Quatre recognized the road after about an hour or so of traveling. Looking out the window to make sure, he then reached up and knocked on the carriage's ceiling to get Orland to stop. He heard the driver call out to the horse, and he felt the vehicle slow down.
The boy quickly wiped his face one last time with his soaked handkerchief, sniffling loudly and wondering how awful he must look at the present. He rifled through his bag to search for something dry that he could use, but all he could find were clean shirts and trousers.
"I must look like hell," he muttered, staring, aghast, at the wet piece of cloth he held. To be sure, his eyes felt as though they were swollen to about ten times their size, and his face seemed a bit raw from all the wiping and dabbing he'd been doing since he'd set out for home.
He shoved the handkerchief into the bag, taking care of residual tears with the sleeve of his shirt instead. Then, blinking several times, he stepped out, stumbling a little. He felt dizzy from the excruciating emotional and psychological release in which he'd just been mired for the past hour or so, and he had to grab hold of the carriage to steady himself before he'd fall flat on his face.
"I don't see no houses around here," Orland said once Quatre had alighted.
"My house is further down that way beyond those trees. I just wanted to get off here and walk the rest of the way home."
Orland stared hard at him. "Are you going to be all right?"
"I am, thanks."
Quatre tried to force a smile, but with his eyes so swollen, his nose stuffed up, and his face raw, all he could manage was a slight twitch of one corner of his mouth. There was a slight hesitation between the two before Orland spoke again, his expression softening into one a little more rueful.
"Will we be seeing you again, kid?"
"Of course." Quatre braved another smile--or, rather, another twitch of the lip--as he held his hand out to his former colleague, who took it and shook it energetically. "Thanks for everything."
"No problem. Take care of yourself. And be sure to eat."
"Have you been talking to Dorcas?"
"No. It's just a consensus we have about you."
Orland gave him an encouraging wink and was soon turning the carriage around. Quatre stood on the road, his small form dwarfed by the immensity of the wild countryside as he watched the carriage roll off with a low rumble and slowly disappear around the bend. He was soon enveloped in silence, an occasional light breeze breaking it up with a soft whisper.
Quatre looked up at the heavy gray sky and allowed the cold air to cleanse him in both mind and spirit. He turned around to face the general direction of his father's house.
"All right," he muttered. "Here goes nothing."
He trudged along the dirt road, sidestepping rocks and leaping over the occasional crater. With the winter being unseasonably warm, the ground hadn't frozen solid, and the boy found himself sinking into a muddy patch or two, making the trek back home a little bit more challenging. Thankfully enough, no other carriages or coaches or horses passed him, that area being generally abandoned by civilization altogether. The boy therefore didn't have to make way for incoming traffic by jumping to the side of the road into even soggier ground.
He walked along for about a mile before the telltale signs of his father's estate came into view. He espied the manor's gray gables jutting out from a cluster of bare trees, the ones that stood sentinel around the grounds.
Quatre's pace quickened, and within seconds he'd broken out into a full run, unmindful of the unevenness of the terrain. He stumbled a couple of times, possibly wrenching an ankle in one of them, but he didn't give a toss. All that mattered at the moment was the notion that he was going to be reunited with his family.
The trees loomed larger before him, and before long, he found himself standing at the point where the long driveway to his father's house met the road. His eyes rested on the familiar façade, and what initial fear he felt was swiftly replaced by the warmth of high expectations. He realized that his punishment would be meted out swiftly and surely enough. But he also knew that whatever suffering he may endure at his father's hands would be nothing compared to feeling that connection he had with his family, however feeble or shaky it may be.
They were his, and, likewise, he belonged to them regardless.
Quatre broke out into a bright grin as he bounded up the driveway.
"Morgan, you can slap my back as hard as you want and laugh at me for my wimpiness as often as you like," he panted, his face flushing from both anticipation and exertion.
"Sophie, I'd dearly love to hear you complain about anything you like."
The boy sailed over a massive tree limb that lay at an awkward angle on the path. He let out a small laugh as he landed on the gravel without twisting his ankle or breaking his stride.
"Mom, you can ignore me all you want, but I'll love you all the same."
He was nearing the manor at this point, feeling the sudden sting of a harsh wind and wondering if snow were on the way. Snow would be nice. He'd always loved a white Christmas and had been a bit put out by the mild winter.
"Dad, I'm sure we can settle things. I know you're a lot more accessible than you let on."
Youthful energy and boundless hope now propelled him, with snatches of regret involving Trowa dampening his anticipation every so often. And it was with a good deal of effort that he was able to push his regrets away--at least if only for the moment.
He stopped to catch his breath once he was about fifty feet from the front door. He bent down, resting his hands on his knees as he gasped for air and listened to his heart return to its normal rhythm. And, after another moment of silent pep talk, he hurried forward, raising his arm even before he reached the door to ring the bell.
He stepped back a couple of paces as he waited, nervously adjusting his bag over his shoulder and toying with his thumbs, a sparkle of both joy and dread lighting up his eyes.
The door opened before Quatre could ring a second time. To his surprise, Molly, Arthur's wife, appeared.
Quatre blinked. "Molly?" he finally said after a second or two of amazed silence passed. "What--where's James?"
Molly regarded him steadily. Coldly. She stood before him, tall, rigid, and strikingly beautiful. She was his only sister-in-law who never got along with his parents and who never had any qualms in showing her disdain.
"James and all the other servants have gone home for the holidays," she replied curtly. "Only my maid's with me at the moment."
The boy hesitated. He'd never felt so much venom in her tone before. "Well--where are my parents? I'd like to talk to them."
"What business do you have with the duke and duchess?"
"Business? I--they're my parents. I want to talk to them. I want to come home."
A tiny smirk appeared, and with brown eyes that glittered in an almost unearthly light, Molly replied, "They aren't your parents. Not any more. As far as this family's concerned, Sophie's the youngest child."
Quatre stared at her, stunned. It took almost an eternity for him to find his voice. "Molly, stop kidding around. It's me, Quatre. I want to talk to Mom and Dad."
"You're dead to the family, Quatre. End of story. And nothing you do can change anybody's mind about it. Least of all the duke's and duchess's."
A shot of anger and terror tore through the boy. "You've always had it in for us," he hissed as he stepped forward and pushed his way into the house. Molly didn't resist and, in fact, seemed to expect it as she stepped aside. "You've always been spiteful to the family, and you do all you can to cause trouble between us."
"Talk all you want. I really don't give a damn."
Quatre hurried in and found the place strangely silent. He heard Molly let out an amused chuckle as she closed the door behind him. Ignoring her, he ran to the nearest drawing-room and peered in. It looked the way it had always looked and was decorated to the hilt with Christmas trimmings, but there wasn't a fire in the fireplace, and nobody was in there.
The boy turned to look at Molly, who was slowly walking up to him, watching his every move with almost predatorial interest.
"Where's everyone?" he demanded.
"Gone," she replied, her eyes still gleaming. "All of them. Gone."
"What? Where?"
"To the duchess's ancestral seat. Cumbria."
Quatre shook his head, unable to comprehend what was happening. "But why? They never go there unless…"
"Unless the duke was ill, and he is, no thanks to you, you selfish, ungrateful little brat," Molly replied, the fury in her words belied by the coldness of her delivery.
"I don't understand…"
"He had a severe ulcer attack when you ran away--right after that botched attempt to bring you back home from that market. He knew he couldn't get you to come home, what with that shameful impertinence you've served Nelson with--that woman you were with hitting him like that. He saw that as nothing less than a display of your arrogance, Quatre, and it pretty much justified his disowning you for good."
"He disowned me?" Quatre gasped, feeling his heart drop. "No--no, he didn't." Another shot of desperate anger tore through him as he glared at the woman before him. "You're lying!"
Molly let out another low chuckle as she watched him, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms on her chest. "I may detest the duke and the duchess, Quatre, but I never, ever lie. If you don't believe me, look around the house and see for yourself. See if you still exist to them."
Quatre didn't need any further encouragement. He immediately tore through the silent house, running in and out of rooms, calling out for his parents and his siblings in the most desperate accents.
He ran into the parlor, where the family portraits hung. He quickly scanned the rows of antique and more recent paintings in hopes of disproving his sister-in-law, who was still waiting for him in the hallway near the front door. He found the ones of his family--saw the ones of his parents, his siblings--and none of himself.
Quatre felt his stomach turn at the empty space near the corner of the parlor, where his own portrait used to hang. He shook his head in disbelief. "No," he murmured. "No, I don't buy this. This isn't true."
Turning his heels, he ran out and made his way to the stairs, bounding up two steps at a time toward his bedroom. He raced down the quiet hallways and skidded around corners until he found his corridor.
Uttering a silent prayer, he tried the doorknob and found it to be unlocked and swung it open. He stared at the scene before him and almost collapsed where he stood.
Every piece of furniture was covered in white cloth. None of his paintings hung on the wall. None of his books lined the shelves of a nearby bookcase. The boy hurried in and tore off a sheet that was covering his writing desk before pulling every drawer open. He found nothing there. No pens, no paper, no keepsakes, nothing. His room had been gutted, and every shred of proof of his existence had been taken away. There was nothing left.
As Molly had told him, he simply didn't exist to the family any more.
Quatre's head spun as he staggered to his bed and sat down, staring numbly about, unable to understand what his family was doing to him and unwilling to accept their judgement.
"It was a mistake," he muttered, raising his hands to hold both sides of his head as he strained hard to comprehend and to deny. "That was all--a stupid, stupid mistake. They should know. They should understand. I didn't mean for this to happen…"
Then he remembered his father's genealogy books--the duke's pride and joy as they were ancient and faithful records of the family's lineage. Quatre forced himself to stand up and to hurry out of his room and back down the stairs toward the study.
He ran to the rear of the room once he'd reached it, making a beeline toward the shelves where the books were kept. He pulled out the newest volume and flipped it open, knowing exactly where to go as he'd been shown time and again how to demonstrate pride in his lineage.
The boy reached the page and hastily scanned the names, pointing at them with a small, trembling finger. And when he got to the final entries, he felt his heart stop.
All his siblings and their spouses as well as children were neatly outlined in graceful script. Morgan and Sophie occupied the last few spaces, blanks provided next to their names for their partners and future brood. Quatre's name, which occupied the very last space of the family tree, was scratched out. It wasn't erased or covered to make his non-existence more convincing to whoever would be taking a look at the entries. Instead, a bold, black line ran across the letters, obscuring enough of his name while showing parts of it in an almost finalized display of anger--even contempt. As though the duke were acknowledging his son's former existence as well as demonstrating his hate toward his errant child.
"I don't believe this. I don't…"
Quatre had turned pale at the sight. This was final proof of Molly's words even if he were to ignore all the other signs around the house. He closed the book and replaced it before walking back out in a daze. His mind had gone blank, his heart had stopped beating, and he was simply floating around in a numb haze of shock and disbelief.
"I told you, didn't I?" Molly presently said once he reached the hallway leading to the front door.
"What's going to happen to me?" he asked, mostly to himself.
"You seemed to have taken good care of yourself this past week or so. I'm sure you can manage from here on."
Quatre looked at her. "Molly, why is this happening? It was all a mistake…"
"Mistake, my foot!" she retorted. "You should've damn well known the repercussions of your ingratitude! You knew what was going to happen. You got yourself into this situation with your eyes open…"
"No, I didn't. I didn't think Dad would do this to me. I thought he'd want to talk and iron things out and…"
"You thought? You're making assumptions? Silly little fool--you obviously don't even know your own father."
"But I'm his son!"
"You were his son, who was expected to show obedience and gratitude and which, I'm afraid to say, you've failed miserably in. As far as we're concerned, there's no room in the family for such arrogance."
She marched to the door and opened it, stepping back and looking at him with severe finality. "I'm going to join them tomorrow," she said. "Don't even bother coming back then to convince me or to send messages to them. They don't accept messages from strangers."
Quatre stared at her for a confused moment before forcing his legs to move. And as he passed her, she suddenly stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, and she pulled out something from her pocket.
"Here," she said, handing him a necklace with a brilliant ruby dangling from it. "The duchess wanted me to give you this in the off-chance that you did show up while I was here."
The boy took it from her and stared at it mutely.
"She said it's a symbol of how much you mean to her."
Quatre's eyes widened with hope at the thought. His mother valued him still? His mind, now awake from its stupor, worked furiously.
"Thank you," he said as he walked out, hearing the door slam behind him and hoping that it wasn't forever.
He looked at the necklace once more, his despondence slowly dissipating. Surely his mother would argue on his behalf! This was a good sign that she still loved him. The boy raised the necklace to his lips and kissed it, carefully tucking it away in a hidden pocket for safekeeping as he mulled over his next course of action.
He hurried down the driveway as his thoughts slowly pieced together a plan.
"I'm coming home," he muttered through his teeth as another blast of Arctic winds descended on him, causing him to pull his cloak tighter around himself. "You can't say I'm dead to you, Dad. I'm coming home, and I want to work things out with you."
He reached the road and ran along it in the general direction of the nearest town, which lay some five miles hence. It was getting late in the afternoon, and he realized that he wouldn't be able to reach the town by the time evening came, so he was forced to take shelter in the same burnt farmhouse in which he took refuge the day he ran away from home. But the discomfort of sleeping in dirty, exposed places as well as the hunger that gnawed at him didn't matter. He was going to take the coach to Cumbria, come hell or high water, and he didn't give a damn if he were to die along the way.
**********
He woke up early the following morning, cramped and weak and hungry, but those didn't serve as deterrents to his plans of reuniting with his family. He stumbled out of his makeshift bedroom, which happened to be the same massive fireplace that proved to be a cozy enough alcove that protected him from the winter winds that were beginning to pick up.
He forced himself back on the road, noticing the more rigid ground under him and realizing that snow was on its way. He needed to reach the town and find some decent shelter before the first snowflakes appeared.
Quatre walked along the largely deserted road, his mind vacillating between his family and Trowa. He felt his chest tighten at the remembrance of their last moment together.
"I wish you'd understand," he said. "I wish you wouldn't hate me so much. You know I never meant to hurt you." He choked back a little sob at the thought and forced it all away. "For what it's worth, I still love you."
An excruciating eternity must have passed before he finally reached Mead, a small, bustling town where the family usually went for their necessities whenever having things sent in from other districts or even London didn't work.
Quatre made his way to the coaches, anxiously inquiring after each driver's destination. Unfortunately for him, not one of them was going to Cumbria, which in reality was an absurd notion, the region being at the opposite end of England and therefore much too far for any sane driver to reach. The boy would have to change coaches several times along the way, which meant that he wouldn't be able to get to his family for several days.
"Are you sure?" he asked, aghast, at a scruffy-looking bear of a man, who was driving one of the coaches.
"Yes, I'm sure," he replied gruffly, eyeing the boy curiously. "What the devil do you want to get at, anyway?"
"I need to go to Cumbria."
"Good luck."
"But--but you can take me somewhere, right?"
"I can, but you gotta make sure you've got enough money to pay for the rest of your way. Hell, do you even have enough for me to take you to where I'm going?"
The boy pulled out his money bag and took out all its contents, showing them to the driver, who stared at them before looking at the boy in disbelief.
"What do you take me for?" he cried, annoyed. "That's nothing! That wouldn't even get you beyond Oxfordshire!"
"But that's all I have!"
"You gotta do better than that, kid. See all them coaches? Nobody's going to take you on such a piddling amount."
Quatre was half-mad from desperation at this point. "But I really need to get to my family!"
"Well--don't you have anything with you that you can pawn, for God's sake?"
The boy fell silent and thought for a moment, his mind suddenly alighting on his mother's necklace. He felt a stab of guilt at the notion that he was going to sacrifice it, but he also realized that it was all he had. He looked back at the driver.
"Will you wait for me, sir?" he asked, blue eyes wide and pleading. "I've got something I can pawn. I won't be a minute."
The man shrugged and nodded. "Sure. Whatever."
Quatre took that as a guarantee and immediately scoured the general area for a pawnshop. It took some doing as well as several minutes of frustration, but he finally managed to find one that was about three or so blocks away from the coaches. As he stood outside the door, hesitating, he pulled out his mother's necklace and gazed at it lovingly.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he said quietly. "But I have to do this. I know you'll understand."
Then, taking in a deep breath, he entered the pawnshop, now ready to sacrifice his mother's proof of her devotion to her son.