"I think what you're doing is absolutely right."
"No, it's not. It's suicide."
"He does have a family…"
"Who obviously doesn't give a damn about him! Oh--no offense, Quatre."
The boy cracked a small smile as he squirmed in his chair. "It's all right. No offense taken." If anything, though, Quatre was half-inclined to agree with Catherine's statement.
"The fact of the matter is, young lady, that the boy's neither poor nor orphaned. He's got a home, a family who's likely worried sick over him, and servants just dying to wait on him."
Quatre shook his head at the earl as the man puffed away at his pipe while comfortably tucked in a gigantic and overstuffed armchair, eyeing the boy thoughtfully.
"I don't care about being waited on, sir," he replied quietly. "I want to be with my family again and to iron out things with my dad. I know I'm not solving anything by running away."
"But, Quatre, you'll get flogged again or possibly locked away for good!"
Catherine, who'd now just been apprised of the boy's story, had become his champion, and the three of them had been spending the past hour arguing over Quatre's return home. She'd even gone so far as pleading with her father to take the boy in as his ward, but the earl vehemently opposed it, citing his revulsion at the thought of willingly separating a child from his own family with no just cause.
"True, I don't agree with the way his father goes around disciplining his children, and I'm sorry for judging him, Quatre, but the fact of the matter is that the boy isn't helping his situation by hiding out here."
Catherine turned to her father, looking positively incensed. Quatre had never seen her so outraged before. "Dad!" she cried, marching over to the armchair and then hovering over the earl with her hands on her hips. "You agreed to take him in! Isn't it a little hypocritical of you to turn him out now? Why'd you let him stay in the first place? So he could clean hallways for you?"
"I don't appreciate that tone of voice, Catherine," her father retorted, raising his eyes up at her and frowning darkly.
"Well, I'm sorry, but I just don't get it!"
"He wasn't ready to go back. I saw how confused he was. How could I, in good conscience, turn him out in that state? I'm not a monster, for God's sake! There wasn't anything else for me to do but to wait and watch."
The man sighed heavily as he turned to look back at the boy, who was now feeling remorse at the quarrel that he felt he'd started between father and daughter. "And for what it's worth, Quatre," the earl said, "I'm glad it took you this long to realize what you needed to do. Had you decided to go sooner, I wouldn't have been able to ask you to keep Trowa company, and he wouldn't have benefited from it the way he has."
Quatre couldn't find the words to say to that and simply watched his employer, feeling his insides get torn and shredded as the conversation went on.
"Is that why he's been suddenly chatty lately?" Catherine broke in, wonder and surprise lighting up her eyes as she shifted her gaze from her father to Quatre.
"A little too chatty and sure of his opinions, I'll have to say," the earl grimaced, and Quatre realized that he was referring to the scolding he'd gotten from his son.
Catherine blinked. "Oh. And--he's been a little more generous with his good moods, too. My God, Quatre, how'd you manage to do all that? I've resigned myself to the idea that only a miracle would bring Trowa out of his shell. Have you been feeding him something?"
The boy couldn't help but laugh. "No, no. I suppose it's just that he's got someone his age to spend some time with. That's all. I don't think it's got anything to do with miracles."
The young lady regarded him in silence for a second or two, making him feel a tad uncomfortable. There was a hint of something in her gaze that he couldn't shake off--as though she were reading into every word, every gesture, and every shift in expression. He returned her look with an amiable smile, and she responded with one a bit more cryptic.
"Returning to the subject here," the earl said after taking a few more puffs of his pipe. "As far as I can see it, the matter's settled. Are you sure of this, Quatre?"
"Yes, sir."
"How does Trowa feel about it?"
"He's relieved me of my duties to him."
"That's too vague," the earl huffed, scowling at the boy. "It's only natural for him to relieve you of your duties, but how'd he take the news?"
"He's fine with it, sir."
Quatre winced at having to utter such a blatant lie. The fact of the matter was that on hearing the boy's resolution to return home, Trowa'd protested in the strongest terms, and what had ensued was an exchange about which Quatre'd wanted nothing more than to forget. Pleas, defenses, demands, and whatnot--all indulged by the two lovers with heartbreaking energy as they fought to gain an upper-hand. Their conversation lasted for some time, and many words were spoken that perhaps never should've been said, and both parted from each other defeated, dissatisfied, and inconsolable.
And if Quatre, who'd been spending the time following that confrontation trying desperately to forget the transaction, were to summarize all that went on between him and Trowa, he wouldn't be able to get anything more than something like…
"You can't leave!"
"I have to--I'm sorry."
"I love you…"
"I know you do."
"Then please stay."
"I can't. You know I can't."
"Well, damn you then!"
And it was in that spirit that Quatre requested an audience with the earl and Catherine. At the moment the reference to Trowa was made, it took him all he had to keep himself from breaking down before his companions, forcing himself to rally his spirits by focusing more on the eventual meeting he'd have with his family. He couldn't really think of anything more cheerful with which to strengthen himself. It was either fear or heartbreak, and he'd sooner have the former.
"I'm glad he was cooperative this time," the earl said, shifting in his chair with a grunt. "He tends to be pretty damn stubborn about things."
"Where is Trowa, anyway?" Catherine asked, suddenly looking perplexed. "I haven't seen him since we got home from Siddell."
"Probably getting ready for that ridiculous Christmas Ball at that duchess's estate--uh--wherever it is. Can't remember for the life of me."
The earl waved his hand dismissively and popped his pipe back in his mouth.
"He'd never go for it," Catherine replied, her eyes falling on Quatre again, a soft light sparkling in them. "You know how much he hates those things."
The boy didn't reply. He felt too overwhelmed by too many thoughts and emotions at the moment to say anything cohesive. All he wanted was to cut his misery short and to leave as soon as possible. He was never one to take to goodbyes quite well.
He cleared his throat and stood up, mindlessly brushing off lint from his trousers. He looked back at his companions with a pained expression that he couldn't suppress, and he forced a tiny, lifeless smile.
"I'm very much indebted to you both for everything," he said, his voice small and strained. His vision was beginning to blur a little. "It's very generous of you to put me up, even risking your reputation for helping me hide out here. And I'll never forget it. Thank you."
"Oh, love," Catherine replied, smiling back, "don't make too big of an issue of it. We enjoyed your company very much. I'm only sorry we couldn't keep you forever."
"You're a strong young man, Quatre," the earl piped up, offering an encouraging and--to Quatre's surprise--warm smile of his own. "And despite what everyone else in your family says about your little--quirks--I think you're more of a man than your father ever will be."
"Dad!"
"I'm sorry. You know how I am with parenting and all that. We've had that conversation before. My apologies, Quatre."
"It's all right, sir."
The boy hesitated and then walked over to his employer, stretching out his arm. The earl's smile broadened to a bright grin as he took hold of his hand and shook it heartily.
"For our sanity's sake, Quatre, we hope you'll come by for an occasional visit," he said.
"I will, my lord."
Quatre turned to Catherine and offered his hand. She shook it with as much energy as her father.
"Take care, love," she said, her voice falling a little.
"I will. I promise."
He hurried out of the room, fully conscious of the fact that his companions were watching his every move. And once he'd left them, he continued on, blindly tearing through the hallway, letting instinct guide him to the kitchen, where he was going to say goodbye to the staff.
Dorcas was the lone occupant. She was sitting at the table, drinking her usual tea and seemingly lost in thought. Quatre cleared his throat, and she looked up at him.
"Ah--there you are," she said quietly. Then she pulled out the stool beside her. "Care to join me for some tea?"
Quatre hesitated as his mind worked a million miles a second in an effort to find the best way to broach the subject of his leaving. He slowly moved forward and wordlessly planted himself on the stool.
"I don't want tea, thanks," he said before lapsing into silence again, fidgeting a little in his seat. Then, finally, after what seemed like eons to him, he finally decided to just blurt it out.
"Dorcas, I'm leaving."
The housekeeper nodded calmly. She took another sip of her tea before turning back to look at him once more, her face a mask of gentle pity almost.
"I know, dear."
"You do? How?"
"Young Lord Bethelford was just in here. We had a bit of a talk." She paused and reached out to cover his hand in hers, gently squeezing it in reassurance. "Don't worry. He's all right now. He's calmed down. He knows there's nothing he can do about it."
"He listens to you a lot, doesn't he?"
Quatre couldn't help but crack a little smile at the thought. Dorcas nodded and shrugged.
"Of course. I'm like a surrogate mother to him and Lady Catherine sometimes. I've known them since they were born, actually. They know I understand them more than anyone else does in this household save for His Lordship."
"So--you do understand why I have to go, don't you?"
"I do, Quatre. It's an awfully brave thing you're doing, but I think it's the right thing. I'll miss you, though."
The boy felt a lump in his throat grow. "I'll miss you, too, but I'll visit. I promise. You can't keep me from this place too long, you know."
The housekeeper nodded, for the first time at a loss for words. Then she leaned over and kissed the boy's forehead, lifting her hand and gently stroking his hair when she pulled away.
"There's another promise I'd like you to make for me," she said.
"Anything."
"I want you to eat, for God's sake."
**********
Quatre packed his bag and went on to search for Trowa, which didn't take him too much time. He found his young master alone in the conservatory, sitting at the harpsichord, trying to play some music.
The boy stood by the door as he watched and listened, a smile slowly lighting up his face as he realized that the song Trowa was attempting to play was Il Est Ne, Le Divin Enfant, the piece Quatre played that he liked so much so many days ago. It was one of the songs the boy had played the day Trowa kissed him for the first time under the mistletoe.
Trowa muttered a small curse when he suddenly faltered at a particularly tricky passage, and Quatre took that opportunity to walk in for a final farewell.
"That's a B flat," he said.
Silence met his correction, with Trowa not once looking at him. He made the correction and continued to play.
"I've never been good with music," he said. "What I do know, Catherine had taught me. And that's really not saying much right there."
Quatre had approached the harpsichord at that point and was standing beside it, regarding Trowa with some apprehension. Despite what Dorcas had said earlier, it didn't seem like his companion was really resigned to his leaving. Trowa's expression was a little strained, and the boy was certain that it had nothing to do with his difficulties in interpreting the music before him. The young man was pale--much paler than usual, in fact. His eyes seemed to have lost their light as he stared at the music sheet.
Why are you making this so difficult for me? he thought.
Another muttered curse broke the silence, and Quatre proceeded to sit on the bench beside Trowa, who continued with his playing, unmindful of the other's presence.
"That passage right there," the boy said, pointing to the music sheet. "See those two p's? That means pianissimo. Your playing should be much softer in volume."
Trowa nodded and remained silent as he played, stumbling on occasion, hesitating every once in a while. But he didn't allow his mistakes to deter him.
"Vivace," Quatre piped up once more, his voice gentle and quiet. "It's a light piece, and it needs to be lively."
Trowa again simply nodded and quietly played.
"I'm leaving now," the boy said, staring at the keys and at Trowa's hands as he spoke. "Your father just ordered a carriage to take me home."
"As well he should. It's too dangerous for you to travel alone and on foot. God knows what could be waiting for you out there in the moors."
No deviation in his manner. Eyes continued to stare at the music sheet. Fingers continued to struggle with the keys. Voice continued to be calm, quiet. Emotionless. Dry.
"I'm sorry for the row we just had."
"Why should you be? It's only natural for us to argue the way we did."
Still no change. Quatre felt the tears well up now, and he fought them back. What was Trowa doing?
"But I'm sorry if I hurt you…"
"Quatre, just don't worry about it. We were both upset. We argued. End of story."
"You're still upset."
"I am."
"It's useless, Trowa. I'm leaving. Being upset with me isn't going to help you at all. And it's killing me right now."
Quatre watched Trowa's jaw muscles tighten a little before he spoke. "I'm being selfish," he simply said. "I think that's a common enough reaction. I want you to stay. I'm hurt that you're leaving. And I'm damn well annoyed that you had to show up, turn my life upside-down, and then leave."
"I'll be coming back to visit…"
"Like I said, Quatre, I'm feeling very selfish right now. I'd sooner have you come back to stay."
He finally stopped playing, letting out a heavy sigh as he shook his head at the music sheet before him. "Damn piece," he hissed, his face turning red now. "Why did it have to be so bloody complicated?"
With that, he stood up and left the bench, not once looking at Quatre, who'd also stood up and was trailing him. The boy slowed down when he realized that Trowa didn't have a mind to stop, that he wanted more than anything to get away from him. He stopped at the doorway, watching Trowa's retreating form as the young man walked down the hallway, his footsteps barely making a sound for the first time.
"I love you, you know," Quatre said to the rapidly disappearing figure, his voice faltering. "I'm sorry."
Trowa reached the first corner and rounded it and was soon gone from sight.
"I'm sorry."
He waited at the door for several seconds more, hoping against hope that Trowa would relent and come back to him, but he didn't. He was likely too upset, too confused, too lost to realize how much he was affecting the boy.
Quatre retrieved his bag from the conservatory and slung it over his shoulder, walking back to the hallway to make his way to the front door where the carriage waited for him. The earl had ordered Orland to take Quatre back home in one of their humbler carriages at Quatre's insistence. The last thing he wanted, after all, was to arrive home in a display of pomp and splendor, riding an impressive carriage with an impressive coat of arms announcing his new connections. It would be an insult, a mockery, an arrogant thumbing of his nose to his injured parents.
"You ready?" Orland called to him as he hurried down the steps to the carriage.
"I am."
He climbed in, bundled in his warmest cloak, and shut the door. He gazed out the window once Orland cracked the whip, taking in the view before him eagerly, hungrily, trying desperately to memorize every stone, every window, every ivy trail. He remembered the day he'd arrived--tired, frightened, confused, eager to do anything to hide from his father's anger. He remembered Dorcas and how she'd readily taken him in, accepting him on grounds he'd yet to understand. He remembered his first meeting with the other servants. His first glimpse of the earl. Of Trowa.
The carriage pulled away from the front door, making its way down the slightly winding driveway toward the road. Quatre's eyes remained fixed on the manor, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Trowa.
"Is he watching me go?" he asked himself.
His eyes frantically scanned the windows, but he saw no sign of the young man.