Quatre dared not move from his chair. He sat on it with his backside just barely resting on the seat's edge, his hands clasped and tucked between his knees. Despite the refreshments that sat on a nearby table, the boy's discomfort couldn't be dispelled as he gazed furtively around. His eyes rested on ominous-looking and unwelcoming furniture made of dark, heavy wood. The bulk and plainness of each piece belied a very masculine household, which was certainly the case. Anthony Dennethorne and his father were the only members of the family who resided there. Even their staff were mostly male, with only the head housekeeper and the two chamber maids being the female occupants of the house.
The large, spacious room in which Quatre had found himself was solely made of unfinished stone blocks, the ragged, uneven surface of the walls playing host to a number of deer heads and a variety of antique as well as modern firearms. An occasional ancestral painting would break up this intimidating collection, but even then, it never served to quiet down the boy's nervousness at the sight of carnage and human domination.
Quatre had to force himself to look down on the stone floor and just take in the bold patterns he'd find in an occasional accent rug to amuse himself.
Trowa had gone to have a private chat with Anthony, who was likely still stewing over his humiliating rejection earlier. Quatre was told to wait for his companion in this particular room, and the boy was now simply counting the minutes for Trowa to come back for him.
He sat for some time, fidgeting, rocking, and shaking his knees in a steady rhythm. The room, being so huge (that being a former abbey, after all), didn't take too well to the roaring fire housed in the gargantuan fireplace way across the room from the boy.
Quatre stared at it fretfully. "I'm freezing," he muttered, and he stood up and lurched toward the fireplace, almost getting himself roasted as he got within ten feet of the thing. He had to step back a few paces to find the right heat intensity. Then, unmindful of where he'd planted himself, he sat down on the hard floor, bringing his knees to his chin and hugging them tightly with his arms.
As he watched the fire, his mind kept harking back to this afternoon's events, and he tried his damnedest to sort through things. The inevitable result, of course, was the almost debilitating mortification that enveloped him regarding his recent conduct toward Trowa.
"But I didn't know," he murmured, feeling his chest tighten. "How would I know all this? Things were already happening even before I came here, and--oh, God, I feel so stupid!"
He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, and he virtually collapsed. He jerked violently forward and ended up on his back after rolling over awkwardly. He stared, saucer-eyed, at a perplexed Trowa, who was kneeling where he used to sit.
"Trowa!" he hissed once he'd found his voice. "Do you always sneak up on people like that? You scared me half to death!"
"Did I?"
"Don't be funny. You know you did."
Trowa offered a hand to the prostrate boy. Quatre could only stare at it with a bit of a pout. "Yes, I do," the young man replied. "But you know I never meant anything by that. Don't be so sensitive."
Quatre took his hand, and he was gently hoisted to his feet. He was about to start brushing off whatever dirt and lint might have attached themselves to his clothes when he felt himself pulled toward Trowa and securely held against the young man's chest.
He blinked, his heart racing erratically now. His arms hung limply down his sides as he felt a hand come up to gently pull his head closer and cradle it against Trowa's neck.
"What--um…" was all he could manage at the moment, his voice muffled by his companion's shoulder.
"I just feel like holding you," Trowa replied quietly. "You don't mind, do you?"
"No--no, of course not."
Quatre felt a little foolish at his nervousness and allowed himself to relax as he lost himself in Trowa's hold, raising his arms to wrap them around the young man's waist. It was so strangely frightening and yet so sublimely wonderful, this feeling--to have his entire existence validated by the one person in the world he adored--all by a mere hold. He rested himself against Trowa, feeling his warmth, the texture of his clothes, the commingling aromas of scented bath oil, laundry soap, and skin. And he could barely contain a smile when he felt himself rocked ever so slightly.
They stood that way in silence for what could've been ages, unmindful of anybody else's presence had there been any--or of the threat of possible discovery by anyone from the household.
"Time to go home," Trowa presently said, and they pulled apart.
"How's Anthony?"
"Better," he sighed, shrugging helplessly. "Better. He's with his dad right now, and frankly, I'd sooner be somewhere else when the baron finds out about what happened."[1]
"But--isn't he close friends with Lady Dummfield?" Quatre asked as he followed Trowa out of the room.
"Yes, but he's damn well proud of his name and his station. And he doesn't take to insults very well. In fact, I've never known him to forgive anyone who's crossed him before."
They walked down a rather lengthy passageway, not even waiting for the butler to come and see them out. Quatre had always thought it to be a very unnecessary and frivolous ritual.
"So what exactly happened today?" the boy blurted out thoughtlessly as his eyes rested on marble busts that sat in a series of alcoves that lined the passageway.
"I never thought you to be a gossip, Quatre Winner."
Quatre flinched but conceded to the justice of Trowa's reproof. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It was just--it was all so sudden. I never would've thought that Gabriela would be attached to Anthony…"
"Why not? She deserves to be in love with someone, doesn't she?"
"No, it wasn't that. It's just that…" Quatre fell silent as he suddenly checked himself. "Never mind."
"What? It's just that what?"
"Nothing. I didn't know what I was saying…"
"Sure, you do."
"I forgot," the boy stammered as he reddened at his little blunder.
He kept his eyes forward but was keenly aware of Trowa's eyes on him as they continued to walk toward the front door. But his companion didn't pursue the matter--at least for now--and Quatre was grateful for a respite.
Trowa sighed once they were outside and making their way to his horse, which was tethered to a nearby pole. Trowa didn't trust anybody--not even Anthony's skilled grooms--to watch over the mare.
"I suppose I really shouldn't blame Anthony and Gaby for pushing through with the proposal. They've been waiting for too long. I've kept them waiting for too long."
Quatre looked up at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"Well--I just kept telling them that it wasn't the right time to ask Lady Dummfield…"
"But you were right, though. She wasn't ready for it…"
"She's never ready for it, Quatre," Trowa replied as he freed his horse and started to lead it down the walkway toward the road. "She's never ready for anything unless it pleases her. And when it comes to Gaby, she's pretty damn obsessive about having things her way." He paused as he shook his head sadly. "Poor girl. Unless she does something drastic, which really isn't her nature, she's got nowhere to go."
"I don't think Lady Dummfield would do this forever…"
"Don't count on it."
"Then I don't blame Gabriela for making you kiss her."
Quatre let out a tiny gasp of surprise at what he'd just said, and his hand flew up to clamp down on his mouth. Trowa, for his part, was silent for some time as they made their leisurely way toward the road.
"I don't blame her, either," he finally said, his voice calm and cool.
"And I don't blame you for going for it."
Quatre's eyes widened as he stared straight ahead. He was talking independently of his mind, and he didn't seem to have the power to stop himself.
"You probably should. I had an idea why she asked me to do it, and I could've said no. But I wanted to give it to her mother just as much as Gaby did." Trowa suddenly started to chuckle almost deviously. "Pretty awful of me, wasn't it?"
"Well--I'm sure I would've done the same thing if I were in your shoes."
"Quatre, how did you find out about this?"
"I--um--Gabriela--mentioned it--you know--when you and Anthony left after his--um--his outburst…"
"I see."
The boy made sure to keep himself from uttering another syllable by biting down hard on his lip and feeling the pain, almost treating it as well-deserved punishment for being so thoughtless. They'd reached the road at this point and paused. Quatre waited expectantly for Trowa to mount his horse, but his companion remained standing beside the mare, looking thoughtfully at the horizon.
"You saw us, didn't you?" Trowa suddenly asked, his eyes still riveted at a distant point beyond the road.
"I'm sorry?"
"You heard what I said."
Quatre hesitated. "Yes, I did," he replied in a small, mortified voice. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I just happened to look out the kitchen window and…"
Trowa finally tore his eyes away from the road and rested them on the flustered boy, a soft light dancing in them. He cracked a tiny smile. "You didn't just happen to look out of the window. You were already there when I rode in with Catherine." His smile broadened a little as he leaned forward until his face was only a few inches away from Quatre's. "I saw you."
Quatre's cheeks had now turned a bright shade of red as he held his ground, fighting desperately against the initial urge to shy away. "I just happened to look out when you came riding up…"
"Liar."
Trowa stared intently at the boy for an excruciating moment, a half-smile lighting up his face, before turning away. And Quatre, who was practically going mad from the thrilling expectation of being kissed, felt his entire world shatter from the disappointment, and it took him all he had to keep himself from kicking Trowa for subjecting him to so much torture.
"Things are going to be pretty hairy back home still," the young man presently said as he gazed back down the road. "I'd sooner have dinner somewhere else. Are you up to it, Quatre, or would you rather go home?"
"I don't care," the boy replied a bit sullenly. "Go wherever you want."
"All right then. Let's walk to Ramsden. It's only a couple of miles down that way."
"Fine."
Trowa stroked the mare's neck, whispering something, and started guiding the animal forward. Quatre trailed several paces behind, sighing a little. He bent his head and kept his eyes on the ground as they began to amble along, mindlessly kicking stones here and there.
He suddenly felt himself bump against Trowa, and he quickly looked up in surprise. He didn't realize that his companion had stopped and was watching him. He wasn't even given a chance to excuse himself. Trowa bent his head and kissed him soundly, pulling away before Quatre's mind could fully catch up with what was happening.
"Feel better now?"
"What?" the boy stammered. "I don't know what you're talking about…"
Trowa laughed lightly. "Liar," he murmured before turning around to carry on with their walk.
**********
It didn't take them long to reach Ramsden. Quatre took in the new environment with a good deal of curiosity, wonder, and even pity. As cottage after cottage appeared to mark the outskirts of the village, he felt himself more and more humbled by what he saw.
It was at this time when they observed the villagers' gradual appearance as one by one, they slowly made their way back home after another grueling twelve-or-so-hour day at work. The two walked past cottage after run-down, moss-covered cottage. Past scruffy, ill-dressed children playing in front of or sitting at the doorstep of a crumbling tenement. Past a potter, bent and withered under the weight of his wares, as he stumbled his way back from a day vending his creations at the market. Past a teenage girl dragging her weary toddler along as she hauled a basket half-filled with baked goods she was unable to sell door to door. And past an unemployed bricklayer as he limped toward the nearest public house in hopes of drowning out another wasted day in the bitterest ale he could stomach.
Quatre felt his heart ripped out of him as he watched the girl and her tiny son trudge wearily past them, and he paused in his tracks.
"Trowa, wait," he said, pulling his money pouch out. "I need to buy something."
Before Trowa could respond, he quickly turned around and ran after the girl, stopping her with his calls.
"How much are these, miss?" he asked a little breathlessly.
"Oh--uh--it all depends, sir," she replied. She seemed almost stunned at the notion that someone was actually taking an interest in what she had. She placed the basket down, releasing her son's hand to let him sit down on the dirt to rest while she made the sale.
She started to rummage through the basket, taking note of its contents. "I've got different things in here, sir, and they don't all cost the same…" She paused as she tried to calculate the amount, her face scrunching up at the effort and especially whenever she'd make a blunder. "Oh, dear," she sighed after a while. "I don't have a head for figures…"
Quatre shook his head. "How much for the whole thing?"
She gaped at him. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I don't…"
"I'd like to buy the whole thing. How much would it be?"
She stared at the basket, clearly at a complete loss. "I really don't know, sir. I've never sold a whole basket of these things before."
Quatre smiled brightly and leaned forward, whispering an amount in her ear. The girl turned to stare at him, her eyes bulging out of her head.
"Oh, sir!" she cried. "I can't take all your money!"
The boy was already rummaging through his leather pouch, shaking his head at the stunned girl. "You're not sending me to the poorhouse, I swear," he replied with a sympathetic little laugh. "Please take it." He held out several coins to her.
She simply stared at them in silence for a few seconds before reaching out and taking them, an almost painful look on her face. Then she looked at him, wonder and confusion lighting up her eyes.
"Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome. And merry Christmas to you and your family, miss."
"Merry Christmas, sir."
Quatre stooped down to pick up the basket, ruffling the child's hair as he did. Then with a small wave at the girl, he walked off toward Trowa, who stood beside his horse, watching the goings on with amusement.
"What?" the boy huffed and puffed once he reached him.
"What do you plan to do with all that?"
"Eat them, of course."
"You're going to make yourself sick--you know that, don't you?"
"No, I won't. I'm starving."
"You just had food at Blackwell Abbey. What do you mean you're starving?"
"Well…" Quatre fumbled some more. "I am."
Trowa chuckled, shaking his head, before turning away and walking forward. "Whatever you say then."
The two walked past a few more cottages when their attention--or, rather, Trowa's attention--was arrested by a tiny, scrawny girl who called out to them cheerfully from the doorstep of her run-down home. The young lord visibly perked up, and Quatre realized that he knew her. His suspicions were confirmed when Trowa veered off the road and walked up to the girl, engaging her in a lively conversation. Then, after about a minute of the exchange, Trowa turned and beckoned Quatre over, handing the boy the reins and instructing him to wait outside while he took care of business inside the cottage.
"All right," he replied, taking the straps from him. "Is there something wrong?"
"This little girl's mother's sick--has been for the past week, and nothing seems to be done about it."
"But aren't they the baron's tenants?"
Trowa pulled the boy aside and away from the little girl's hearing. "They are, Quatre, but Lord Dennethorne--even Anthony himself--hasn't been very consistent in taking care of his people."[2][3]
"So what're you going to do?"
"I'm going to take a look at Mrs. Smedley and then have her daughter call a doctor. I'll pay for the expense." Trowa sighed as his gaze wandered off and rested on the girl, who was now standing by the open door, patiently waiting for him to follow her inside. "Mr. Smedley's still out, I think. But I can't wait for him. His wife shouldn't stay like this with Christmas just a few days away."
"I'd like to go in, too. You might need my help."
"No, I'll be fine. Stay here."
Before the boy could protest any further, Trowa hurried off and disappeared inside.
**********
The two reached the Ivy House by the time dinner was announced, but they both begged off, citing an unscheduled indulgence at Blackwell Abbey, which, really, was partly true. Tea and its accompanying snacks were considered to be a binge even though they merely sampled a few of the treats.
The truth of the matter was that neither of them felt the need to eat something, their impromptu visit to Ramsden pretty much taking care of their appetites for them. They never had the chance to stop by a public house or an inn for dinner. They were much too caught up in taking care of the ailing Mrs. Smedley, with Quatre volunteering to find the doctor and Trowa helping out in the poor woman's treatment. The tiny family thanked them in their own little way, professing their gratitude in the most colorful terms.
Quatre, who was experiencing his first visit to a poor tenant, was entirely lost in the occasion, feeling his charitable tendencies aroused and completely worked up at the sight of the family's poverty. He'd even gone so far as to help tidy up the sparsely furnished hovel, sweeping here and there, and sending the little girl out to purchase a freshly cooked meal from a nearby public house. Trowa, in the meantime, was busy with the patient and the doctor. Their visit concluded with a grateful invitation from Mr. Smedley to stay for dinner, but the two declined and departed soon after, wishing the family the best for the holidays.
"Are you ready for dinner?" Trowa had asked once they were on the road.
"I'm really not hungry. Not anymore."
The young lord noticed Quatre's free hands. "Where's your basket?"
"Oh. I--uh--I suppose I left it at the Smedleys'," the boy had replied with a careless shrug and a bright gleam in his eyes.
A moment of silence passed, with Trowa watching him--a bit puzzled at first and then breaking out into an equally bright grin. Without another word, he took hold of Quatre's hand and hurried on, pulling the boy along with him as they passed through the rest of the tiny village. His energy not flagging at all, he carried on with his brisk pace, almost as though eager to be out of there, pausing every so often to give the boy a chance to catch his breath.
They walked for another mile past the last cottage before Trowa finally stopped and held both Quatre's hands.
"I'd like to take you to Siddell tomorrow," he said a little breathlessly, his face flushed from the exertion.
Quatre noted an undercurrent of urgency in his young master's behavior, which he thought to be rather out of character. He'd been used, after all, to Trowa's reserve and restraint in his dealings with anybody, even him. And this odd quirk in the young man's current behavior amused the boy almost.
"I didn't think you to be one for Christmas fairs," he replied.
Trowa only laughed, that unusual energy present in his voice and the light in his eyes. Then he pulled the boy close and held him tightly. Quatre felt a slight trembling in the young man's body as he remained pressed against him, feeling a bit of wonder set in.
"Are you all right, Trowa?" he managed to ask.
"Never been better."
Trowa then pulled away and quickly mounted his horse, pulling Quatre up behind him afterwards.
"But what about dinner? Aren't you hungry?"
"Let's just go home."
Their mood was slightly dampened by the more dolorous atmosphere that pervaded the household on their return. Gabriela had emerged from her room, seemingly fully restored to her old meek, catatonic self--almost as though what had happened since her arrival had done nothing but to push her farther back into the rigid confines of her upbringing. She barely uttered a word, her face a complete mask of calmness. She was once again absorbed in more feminine pursuits--this time she was entertaining the earl and Catherine with the harpsichord, playing the instrument as skillfully as Quatre and singing to the songs as sweetly as one would expect from such an accomplished young lady. She went about her business with an air of resignation, the same air that Quatre had noticed when he first saw her. Only this time around, the light in her eyes had gone dull, and her gaze had grown lifeless. She still spoke in light, cheerful accents, but upon closer inspection, every word she uttered was more clipped. There was a very subtle edge of bitterness in her speech, which touched Quatre all the more as he observed her.
And after dinner, when she joined him and Trowa in the main parlor, he pulled her aside. "Are you all right, Gabriela?" he whispered, glancing over at his young master as the latter sat on a nearby armchair, absorbed in a book.
"Of course," she replied just as quietly. "Why do you ask?"
"Well--I was just worried about you--I mean--after what happened this afternoon…"
"I'm fine, thank you. There's no need to fret over me." She offered him a small, weary smile and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. "I'm all right."
With that, she glided over to the window and stood before it, staring out in silence. And in the general stillness of the room, Quatre thought he heard her softly humming an old lullaby he knew. A slight movement of her arms drew his attention as well, and he moved quietly off to the side to watch her. She remained encased in her own world and didn't at all notice Quatre's attention as she continued to stare out and hum to herself. And when Quatre was close enough, his eyes fell on her hands.
She'd taken out her lace handkerchief and was savagely shredding it, the pristine cloth now hanging in sad tatters between her fingers as they continued to tear through the fabric.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]A baron is the lowest ranking member of the peerage. The viscountess's disdain for lower ranks can certainly mean that her friendship with the baron would be more of the patronizing sort.
[2]A baron is addressed with the use of the title "Lord" plus his last name. Being the lowest ranking peer, he's distinguished from earls and viscounts through the use of his last name and not the geographical locale associated with his title. It's only in extremely formal occasions when he's addressed as "Baron So-and-so."
[3]Peers are landowners and receive their income from renting out their lands to farmers. It's their obligation as landlords and the "ruling class," therefore, to take care of their tenants through a lot of charity work.