Trowa smiled back, placing a hand behind Quatre's neck in a gentle hold before the boy could fully pull away. Their foreheads remained pressed against each other, with Quatre finding himself being forced to stare into those incredible green pools as he felt Trowa's fingers subtly stroke his skin, sending shivers up and down his spine at the touch.
"I never expected you to be the first one to say that."
"I'm sorry. I've never done this before."
"Neither have I." Trowa's smile broadened, almost turning beatific. "I love you, too."
A brief pause followed, with both of them staring at each other--though now in some confusion. Quatre swallowed, his skin tingling under Trowa's touch. He was sure that if his companion were to withdraw his hand, he'd be leaving some scorched marks on the boy's neck.
"Uh--now what?" Quatre asked.
"I don't know."
Trowa laughed lightly, and the boy thought he could see a deep flush creeping up his cheeks. He let go of Quatre, allowing him to finally breathe freely and to sit back. Then, looking down, he took hold of the boy's hand, thoughtfully inspecting it under the dying glow of the fireplace.
"I think this is when I'm supposed to…"
A gentle knock on the door broke up Trowa's thoughts as the two immediately sat up straight, with Quatre snatching his hand back and clumsily picking up the wreath to examine it carelessly. He felt his blushing worsen as he forced himself to focus on what he was pretending to be doing.
"Yes? Come in," Trowa called out. The boy thought he noted a slight hint of impatience in his companion's voice.
The door slowly opened, and a quiet, almost fragile voice invaded the room. "Trowa?"
"Gabriela--I thought you were asleep." Trowa shifted, braced himself, and stood up in one graceful move. Then he hurried over to the young lady while Quatre, now once again deflated, struggled to get to his feet, staggering a little as he did.
"No--I couldn't," Gabriela replied as she stepped in--or, rather, glided in. She seemed to move just as noiselessly as she spoke. "What're you two doing in here? May I join you?"
"Of course. Quatre and I were just looking at a wreath I made for him."
"Oh, what a sweet-looking thing!" the girl squealed, her eyes widening as she hurried over to Quatre for a closer look. "You did this, Trowa? How wonderful! I never knew you liked doing this sort of thing!"
"Well…" Trowa broke off with a self-conscious laugh. "I couldn't help myself with this one."
"And it's so well-done, too. Oh, dear! I think you put me to shame!" Gabriela breathed as she turned the wreath over in her hands. Then she looked at Quatre. "I do a lot of this kind of thing, you know. Mamma always said that I'm just awfully good at working with my hands. She's even said that I can make my husband proud--what with all my piano-playing and sewing and painting and lace-making and…" Her voice trailed off as she gave a careless shrug and a wry--almost cynical--smile.
Quatre felt his stomach turn at the mention of "husband," and he realized that he shouldn't be there at that moment. He also realized that his sudden confession to Trowa was wholly inappropriate considering the situation that now imposed itself in his conscience as he watched the oblivious girl oohing and aahing over the wreath. Whatever it was Trowa may feel for him shouldn't be encouraged in any way. The young lord, after all, had his responsibilities to his family, and the last thing he needed was for a confused runaway to complicate matters for him in the worst way possible.
And as he watched his young master playfully tease his giddy little guest, he simply comforted himself with the thought that at least Trowa returned his affection. It may be stifled and shoved aside for other, more significant matters, but at least they were both given the chance to admit their mutual attachment. Once time wore on, things would cool down, responsibilities and obligations would take center stage, and all past whimsical displays would fade away and be forgotten.
In other words, they'd grow up and out of it. It was, as adults are too often quite hasty in declaring, only a phase. Even his previous claim of not wanting to marry--it was simply that--a phase.
"Well, I think I should be heading off for bed," Quatre broke in, forcing a yawn. "I'm exhausted."
"Oh? I was hoping you could stay and talk some more about your little book-burning spree with His Lordship," Gabriela replied, her smile fading. Then she quickly rallied and brightened up again within seconds. "But I suppose we've got tomorrow for that, haven't we?"
"Of course. Good night, Gabriela."
He turned to face Trowa, who was now looking a little more serious and thoughtful as he watched them both. He gave the boy a small, reassuring smile and bid him good night as well. Quatre then hurried out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him. And as he did, he thought he heard his young master walk a few paces and then stop. And right before the door was fully closed, Trowa's voice floated out in a soft, gentle tone. He was practically whispering.
"I'm so glad you came," he said. "I've been wanting to talk to you."
**********
With his new position in the household, Quatre was now free to mingle with his employers, and he found himself constantly pulled in several directions as the family saw fit. And as he indulged them, he only served to aggravate the viscountess's irritation toward him.
The following morning found him shut up in the library with the earl, going through every shelf for possible literary sacrifices. They'd just ceremoniously butchered Pamela, with the earl spouting off invectives against Richardson and puritan morality.[1]
"Damn all this false virtue!" he cried as he hurled several crumpled balls of what used to be the book's pages into the fire. "Ha! Virtue? Nothing but poxy virginity in this piece of tripe! Give me Fielding and Smollett and Swift any time!"[2]
Quatre was also obliged to burn the tunic he used to wear, with widened eyes watching it smolder and crackle and almost put the fire out. He couldn't help but look down in wonder at his current garb. It was nothing flashy or ostentatious, and yet its plainness wasn't at all shabby. Like his current position in the household, his clothes were neither important nor lowly.
The end of the two-hour period found the boy and his employer staring in no small surprise at the stack they'd accumulated.
"My God," the earl breathed, shaking his head. "All this hack-work sitting all these years in my shelves. And to think I've actually forced myself to read every single one of them."
"I don't think we have enough time today to take care of them, sir," Quatre replied, feeling his conscience buckle under the prospect of burning all these books. "I suppose we ought to deal with them one at a time. Tomorrow, maybe?"
"Yes, I agree. I never realized that getting rid of rubbish could be so taxing." Then the man paused and turned to face the boy with an impish half-smile. "And so much fun," he added before bursting out into loud, full-bodied laughter.
Quatre was then led to another room, one that housed several paintings both on the walls and on the floor--leaning in stacks against each other. There the earl engaged his attention with critical comments on every single piece, debating and conceding with the boy regarding its inherent value. And it was in those moments when Quatre got an even closer look at the earl's character, which surprisingly enough, seemed to mirror his own.
They were both comparing a painting by Reynolds with that of Hogarth, and both agreed on the superiority of Hogarth despite his crudeness in style.[3]
"Content, boy!" the earl roared, waving his hand at the massive painting on the wall. "None of this ridiculous heroic primping and posturing just to flatter the vanity of some empty-headed sitter! No, no, no--reality works! Give me the ugly truth over the glossed-over fakery of Reynolds! Pooh! Heroic, indeed! What heroic things had these silly subjects done in their lives, I want to know? That they served tea using anything but Wedgewood porcelain? Bah!"
And it was during this critical session when they were unceremoniously interrupted by Lady Dummfield, who happened to be walking by the room and had heard one of her favorite artists so barbarously used.
"Theodore!" she cried, marching stiffly into the room, horror and disbelief in her eyes. "I can't believe I just heard you! How could you abuse Reynolds like that? The man was a genius!"
"Humph. A genius in flattering silly egos, to be precise," he replied, turning to wink at Quatre.
The incensed viscountess turned to glare at the boy. "You? You encouraged this subversive way of thinking? Good heavens! How much more damage could a teenage boy do around here?" She looked back at the earl, who was now regarding her with both annoyance and amusement. "Theodore--you've never talked this way about art before! Remember our discussions? You admired Reynolds!"
The earl frowned. "Did I?"
"Don't be cheeky--you know you did…"
"Well then…" he shrugged nonchalantly. "That was then, this is now. I changed my mind about him."
"How can you change your mind about your artistic preferences?"
"All right then--if you find it so difficult to comprehend--I lied about him before."
Lady Dummfield slowly turned red then purple then blue as she stared, bug-eyed, at her long-time friend. Her mouth opened and closed with no words coming out. She seemed to be stunned beyond all ability for speech.
The earl chuckled, roughly patting her arm. "People aren't gods, Tabitha," he said. "It's okay to admire them, not worship them. And I've never ever admired Reynolds." He turned to the boy with a broad grin. "Too bad we can't burn canvases, eh, Quatre?"
"Uh--my lord--I think we can only go so far," the boy replied, causing his employer to burst out laughing, slugging Lady Dummfield's arm more powerfully to punctuate his mirth.
**********
Quatre felt a bit restless and nervous all day and went about his business wondering how to act around Trowa. It was almost like the morning after a wild night of dissipation, with a lot of questions unanswered and a lot of guilt hanging over his head. They'd both confessed themselves to each other and pretty much had ended their time together with the implicit agreement that nothing more should come of it.
Or at least that was how Quatre saw things.
Well--how else would this be looked at? he thought as he stared out the window pensively, waiting for Trowa to come back. His young master had been gone all day--hadn't even eaten breakfast with the family. He'd been invited back to the place where they'd had dinner the previous evening to spend some time with a friend.
Quatre sighed as his gaze roamed over the gray landscape. It's just plain wrong for me to get things completely mixed up for him.
"Aha! There you are!"
The boy whirled around to find Catherine ambling up to him, Gabriela in tow. "I've been looking all over for you," she said.
"Yes, milady?"
"Oh, lord," the young lady gasped, visibly shuddering. "Please--just plain Catherine's fine with me. Anyway, I was just telling Gabriela here about how wonderful a musician you are, and I've gotten Dad's permission to open the ballroom once again. Now you can play some music for us."
"Do you mind, Quatre?" Gabriela piped up in her usual waif-like manner, emphasizing her request with a slight blush and a dimpled smile. "I'd love to hear you play. Catherine and I can dance to your music, too."
Both girls laughed at this, and it didn't take them much effort to convince the boy to acquiesce to their request. He liked them both, anyway, and would've given them anything they'd asked. And, as much as he felt his heart get shredded every time he looked at Gabriela, he simply couldn't get himself to hate her. She was a sweet creature, to be sure, but she also had a good head on her shoulders and was by no means a simpleton. She was, like him, severely stifled though in a worse way. She was a girl, after all.
The three were in the ballroom in no time. And Quatre could barely contain his laughter upon seeing stacks of music sheets piled on top of the piano, waiting for him to give them life. And as he skimmed through them, he found them to be waltzes.
"I love waltzes," Gabriela said with a self-conscious and apologetic laugh.
The girls took their positions, laughing and talking as they did, while Quatre prepared himself. And within minutes, the three were lost in the strains of a German waltz, with the boy watching and giggling at Catherine and Gabriela as they whirled around the ballroom, tripping and stumbling on occasion on their skirts and periodically breaking out in good-humored arguments over who gets to be the man. Gabriela tripped and fell over one time, pulling Catherine down with her. The two girls lay in a heap on the floor, laughing uncontrollably as Quatre carried on with the music. He was just about ready to die from laughing so hard himself.
The manic energy of the moment was temporarily dampened by Lady Dummfield's sudden appearance at the doorway.
"Gabriela!" she cried, her hands on her hips. "Whatever on earth are you doing lying on the floor like that? You're acting like a common girl!"
"Oh, mamma! I am a common girl!" her daughter replied, fighting hard to control her laughter. Neither she nor Catherine bothered to pick themselves up from the floor.
"You're not! How could you think of yourself that way?"
"Care to join us in a waltz, Lady Dummfield?" Catherine asked, sitting up, with Gabriela following suit.
Both girls were an eyesore. Parts of their hair had come loose from their pins and hung in small cascades of curls around their heads. Their skirts ballooned around them in crumpled silk and lace, their petticoats barely able to keep their shape. Parts of Gabriela's gown, moreover, were torn from being stepped on so much.
"Certainly not!" the irate viscountess huffed. "Gabriela! Get up this instant! I've taught you better than to behave so wildly like this. And you…" She turned to face Quatre, who'd long stopped his playing and was fighting hard to stifle his giggling. "You're the instigator. Again. It was bad enough to convince your employer to go around desecrating books and abusing artistic merit--now you encourage my own daughter to forget herself and behave like an ill-bred peasant!"
"Milady, I…"
"Lady Dummfield, I asked Quatre to play for us," Catherine quickly broke in. Neither she nor Gabriela moved from their position on the floor though both had sufficiently calmed down. "If you were to be angry with anyone, it would be me. Not him."
"Nonesense," the woman retorted, her gaze shifting from the two girls to Quatre and back. "I know you, Catherine. I know you aren't capable of…"
"With all due respect, madam, I'm very capable of raising hell whenever I see fit."
A moment of outraged silence from the viscountess followed Catherine's firm reply. And before anyone could say anything further, another voice entered the conversation.
"So this is where everyone is."
Quatre froze as he sat on the bench, staring at the keys before him and feeling his breath catch in his throat.
"Trowa!" Catherine cried as she struggled to her feet before her brother could make a move to assist her. "You're finally back! And you brought Anthony with you!"
Gabriela immediately picked herself up from the floor as well, her face turning a deep, deep crimson shade. She quickly curtsied to both gentlemen the moment she was upright, completely flustered as she stammered her greetings.
Trowa and another young man entered the room. Quatre stood up as well, instinctively retreating into the darker shadows of the corner where the piano stood as he watched the goings on before him. The two young gentlemen exchanged courtesies with all three ladies present and soon engaged them in a lively conversation. The initial tenseness and the viscountess's irritation quickly dissipated. The waltz was forgotten--and along with it went Quatre.
He continued to stand in the shadows of the now-ignored piano, watching them all mingle but for the most part stealing glances in Trowa's direction. Trowa himself seemed oblivious to his presence and was very much absorbed in his companions' lively chatter. He didn't look any the worse for wear from last night. And Quatre, who didn't get much sleep and whose stomach was in knots at the moment, didn't know if that were a good thing.
"How can he be so calm?" he murmured, a tiny pang of resentment hitting him now.
He was a virtual wreck, and he couldn't understand how Trowa, who seemed just as swept away as he was last night, would act so--well--so normally. He'd heard time and again that people who'd fallen in love tended to behave out of character (at least that was what his sisters insisted, citing their novels as creditable sources for their knowledge of the real world). This being his first time, he didn't really know any better, and he couldn't keep himself from wallowing in a little self-pity.
"Am I that easy to forget?"
He frowned at this and decided to make a hasty exit. Making sure not to disturb anything and hoping no one would notice him, he picked his way around the piano as noiselessly as he could and hurried out the door, which was, fortunately enough, only a few feet away. And as he reached the hallway and walked on, he wished like hell that Dorcas would beg the earl to give him his old job back.
**********
Anthony stayed for the rest of the day, keeping the family busy with the obligation of entertaining him. And as he was Trowa's friend, he stayed with the young man, rendering Quatre's company pretty much useless. And as Dorcas seemed to be on top of things insofar as chores were concerned, the boy was left with nothing to do and nobody with whom he could talk. The servants were busy with their own duties to bother with him, after all, and even Dorcas could only spare him a few minutes of her time.
"Oh, my dear," she sighed, smiling wistfully at him at one point. "I miss you around here. I miss our talks and so on."
"But I can still stay here. I won't be in the way, I swear."
The housekeeper let out a small laugh and pinched his cheek playfully. "I've got to go to the market with Tobias, Quatre. I can't take you with me since you may be needed around here. Besides, the market's a little dangerous for you."
"But what else can I do around here?"
"Aren't you fond of reading? Why don't you spend some time in the library? Then when I have time to spend with you, you can tell me everything you've learned. I'd love to hear you talk about things."
Quatre's shoulders as well as spirits slumped. "All right then," he sighed as Dorcas mussed up his hair in an effort to console the despondent boy.
He was on his way to the library when he passed by Trowa and Gabriela standing by the door of the parlor, engaged in what seemed to be a very serious conversation. The boy neither slowed down nor hurried his pace as he walked by, determined to look as normal as he possibly could under the circumstances. The two pretty much ignored him as they were much too focused on the subject at hand.
"Trowa, I don't know," Gabriela said, her voice in a trembling half-whisper.
"Think about it, Gaby, please," the young man replied rather urgently though in the same tone his companion used.
"I'm so confused--why are you doing this to me?"
"I care a lot about you, you know that…"
Gabriela didn't respond, and Quatre thought he heard the sound of stifled sobbing coming from her. He almost paused in his tracks but quickly chided himself and walked on. He'd almost passed the parlor at this point.
"I'm so confused…"
"Please--just think about it--that's all I ask. Please."
Quatre practically broke into a run by the time he cleared the door, and within minutes, he was inside the library. The earl was somewhere else in the manor--no doubt in the viscountess's tedious company. That was a great relief to the boy, who now craved for some moments alone. He walked over to the shelves and scanned them, desperate to find something in which he could lose himself for the rest of the day, if at all possible. He found nothing to interest him. His mind, after all, was too much in a muddle as it kept harking back to last night and to the bit of conversation he'd just overheard.
Sighing heavily, he turned his attention to the stack of books he and his employer had collected that morning for future bonfires. He absently picked one up and walked over to the fireplace where apparently a new log had just been added. Then, crossing his legs under him, he sat down before it, opened the book he held in his hands, and started tearing out pages.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1] Pamela (or Virtue Rewarded) was a very, very popular book written in the eighteenth century. It told the story of a servant girl who resists her employer's advances and in the end is rewarded for her virtue by marrying the man.
[2] Henry Fielding, Tobias Smollett, and Jonathan Swift were all prominent and influential eighteenth century writers of satire. Fielding hated Pamela and wrote a parody of it called Shamela, in which he flatly criticizes the original Pamela's character as a crock of shit. (Ya just gotta love the guy!)
[3] Sir Joshua Reynolds and William Hogarth were prominent artists from the eighteenth century. Reynolds catered to the elite because of his insistence that the sitter for a painting should be depicted in a "heroic" manner after the classical Greek tradition. Hogarth was a satirical artist and painted morality pictures that showed the uglier side of British society.