunrise—and time for her begin her day.

Once again, Brittany threw back her covers, but this time she sat up and swung her feet to the chilly floor, shivering. Her thin muslin nightgown did nothing to block the moist cool of the morning, and without looking she knew it was foggy outside. March mornings in San Francisco always were.

Brittany pushed her long, blonde hair back over her shoulders, then struck a Lucifer and turned up the gas in her wall lamp. The flame flickered, and then sprung to life, the wick emitting an acrid scent. She turned the gas down so that the lamp gave off just enough light for her to see while getting ready for work. Mrs. Sylvester paid the tenants' water and sewage costs, but the gas bills were divided up amongst the boarders, so Brittany tried to use as little of the lamp oil as possible in order to save money.

Walking over to the old-fashioned wash basin in the corner of her room, Brittany bent and splashed some water onto her face and neck, then straightened, drying herself off with her threadbare flannel towel. There was a bathroom and water closet on the second floor, but Mr. Evans would be in it now. He was the house's earliest riser, since he worked for Zizes' Bakery delivering bread and pastries to the financial district's restaurants before they opened for business each day.

Waiting outside the bathroom door would be Mr. Tanaka, frantically rubbing his grizzled beard and muttering to himself. Brittany pitied him. He used to be a speculator back in the '80s and had made a considerable fortune in stocks, but then he lost it all in a failed investment. It had sadly cost him his sanity. He sold buttons and notions for the T.C. Kellermant Company now, carting his large black case aboard the train at least twice a week to call on his accounts in Sacramento and Napa. He boarded the ferry twice a month and sold his goods to the dry-goods stores in Oakland. He always complained that in Oakland, the ranchers' wives were two years behind the fashion, and in San Francisco the women were two years ahead.

Mr. Tanaka was harmless, but he talked to himself almost constantly when no one was speaking to him, usually about the unfairness of life. Brittany couldn't argue with him on that, but his bitterness frightened her. Life had dealt her a bad hand as well, but she was determined not to fall into a sad and angry middle age. She was going to find a way out of the mission district.

Smiling, Brittany giggled to herself. "It is so simple. I will marry a good man, work very hard with him at whatever his business is, and love him forever." She arched her back, stretching, and yawned. Maybe I have already found the perfect man, Brittany allowed herself to think. "Mrs. Arthur Abrams," she said aloud. Then she blushed.

Santana Lopez was riding hard over the rocky ground. Her horse was lathered with sweat, its breathing labored and ragged, but she kept her heels against its sides. As the ranchhouse finally came into view, a curl of smoke coming from the chimney, she scanned the outbuildings and corrals as she galloped closer. She needed her father, or better yet, Burt, but she couldn't spot anyone except old George Cook, mucking out the milk cow's stall.

Reining in beside the corral, Santana hit the ground running towards the house and flung the door open wide with a bang. Her father and Burt were standing before the hearth, coffee cups cradled in their work-roughened hands.

"Burt and I were just settling up what needs to be done before we leave for the city in the morning," Santana's father said. Once he took notice of his daughter's demeanor, he narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"That Kentucky blood mare, Papa," Santana began, pausing to take a breath, as out of breath as if she had run the distance on foot.

"She foaling?" Burt demanded, placing his coffee cup down on the mantle, already heading out the door before Santana could respond.

"Yes," Santana managed to get out as she followed Burt, her father right on her heels.

"Where?" Burt shouted back over his shoulder.

Santana ragged in another long breath, "Up by Pleasant Point meadow, and she's having a lot of trouble."

"Good thing you found her," Santana's father commented approvingly as they hurried down the porch towards the corral, boots clattering across the planks. He took in Santana's weary horse and the corrals and yelled in George's general direction, "Catch up my grey, and pull the tack off of this one for Santana's bay mare."

"I'll get my gelding," Burt said, already running towards the bunkhouse corral.

Santana sprinted after her father, the early morning air cool against her heated face, her dark hair fanning out beneath her hat, the vast expanse of the sky pale blue above.

Twirling fluidly around in her tiny bedroom, Brittany put off getting ready for work for just a little while longer. She curtsied, humming a waltz she had heard the dining room orchestra play. Maybe she would be going to balls and soirees at the Palace Hotel soon, instead of cleaning its rooms.

She stopped dancing and blushed again. Arthur had asked her to come see him before work today. Certainly, his request was highly improper, and if they were caught it would cost her her job, but he had been quick to assure her that she could remain in the hallway and that all he wanted was to talk to her about something important.

Brittany breathed in a long, shuddering breath to try to steady her jitters, then let it out in a large whoosh as she rehung her towel on the hook beside her wash basin. "Today could be the day," she whispered to herself, biting her lip and smiling. "Arthur might want to confess his attraction to me. Maybe even his love." Brittany closed her eyes tightly, daring to hope.

Arthur always smiled as soon as he saw her, and his brown eyes were soft and attentive, as though every word she spoke was precious to him. It made Brittany giddy to think about his beautiful eyes, framed in wire-rimmed eye glasses, the fine shining of his hair, his narrow, but firm shoulders. He walked like a prince—like he owned every room he strode into. If he does love me, life as I know it will change forever.

Smiling at the thought, Brittany started to dance around her small room again, imagining herself waltzing across a polished dance floor in a grand ballroom with Arthur, barely managing the second turn before running into her bed, spurring on another fit of giggles. "A fine, graceful wife I am going to make," she scolded herself.

Carefully grasping her thin muslin nightgown, Brittany pretended that she was lifting a heavy-hemmed, deep blue velvet ball gown instead. Slowly, her head held high, Brittany began to waltz again, more mindful of her steps, gliding around her room and letting herself get lost in her dream for a moment. She was no longer merely Brittany Pierce dancing alone in her tiny bedroom. No, she was Mrs. Arthur Abrams, being whisked around by her tall, handsome husband, the envy of every woman at the ball. As his wife, she would never have to come back to this shabby little boardinghouse – except to get Mama's trunk. Inside it were some clothes, her mother's small, silver hairbrush, and her father's prayer book. They were the only things she cared about at all in this place.

Brittany immediately stopped dancing, ashamed of herself. She cared about Mrs. Sylvester. The old woman had been motherly, in her brusque, cantankerous way, and it meant a great deal to Brittany.

Brittany bit her bottom lip, thinking. Maybe Arthur would agree to take Mrs. Sylvester in. Sure, she could be combative, but she was pleasant enough if people were respectful to her, and she was very strong in her way, even though she resembled a fragile wading bird, with her thin legs and long neck. Brittany smiled once more as she imagined dancing away into the sunset with the handsome and kind Mr. Abrams, a charming chamber set aside in their vast estate for Mrs. Sylvester.

Shutting her eyes, Brittany made heaven a promise. If she could just have a chance at that sort of life, she would join the famous and generous Mrs. Hearst and her friends in charity committees. She would even join that peculiar, fiery Mother Mary McDermott of the Flying Rollers of the House of David, and anyone else who was trying to help the poor orphans of San Francisco.

Brittany grinned, imagining herself sweeping down the street in a beautiful silk dress, stylish hat, and pristine gloves. She would build an orphanage! It would be clean and bright, and the children would never be beaten or frightened with stories of hellfire and eternal damnation. They would be taught skills with which to support themselves throughout their lives, and they would be allowed time to dance and play: the very antithesis of St. Andrew's Orphanage. The children would be happy, not miserable and terrified as she had been. Oh, how she hated the frigidly pious nuns! Only nuns with warm smiles and love to give would be allowed to teach in her orphanage.

Brittany caught her breath and laughed aloud at the grandiosity of her fantasies. "Silk dresses and philanthropy, indeed!" she whispered to herself, staring at the battered trunk that held her entire inheritance.

Feeling silly and intensely aware of her threadbare nightgown, Brittany parted her heavy bombazine curtains. She made them from an old, striped walking dress of Mrs. Sylvester's that the old woman had given her. It had been designed way back in the '60s, Mrs. Sylvester had told her, during the War Between the States. The fashion back then had been dresses with skirt hoops so wide two women could not pass each other on the sidewalks. There had been more than twenty yards of the heavy material – more than enough for a pair of flounced curtains.

Brittany peeked out, then opened the curtains the rest of the way. Behind the heavy cloth, the tiny square of her window was ebony black. There wasn't a single amble twinkle of a neighbor's gas lamp, not a glimmer of the electric lights in the tall buildings up on Market Street. It was as though the world had disappeared, especially since the fog seemed thicker than usual this morning.

Impulsively, Brittany opened up the window and stood before the opening in her nightgown. She was sure no one would be able to see her through the early morning fog. She leaned out halfway and looked down toward the street. The sound of delivery boys popping their buggy whips and a distant automobile motor drifted through the heavy mist. She could hear Mr. Puckerman coughing in the room below hers. His asthmatic breathing was terrible sometimes, but he would fall back to sleep eventually, she knew. He wouldn't be getting up for several hours yet, since his work at the Harkenstein saloon didn't start until noon.

Shivering again as the cool mist started to drift in through the window, Brittany closed the window and began to dress. She quickly pulled off her nightgown and slid into her chemise and vest. Next, she sat on her narrow hearth and unrolled her thick, woolen stockings, enjoying the faint warmth in the stone, a lingering gift from last night's tiny fire. There was a small, gray ring of ashen clinkers in her fireplace. She had only used a little bit of her precious hoard of coal.

Mrs. Sylvester gave her tenants a bargain. She sold lump and walnut coal to them by the bucket for only a little more than she paid for it by the ton. It was soft and burned slow and smoky, but it was much better than nothing. Wood was much too dear and expensive for common folks. Only the grand houses and mansions up on Nob Hill could afford to have sweet-smelling logs crackling in their fireplaces. The rest of the city had to put up with the oily stink of coal.

Brittany slid her feet into her stocking, first extending one leg then the other. Still quivering with the morning chill, she stood and pulled her stockings up the rest of the way. She wished that spring would hurry up and arrive already. How much longer would it be before the nights warmed up?

Next, Brittany pulled on her stocking supporters, straightening the elastic so it wouldn't cut into her skin. Terry at work kept talking about a new type of stocking with unbleached cotton feet and soles. She swore they rested her feet, that now she never had to soak her feet in Epsom salts after work. Brittany's feet didn't hurt too much yet, but she knew they would by the time she was twenty-five or so. Poor Terry was forty-four, and the hard work at the Palace was almost more than she could bear now.

Brittany removed her corset from the hook inside her wardrobe. The head housekeeper at the Palace was very strict about tardiness, and the staff supervisor was even worse. Any girl caught being late more than once or twice, whether they had a legitimate excuse or not, stood in very real danger of losing her position. As she continued getting ready, Brittany allowed herself one quick daydream…a familiar one. She pictured herself telling Mrs. Beiste that she was quitting. Brittany changed the scenario a little bit each time she let herself have this thrilling last-day-of-work fantasy at all.

In the beginning, she imagined herself gray-haired and accepting a gold watch as a reward for her many years of service to the hotel. Later, when she had first begun to learn how to sew, she entertained the fancy that her careful handiwork had caught the eye of a wealthy patroness who had insisted that she set Brittany up in her own shop. This morning, however, Brittany imagined herself gleefully leaning close to Mrs. Beiste's unhappy visage to whisper the best excuse of all for her lateness – that Arthur Abrams had proposed to her and demanded that she never work another day.

Laughing, Brittany crossed her arms over her body and reached around her waist to pull the corset laces tight, then brought the strings to the front to tie them. She glanced at her starched white uniform hanging on the tatty old dress form by her bed. The form was yet another gift from Mrs. Sylvester. It was left over from her days as a seamstress, before her eyesight went and she couldn't sew anymore.

For a second, Brittany allowed her imagination to run free again, turning her white linen uniform into a cascading gown of fine chiffon and lace. She hadn't actually told Arthur that she was an orphan yet. He wouldn't be upset that he would be the one paying for the wedding, and not her father, would he?

Sighing guiltily, knowing full well that her mother wouldn't have approved for an instant such time-wasting flights of fancy, Brittany looked out her window again, this time, not to daydream, but to gauge the time. There was no shine of the distant sun in the East, no flicker at all in the dense fog; however, it was turning grayish now, which meant it was almost 4:30.

As she combed and braided her long, silky blonde hair, Brittany began to hum an old Dutch melody. It had been one of her Mama's favorites, a quick-time tune for fiddlers. Mama might not have approved of her daydreams, but she would be looking down from heaven, happy and proud if they came true. So would her Papa, Brittany was sure. She remembered them as perfect, loving, and wonderfully kind. But they had died of tuberculosis when she was barely 7. Mrs. Sylvester said that if they had lived a little while longer, Brittany would have begun to see them as people with faults and flaws. But they hadn't.

Brittany forced a smile as she looked at herself in her small mirror. The orphanage had fed and clothed her until she was ten. She had a good job now, a kind, to her at least, landlady, and a warm room. That was considerably more than some could say. There was no point in her having sad thoughts about her past, not on a day that promised to be the beginning of her bright and blissful future. Pinching her cheeks to heighten the pale pink flush that seemed to always be present, Brittany steeled herself to face whatever was to come. If Arthur didn't announce his intentions today, he might soon enough.