The Fighter

Baron William Hastings of Northumberland. Engaged to Miss Catherine Lockhart.

[baronwillliam]

tenderstarved​:

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“Please don’t apologize,” Kate murmured insistently, shaking her head at him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Will, please –– there’s nothing to apologize for,” she insisted, her eyes drawn to the agitated tapping of his fingers against his thigh, the tense way he held himself even as he accepted the teacup gratefully. You’re a godsend. She flushed, glancing back over at him from where she stood, and slid the tea tray so that it was positioned between their two chairs, just off to the side. The urge to try and get him to eat something was strong, but she held her tongue. One thing at a time. She sat back down, holding her own cup in her lap, and listened to the words pouring out of him rapidly, her brows pulling together in concern as she did. Shifting her grip on her cup of tea, Kate leaned forward slightly and laid her fingers on his wrist, gently, lightly. “You didn’t have to lie for me,” she whispered, her chest aching at the realization that she’d made a liar of him. She felt far more guilty about that than she did about exchanging correspondence with an old friend, regardless of how society might see it. She knew what was in the letters, she knew it was innocent, and William had been satisfied by her explanation of them, so why should it matter if she was sending letters to an old friend? Still –– the fact that he’d lied for her, without hesitation, without thinking, made her chest ache in ways both guilty and warm. For the briefest of moments, she thought of the last time she’d been well and truly accused of something, and the way she’d been treated, and…when she compared it to this, something small and tender and raw inside of her felt like it was going to bring her to tears. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t…I’m sorry I put you in that position, it wasn’t my intention,” Kate murmured, releasing her gentle grip on his wrist and pulling back, taking a sip of her tea to give her hands something else to do. She didn’t know how to respond to the comments about Margate, at the truth he’d told her father. She didn’t blame him, of course; she’d have done the same in his position. But…what was there to say? They’d made a mistake, and they’d known there was a risk that they’d be caught. And Will was already moving on, his words coming out with a staccato kind of rhythm as he spoke about the rumor that Whistledown had published about him. She’d told him at the beginning that she believed him that he didn’t know, and that was true, and hadn’t changed since they’d sat down to speak. Still, she’d spent the last day having to confront the reality that all of her dreams and plans for her future might be upended, and that was…difficult to let go at the drop of a hat. Even though she believed him, the ghost of worry and paranoia was haunting her at the edges of her thoughts. 

She nodded slowly as he admitted that it was possible someone had told him, but that he did not remember, that he wouldn’t have misled her, that he had reason to believe it wasn’t true. Kate was about to ask him what he meant by that, confused by the hesitant confidence in his voice, when he mentioned a compromise. She went still as he continued to speak, feeling suddenly very lightheaded, and slowly, carefully, she set her teacup back down onto her father’s desk, the china of her cup and saucer clinking together with a tiny little rattle. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She barely heard his comment about his mother, barely paid attention to the fact that this was something she should comment on, should speak to him about, should console him on. All she could focus on was the compromise. 

A year. That was what they had agreed on, without her there to have a say, to make a decision. You can still say no, her father had told her, but he hadn’t thought to warn her that if she still wanted to say yes, she was only going to agree to three hundred and sixty five days with William. Her stomach felt like it had dropped to somewhere near her ankles, like there was a hollowness that had taken over her body. It felt like someone had carved everything out from within her until nothing was left behind, except for her heart, raw and exposed and held in a grip like a vise. She felt like something had been taken from her, something she could not put a name to, something she could not even fully identify. She knew it only by its absence. 

Kate swallowed thickly, pressing her hand to the hollow at the base of her throat, working the skin with her fingers as if that would get rid of the awful thick feeling that she was trying to swallow around. “Is that–– that’s what you want?” She asked, her voice sounding smaller and thinner than usual, her throat still tight and her chest still hollow. She couldn’t imagine it was, it didn’t sound like it was, but…Kate couldn’t help the small horrible anxious and morbid voice in the back of her thoughts that dug a knuckle into a soft, bruised spot of her heart and wondered if he was going to fight for her. 

.

Her touched soothed and William had to marvel at the way she could always reach him, seeming to know when to drawn him out with conversation and when to sit with him silently, when to reach out and when his self control was wavering. She knew him more intimately than any woman he ever undressed had and it was a weighty thing to be expected to know someone, but looking into Catherine's eyes, William felt known. "I did." He countered, calm and certain about that if nothing else. "I swore to you that your reputation wouldn't come to any damage from me, and it did. I wasn't going to break my promise to you and you didn't deserve..." What your father said, he thought, trailing off before starting over again. "You don't deserve your father to think less of you." Even if it hadn't been her father, but someone else, someone on the street, William would have done the same, trying to protect Catherine no matter the cost.

"If I can't apologize, neither can you. there's nothing to apologize for." Was that how Catherine felt when she asked him please not to apologize, that he hadn't done anything wrong to prompt it and that whatever perceived slight had been done was so infinitesimal as to not even be considered. They were forgiven before the apology was even thought of. "You didn't force me to do anything and I didn't force you. We did it together." And it didn't matter if you called it a scandal or a mistake or an outrage, William couldn't say that he minded the result. Oh, he was upset about Whistledown, angry at being so exposed by her and the risk it brought to his relationship, but he didn't regret that the events of that night brought him Catherine.

She'd wanted him to talk and so William did, explaining everything as quickly as he could and it was still a marvel at just how quickly he could move through conversations with Catherine, how quickly he fell into them and could admit things to her when usually it was a strain to open up to anyone else, alcohol needed to loosen his tongue. All Catherine needed to do was look at him and ask and suddenly words spilled from him like a fountain, giving her access to depths most weren't aware William possessed. He'd been better about that once, capable of watching his words to shield her from unnecessary truths like his feelings, but it seemed that the moment his hand touched hers the night on the roof, the stopper that held back his emotions was forever lost. Still, the inability to be silent did not mean he was unaware of what his words were doing and he knew she wouldn't be happy, could sense it when his prediction came true. But he couldn't stop talking, needing to get everything out. And Catherine let him, but it was only in the silence that followed that William allowed himself the time to see what his confession cost her.

There were times when William felt that he didn't know Catherine as well as she knew him, but he knew her well enough to read the expression on her face, the press of her fingertips to the dip at her collar a signal that not all was well. "Catherine, darling, please." This time it was William setting aside his cup so he could reach out for her hand, the urge to slide to his knees before her in supplication flaring up inside him. "What I want is to marry you and stay with you forever, and then a day past that. But I don't know if I'll be allowed to keep you that long, so I want whatever I can have because I would rather know a life with you than go forever regretting that I let you go without trying." Giving into his urge, William watched carefully not to disturb the tray as he sunk down on the floor next to Catherine. Moving slowly so not to irritate his knee in any way that he couldn't hide on his face, he was able to hold onto her hand while looking up at her, thumb brushing against her engagement ring before Willian leaned in to kiss the back of her hand.

"Your father asked if I still wanted to marry you, knowing there was a chance that I could never make you happy." He explained, and just hearing it against caused a fissure of pain in his heart. He wanted to make her happy, how could anyone ever think less? "And I want to marry you, but not at the cost of your happiness. I want to marry you and to make you happy, and that's when I suggested a compromise. Because I would never force you to stay with me and be miserable, but I do want a chance at giving you a happy life. Your father would prefer the year compromise rather than, well, you would need to ask your father the specifics, but what's important is what you want. It's what you want to say yes to."

[baronwillliam]

halestcrm​:

Kit recognized Sarah instantly as Effingham’s ward, and also the woman who’s letter had been delivered to his address by accident, of which he subsequently read and resealed. He nodded at her, acknowledging her request and fully intending to abide by it.

Hastings, however, had other plans. It all happened so quickly it took the Viscount several moments to register the scene before him. Will’s cane sticking put, wedging itself perfectly beneath the shoe of an unfamiliar man as he went flying across the room, shattering a mirror on impact. Kit’s jaw fell open, his head snapping over to the Baron in disbelief. 

They’d managed to avoid wrecking havoc for a total of 5 minutes, he presumed, which he was beginning to believe was a new personal best. “By God, man,” Kit muttered as all eyes turned to the new scene, distracting from the shattered mess in the corner. And then he caught Hastings eye, and it clicked, and Kit could not help but… laugh.

Kit backed up slowly, eyes trained ahead until he’d backed up near the original mess. He then turned his head slightly, inspecting the mess in question quickly.

-

“Lady Effingham, please!”

She had been assured that the first shattering sound was only a ceramic pot that she did not care about, but when she heard the telltale shattering of glass from the entryway, she froze. She did not properly excuse herself from the conversation near the front door as she hurriedly made her way past Barold and Belinda, finding William and Emmeline’s brother, laughing, amongst the broken remnants of her mirror.

Her eyes began to water as she stared in horror at the mirror’s broken pieces. It was one of the few things she had left of her childhood home, something that belonged to her mother–

She gasped in a breath and then shrieked: “GET. OUT.”

[OOC: Uh-oh! There seem to be a strangely shaped red-painted piece amongst the ceramic pot remnants that may just be Kit’s item. Unfortunately, a very upset Countess of Effingham is staring you down! Now what? Roll for round three and reply here, before posting link in the Discord.]

[Guest] / Invite No. 9 / Ballroom / Roll: 7 [Guest @thornedrook​​ ] / Invite No. 1 / Ballroom / Roll: 4

From his position at one end of the room, near the broken mirror and the man who'd knocked it down in the first place, William pulled a surprised face at at Victoria's outburst. Getting so upset wasn't recommended for pregnant women, now was it?

Across the room, standing by yet another mess, was Dartford, who really should have known better than to laugh after a room went silent, but it was a useful outburst, all things given. Hopefully the man found and grabbed what he was after. 

"I'll take care of him, Lady Effingham." William said, making his way across the room and raising his voice slightly, as if he was a barman talking to a rowdy patron and trying to preserve the peace. "Helping clean up or not, don't you know better than to upset a pregnant woman?"

What most people would see was William approaching Dartford to escort him away and get him out of Victoria's sight. What Dartford would see was William winking at him, one corner of his mouth twitching.

Grabbing Dartford's arm, he started pulling him back in the direction of the ballroom, muttering, "Now you can help me, we're after a whip handle." It was the only instruction William gave before letting the man go in favor of looking in a nearby vase.

[baronwillliam]

tenderstarved​:

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“I believe you.”

The words came out without hesitation, without spare thought. I didn’t know, he said, and…that was that. Will had promised there would be no secrets between them, after all, and he’d never given her any reason to make her doubt before. His arms were still around her, one hand trailing up her back absently before adjusting its position, and she placed her palms against his chest, pushing ever so slightly, ever so gently. His face was ashen, his hair sticking up at odd ends, and he looked rather unsteady on his feet. “You need to sit down,” she urged, softly, even as he pulled back farther, eyes wide and insistent. 

Kate blinked, once, twice, and then shook her head. “No, he was too angry––” she started, her voice low, only to stop when he admitted to his lie, to his panic. She blinked again, her eyes wide, trying to parse the information he was giving her. “Oh,” she whispered, startled into silence. Her brain rifled back through every interaction she’d had with her father since Whistledown had been released, which, thankfully, was minimal. She tried to recall every question he’d asked, and was grateful to realize there hadn’t really been any questions. Only anger. “I––” She swallowed, shaking her head. “It’s fine,” she whispered, “it’s alright. He never asked me about them. I never said who they were from. It’s fine,” Kate repeated, her voice still soft, but firmer now, more steady. “Now Will, please, sit down,” she urged, carefully disentangling herself from his grip, squeezing his hand once before heading back towards the door. Leaning against the door slightly, Kate stuck her head out into the hallway and looked around until she caught the eye of a maid heading down the stairs, and she flagged the woman down, asking her softly and quickly if she could bring a tea tray into the study, quickly, before turning back towards Will. 

“I’m fine,” she said dismissively, belatedly, realizing that he’d asked her a question that she’d completely neglected to answer; realizing just as quickly that he was in no state to carry on a conversation about how terrified she’d been since Whistledown had arrived, or the fact that this was the first fight she could remember having with her parents since she’d reached adulthood. “Orion was lovely,” Kate added suddenly, tugging one of the spare chairs closer to him and sitting down in it, their knees bumping into one another as she did. “He was on his best behavior and is still napping in the sitting room,” she assured him, her brows furrowing as she looked him over again. I told him they were to me. Even though she’d already responded, already taken in the information, received it, and answered it in kind, it was only just now starting to sink in. 

He’d lied to her father. For her. To absolve her of this thing she’d done that was, by all societal accounts, wrong. He could have blamed her for it, despite what he’d said in his gardens, because –– she was to blame. But instead he’d lied, and he’d fallen on the sword, and he’d taken the responsibility and the burden and the blame. Her chest began to tighten. “You didn’t have to––” Kate started, her voice soft, shaky, only to be cut off by a quiet knock on the half open door. She popped out of her chair, rushing to the door before Will could get up, knowing he’d expect to see her father. “Thank you, Jane,” she said, taking the tea tray and setting it down on her father’s desk, and then beginning to make Will a cup. 

“Here,” Kate said a moment later, handing him the teacup and glancing around idly in the faintest of hopes that she might spy a bottle of whiskey or brandy or something stronger, only to come up empty. Tea would have to do. “Drink,” she ordered, “and then talk to me,” she finished, soft and urging, as she began to drop two lumps of sugar into her own tea. 

.

She believed him and that felt like something that gave him strength even as it left him unsteady, as if he could topple and would be able to move quickly enough to catch himself. An important ability with the way he was holding onto Catherine even as she urged him to sit down, a request that William knew that he should honor when they still needed to talk, to sit down and speak more rationally than blurting things out wildly like the time to speak may never come again and his words were numbered. Those shreds of calm he attempted to gather and twist into a makeshift bandage dissolved at the sight of her and that simply wasn't acceptable, he needed to behave logically and rationally.

"I'm sorry." Not for the line, not for making her into an accomplice in a falsehood that she hadn't asked for and he hadn't asked about, but for the simple fact that her father was angry at her and that never should have happened. Perhaps it was that regret more than anything that led William to loosen his hold on Catherine and sit back down, feeling his knee twinge at the motion. Squeezing at her hand in return before settling into the chair, William fingers began to tap on his thigh as he watched her go. Checking if the coast was clear of her parents, perhaps? A wise thing if they were dong things they would rather not be caught talking about, like various secrets shared.

Watching her with care, William found himself tracing her shape with his eyes, looking for any sighs of distress - wrinkles where she may have fished her dress, redness or dark circles around her eyes. She'd looked so close to tears when he first came in and he hadn't been able to go to her, but that had been what felt like ages ago. Had she cried and covered it up, or had she calmed down, mastered herself in a way that William hadn't?

"That's good to hear," William admitted, hoping that he was some comfort to her in the time between Whistledown coming out and this, William showing up and doing his best to correct things. "I was hoping the two of you would get along." And hopeful that Catherine would see it for the inclusion it was, that even now what he had was hers, that he wanted her to enjoy having a hand in shaping Orion's personality with him because it wasn't just William's dog, but it would be thee dog. Not exactly what William had in mind when he first inquired with Lady Cobham about a puppy, but true all the same. Edging closer to her, their knees bumping together as a point of comfort, there was the urge to take her hand and run his thumb along her knuckles, an idea that he pushed aside for the time. If any of her family came in, he wanted them to be the picture of propriety so close to a scandal, something that William hadn't really managed to think about while holding Catherine in his arms. It was a precaution that felt well founded when there was a knock by the door and he moved to stand until he realized it was a servant.

Tea. He'd kept thinking about tea the entire time he was talking with Mr. Lockhart and how his blessed girl had delivered. "You're a godsend." He declared quietly, ignoring that he didn't think he believed in such a thing anymore and, if he did, he would have several pointed questions for their maker. It was perfect as he knew it would be, the scent of it soothing and William didn't care if he burned his tongue. It was almost nice to have that to focus on, no matter how quickly the warmth of the drink faded, and at least he'd stopped trembling at some point, no rattle of delicate dishes to give him away.

"He sat me down and gave over the Whistledown sheet, asking if I'd read it. I hadn't, and he was concerned about things. I admitted that I touched your hand and kissed you the night I proposed, I believe your father was picturing that we did far more than that." William admitted, because that was how the article had opening and was the first thing that he addressed with Mr. Lockhart. Some part of him was annoyed at Whistledown for making it seem like they tried to sneak into a shadowy stack to sneak kisses while he lifted Catherine's skirt, they were there to see the stars by invitation, but there was no point in making that distinction. They were without chaperone either way and both knew they shouldn't have been. "And I told him the letters were to me, so he doesn't think that you were unfaithful or anything like that. I also told him that it's possibly someone told me about... the accusations, while I was unwell, but if they did, I don't remember."

Forget about lying to Mr. Lockhart, suddenly this was the part of the conversation he didn't want to have with Catherine because somehow it all felt horrible. "It might be true, but I don't think it is." And he was not about to tell her why, even if there had been though of detailing things during more... heated moments, like when they were searching for the ring. "But I suggested a compromise to him that... he approves of." Why was it so difficult to get the words out? His speech was never so faltering. Except usually, he wasn't saying things he thought would upset Catherine, was he? Wasn't confessing to something that felt like a crime against her, because she hadn't been included. "He likes the idea that we wed and, if a year passes without a child, we cease to have a marriage so you would be free to find someone who would give you a family." And oh, he didn't want to see her react to that idea, didn't want to hear what she had to say, and William quickly looked down at his tea cup, adding quickly as a distraction. "And I think my mother might have suggested that rumor."

[baronwillliam]

tenderstarved​:

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Samuel hesitated at the question, the eagerness on William’s face. It was, perhaps, the most proper choice, if he were to sit in on the talk between his daughter and the Lord Hastings, but after that display of abject panic and overwhelming devotion…Samuel wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to. Still, he nodded at the second set of questions, frowning slightly as he tried to think of the best way to go about this. He didn’t mind William speaking to Kitty now –– clearly the man had quite a lot to say to her, and Samuel was certain that she had enough on her own mind –– but his concern was that he didn’t want his daughter to feel obligated to say yes to him, knowing what she would know about his feelings. Surely she was aware of the depths of William’s devotion, even if she hadn’t yet been treated to this sort of…outburst was the wrong word, but Samuel could not find another one that adequately explained what he’d just witnessed. After another moment of thinking, he nodded, and stood. “Give me a moment,” he decided. “I’d like to speak with Kitty privately, but after that, I’ve no objections to you speaking with her today; if, of course, she is agreeable,” he added, and after ensuring William would not rise and join him as he left, Samuel proceeded to leave his study. He did not bother to shut the door behind him, knowing he’d have to return in a few moments, and made his way instead straight to the parlor, shutting the door behind him with a soft little click and leveling his gaze at Kate immediately. 

She looked up, not bothering to hide the torrent of emotions on her face, and Samuel moved to sit across from her, leaning forward as he did, his elbows resting against his thighs. Before he could say anything, however, Kate beat him to the punch. 

“Well?” She asked, and there was no impatience in her tone, only her own sort of fear. Quieter, perhaps, than William’s, but there all the same. Her hands were clasped in her lap, an embroidery hoop forgotten next to her, and Orion was still lazing at her feet, apparently completely unbothered by the fact that his master was only two rooms away. 

“He’d like to speak to you,” Samuel began carefully, and Kate immediately began to stand up. “Kitty, sit,” he said insistently, his brows lowering until Kate relented and sat back down with a soft huff, as if she were an insolent toddler. “You may speak with him when I’m done,” Samuel said, and that seemed to placate her, because she was looking at him now, her eyes big and blue and plaintive. “I– I’m satisfied,” he sighed, his tone anything but, “with his explanations. If you still wish to marry him, Kitty, I have no objections that will stand in the way of this union. But,” Samuel added, as, once again, his youngest daughter made to stand up, ready to flee from the room and run straight to her intended. “I have to say this, before you make your decision,” he said seriously, his eyes never leaving his daughter’s. “His feelings for you are…quite strong, Kitty, and I know…I know you have your own…” Samuel shook his head. “Catherine, it’s –– I need you to understand that you can still say no,” he said, still leaning forward, his hands pressing together now, “regardless of his feelings. If you are unsatisfied, if…if even a small part of you is hesitant, you can still say no. You do not owe Lord Hastings the rest of your life as his wife just because he has strong feelings for you, Kitty, do you understand? If you –– if you are satisfied, of course, that is another thing entirely, and I will not protest this arrangement, but if you have changed your mind in…in light of this rumor…it is alright to change your mind, Kitty,” he finished, earnest and serious as he looked at his younger daughter, not entirely sure what sort of reaction he was expecting from her as he did. 

Kate, for her part, was taken aback, having not expected this to be so simple; she’d expected the two men to remain in her father’s study for hours, at least, not barely forty five minutes. Nor had she expected her father to be so concerned with her own sense of obligation. She’d expected this to be a fight, long and drawn out with multiple sessions of negotiations. She kept waiting for the catch as he spoke, waiting for the other shoe to drop, until finally he finished speaking, and –– God, he looked so tired, and she’d never fully appreciated how old her father was getting until that very moment. Her throat welled up with emotion as she looked back at him. He just wants the best for me, she realized, and there had never been a doubt, not really, but…

She stood, crossed to him, and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “I love you, papa,” Kate murmured, squeezing once before letting go, blinking against a sharpness in her eyes and a lump in her throat. “Thank you,” she breathed, pressing her lips together, and then left the parlor, rushing straight for her father’s study. She left both doors open as she did, unsure if her father intended to follow, or if the low hum of distant voices would be enough for her parents as she entered the study. “Will,” Kate gasped, throwing her arms around him much the same way she’d just embraced her father, though her grip on him was far tighter than it had been around Samuel, and it took her far longer to let go, to pull back enough to look up at him. One of her hands came up as she did, her eyes widening at the ashen look on his face. “Are you alright?” She asked, starting to pull away, trying to guide him back into his chair as she did. “Talk to me.”

"Of course." Considering that until only a few moments ago William expected to be kicked out of the man's house without the right to ever exchange a single glance with Catherine, much less a word, he was perfectly happy to wait while Mr. Lockhart talked with his daughter. In fact, he preferred it, the idea of a chance to gather his composure so he'd stop shaking like a boy after his first fight. It was embarrassing and William grit his teeth in an effort to regain control, swallowing as he nodded and remembered absently a fellow soldier once telling him that he was grinding his teeth in his sleep. It was a strange memory, not at all related to the moment except in the way that perhaps he would never have Catherine gently waking him, fussing at him for bad habits. He had nightmares sometimes, how had he never considered those and they way they would impact her? And what did it say that here he was thinking about being in bed with Catherine and he wasn't picturing touching her, nothing impure or improper, but simply the gentle concern and the intimacy of being known?

Holding it together until Mr. Lockhart left the study, William counted to ten before slumping in the seat, elbows braced on his knees. He could feel an ache in one of them, something that traveled up his thigh, but that was something that he was familiar at handling while managing a scandal to keep a bride was not. Hopefully it would never be an issue he needed to face again. In through the nose came a breath then out through his mouth, his shoulders feeling strung out and resistant to holding the weight of propping himself up. The sense of tiredness, of soreness, that hit him seemed to have come from nowhere and William dragged his fingers through his hair, uncaring of the way it would mess it up. The way his hair looked was far from William's greatest concern and while he didn't doubt that Catherine would be agreeable to talking to him, the only question was hold long it would take until she was released to be in his presence. Maybe he should have been considered for what her father was saying to her, but he wasn't - Catherine knew what they'd done as well as he had and -

Damn Whistledown to hell. William hoped that she didn't give away his lie about the letters, but beyond that, did it matter if it was him or Mr. Lockhart that explained away what Whistledown said about him? For as much trust as William put in Catherine, he had to believe she returned that trust and knew he would never keep such an important thing from her on purpose, never would have agreed with her on many children if he did. He couldn't, wouldn't, break her heart that way and he hoped that fate wouldn't lead him to such a crime. Hand falling from his hand to his mouth, Will pressed still trembling fingertips against his lips. No longer breathing through his mouth, he focused on the pounding of his heart, deep breath in, deep breath out. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one... repeat.

There was the thud of footsteps loudly enough to be heard from outside the room, prompting William to look up in time to see Catherine in the doorway. The sight of her was enough to lifting him from the chair without thought, a wince crossing his features at the flash of pain that he didn't think to account for. Strange, sitting in the carriage for the trip back from Cliveden was more than long enough to let him grow stiff and sore, why did it seem so much worse now after having sit in the Lockhart home? He knew the answer, or would if he could focus on more than one thing at a time, and nothing was more important than the way Catherine crashed into him. Wrapping his arms tightly around her, Will pressed his face to the top of her head, sneaking a kiss to her hair and clinging. He'd thought for a moment that he would never see her again, and that seemed like it should make the familiarity allowed. The doorway to the study remained empty, so perhaps it did.

"I'm fine," William insisted, pulling Catherine right back against him and running a hand down her spine before moving it back to the more appropriate location of her shoulder blade. "Your father - I didn't know about Whistledown and what she wrote, or I swear I would have told you. As far as I know, it's a lie and - the letters." Uncertain what to bring up to Catherine first, William's mind jumped from one topic to the next at the mention of the word lie as this time he was the one to pull away, but only to ensure that he could see her face. "Catherine, did he ask you about the letters?" William asked in a hurried whisper, eyes glancing between Catherine and the doorway in an effort to make sure that no one was approaching or in danger of overhearing. Catherine had accused her mother of eavesdropping before and if that were to happen now they would be right back into the trouble it seemed they only narrowly escaped from.  

"He asked if I still wanted to marry you and he brought up the letters. I told him that they were to me." He'd panicked and lied to her father and William wasn't certain in that moment what was more important, spending his time to make sure that she knew that he hadn't willingly lied to her, or that he had misled her father and given them a sham of a relationship history.... On second thought, it was lying to her father. "I might have panicked. A bit. But what are you, are you well?"

[baronwillliam]

dianabartlett​:

“Oh, good,” Diana replied. “Oh, I am so pleased for the both of you. And here I thought you had no interest in marriage, Lord Hastings. She must be a gem indeed to have changed your mind.” She suddenly found that she could not stop herself from grinning. He was a kind man, though he often seemed perplexed by her (understandably- she frequently confounded herself) and deserved nothing but abject happiness.

She tactfully did not tease him about the the smile threatening to show on his face (though she longed to- was this what having a brother would have been like?) and allowed him to change the subject a bit. “Oh, surely she would be! Whoever would want to turn down such an event?” Her eyes seemed faraway now, shimmering with the idea of the markets. “They sound beautiful. I should be lucky to see one someday,” she told him. “If you ever visit another… would you send me a letter, telling me of them? I do believe it would make the whole thing come even more alive for me.”

She cleared her throat. “Of course, you do not need to if you think it may cause issues with Miss Lockhart,” she added hastily. “It’s just… well, I consider you a friend. I would love to hear of the adventures the pair of you have.”

.

Biting the inside of his cheek, William found that he couldn't correct her - many people thought he was uninterested in marriage simply because they chose not to listen to what he was saying. When he said he didn't want to be married for his title, they assumed that for a title was the only reason a man would want to marry, and so he must not want to marry at all. William preferred to leave the misunderstanding as it was instead of correct others.

Besides, Catherine was the only one who needed to know the truth and they were engaged - there weren't any secrets from her. "I'm hopeful that one day I'll be able to show some of my favorite sights to Miss Lockhart in a time where they aren't overshadowed by war. I shall ask her, perhaps if nothing else, she'll write to you herself with her own opinion."

It wasn't that he thought Catherine would mind, but he wasn't going to assume such a thing without discussing it with her. Party invitations, dinner offers, correspondence requests, all of it helped solidify his relationship with Catherine and he was pleased by it. "For what it's worth, Lady Bartlett, I consider you a friend as well. It's always nice to find someone with the same unacceptable humor."

[baronwillliam]

sarah-st-john​:

thornedrook​:

Kit cast his eyes lazily about the room, hoping they would magically snag on the item he was searching for. Instead, he found Hastings. Kit stared down at his arm. The other man’s grip was iron, ensuring he could not slip away and disappear into the crowd, which he had been told he was quite skilled at. “Ah, but what if it is your own?” Kit quipped, instinctually holding his card up to his chest as if to prevent Hastings cheating. He brushed his arm off as soon as it was released, nose pointed into the air stubbornly as he thought carefully for a moment. Two eyes were better than one, he supposed, and it wasn’t as if the Barron could invoke the same sort of trouble they’d gotten into on the hunt. As far as company went, he was certainly more tolerable than many. Kit relented, visibly relaxing. “A fractured face of a red terracotta statue,” he recited as he opened a cabinet door to look inside.

-

Crowds and coats and now, “Whatever happened here?” 

For there must have been a group of overly enthusiastic guests, who, in their excitement, must have knocked over… something, such that there was now a mess of broken pottery and ceramic shards in the corner, behind the intimidating bronze statue of the crocodile guarding the entry. 

“Oh, botheration.” A moment, and then, taking a deep breath, “Tom, please go fetch someone to clean this up, and bring a string or ribbon? We must keep this place off-limits, or other guests might injure themselves, oh! These broken bits will go right through a dancing slipper.”

Looked up and her eyes widened at the two gentlemen, one of whom looked very familiar indeed. “Oh! It is – I mean, I have never seen either of you before, but welcome to the party. Could I ask that you keep away from that corner behind the crocodile? Only it is all over a mess, and it will be cleaned up in a trice!” 

With that, she herself quit the room; perhaps she had a length of cord that would suffice?

[OOC: There is a mess in the corner that, despite Sarah’s warnings, might warrant a second look. Or will you stay away instead? Roll for round two and reply here, before posting link in the Discord.]

[Guest] / Invite No. 9 / Entryway / Roll: 6 [Guest @thornedrook​ ] / Invite No. 1 / Entryway / Roll: 5

Raising his eyebrows, William wondered exactly how the young woman that he was going to steadfastly insist that he did not recognize, happened to be acquainted with Effingham. It was likely best that he didn't know, but William still stared her down until she left.

Glancing at the mess, William wondered if Dartford's statue was once in that corner, but wasn't anymore. It wouldn't do any good to have it roped off before it was checked, which meant that there needed to be a different, more pressing matter for their hosts to attend to. Taking a few wandering steps away from Dartford, his cane clunking as it hit the floor, William looked at his surroundings. People busy searching for their items, not paying attention, perfect.

As one man came rushing through, William casually pushed his cane out and tripped the fellow, who didn't fall, but instead went cartwheeling across the room, hitting the opposing wall with a solid thunk that dislodged a mirror. The mirror fell, knocking down a shelf and hitting the corner of a low table before hitting the ground, shattering on impact as the poor man who tripped jumped back and finally, finally fell, landing on his posterior.

"Oh, dear," William murmured lazily to himself before moving over to help the man up, but the man, upon seeing the cane, waved him off.

"Well, since you're down there, do you want to check if anything is hidden under the table?" He asked instead, using his cane to point. Hopefully Dartford was taking advantage of this.

[baronwillliam]

[Guest] / Invite No. 9 / Ballroom / Roll: 3 [Guest @thornedrook ] / Invite No. 1 / Entryway / Roll: 6

Checking again what item he was searching for before casting his eyes around the room and the other item hunters, William tightened his grip on his cane before stalking out. Absolutely not. From the Ballroom back to the entryway, he briefly caught sight of Catherine, but didn't approach her, eyes snagging on someone else entirely. "Dartford," William announced, fingers curling around the man's arm to prevent him from getting away. "Distract me before there's a body to be found tonight. What are you searching for?" Even as he said it, William was trying to read over his shoulder, but it didn't matter because they needed to search anyway. Releasing Dartford, William moved towards a very large vase to peer around it.

[baronwillliam]

tenderstarved​:

.

The vehemence to which William defended Catherine was –– startling. Samuel had understood the strength of the feelings between them, or at least, he’d thought he had, but his first impression of William Hastings had not been one that signaled…this. How quickly the younger man across from him gave way to fear, not while speaking of the war, or being wounded, despite the fact that it sounded as if he’d been near death’s door. No; fear while speaking of the possibility of Kitty’s misery, and the possibility of losing out on the marriage. It…was not quite what Samuel had expected. 

William was speaking so quickly, his words tumbling out like a waterfall, tripping over themselves, nearly twisting in his mouth in his haste to get them out, and Samuel could do nothing but listen. He couldn’t have got a word in edgewise even if he’d wanted to, even if he’d tried. It felt like William had suddenly gone deaf and blind to the world around him, like his focus had narrowed, entirely, on the situation at hand, and defending the engagement with the same desperation as a young boy with a naught but a rock in his hand. He was struck by that, by that desperation, that determination, among a million other things –– the way William said I touched her hand with so much more reverence and guilt than I kissed her, as if letting their bare fingers touch had been a sin of a far higher order. The way he spoke about promising Kitty that they could name a son after her father, despite the fact that he didn’t care enough about his own father to extend the same courtesy. The way he reiterated that he had no reason to believe he was sterile, that he didn’t want to believe it, as if he could make it false through nothing more than the sheer force of his desire. How quickly he took responsibility for Kitty’s sin. How agitated he was at the thought of making her miserable. Her happiness is of greater concern to me of my own. A third of all that I am in order to keep her. I love her. I want her to be happy and safe. 

And wasn’t that all Samuel wanted for his daughter? He thought back to the moment the pamphlet had arrived, how Kitty had been so quiet, how the only things she had said had been I’m sorry and I love him. What tender ferocity he’d seen in his daughter. What desperate devotion he saw in William now. It was –– overwhelming. The kind of display of emotion so wholehearted and overwhelming that it was enough to make him feel embarrassed, as if he’d stumbled upon something private that he should not be looking at full on, and he realized, very suddenly, that this man in front of him very likely say anything to appease him. He could ask him to complete impossible tasks from a fairy tale, and William would do them, if it meant he would not lose Kitty. The thought should have given him some kind of pause, should have made him linger in concern, because if Kitty was capable of lying, and if William would say whatever he needed, what sort of fool would he be if he allowed this to continue?

But what sort of monster would he be if he separated them? 

The silence between them was heavy, the air of the room thick and cold with tension and panic, and finally, after a long moment, Samuel began to nod. “Keep the letter,” he said, his tone even and calm, and yet, somehow, it felt like it was as loud and as brittle as breaking glass after the silence that had followed William. “I do not need to read it, nor do I wish to. I will not stand in the way of this,” he said slowly, raising his brows meaningfully as he did, intent on making sure William listened, and did not merely collapse with relief at his permission. “But it is up to her if she will have you in light of this. Whether it is true or not,” Samuel went on, “and I– I sincerely hope it is not, for both of you, but regardless, it is…it is up to her,” he sighed. “My concerns are…moot, it seems.” He paused. “I would feel more comfortable with a yearlong compromise,” he admitted, “with an annulment if…but it is her decision,” he finished, “and I will let her make it on her own.” 

By the time the sun set, William wouldn't be able to recall everything he said with his usual clarity, the words a blur overlaid with emotion that drowned out everything else. His chest still felt tight and there was a pressure inside his skull, something that reminded him of the time oversees when he stepped into a temple only to smell incense that drove him back out. He couldn't smell anything, but chances were that the entirety of the Boys George from the hunting trip could be smoking behind him and William would have been blind to it, focused with tunnel vision on Samuel and the dangling chance of happiness with Catherine, the thread attached to it growing thinner with strain.

There was a terrible gut wrenching, heart carving pain attached with the concept of losing something you loved and even if there wasn't anything touch William, the emotional pain echoed out so strongly that when it returned, it came back as a physical pain. Insides twisting, heart being sliced free, it all ached and yet why? Why should it be a surprise that once again, his best wasn't good enough? William was ready to have failed and for the last of the strands connecting him to Catherine to snap, the cool, dispassionate, and almost removed tone of Mr. Lockhart's words signaling the end in William's mind.

He didn't need to read the letter because it wasn't important. He didn't wish to read the letter because why would he want any proof of some man taking advantage of his daughter? Certainly, Mr. Lockhart didn't know the truth, that Catherine was exchanging letters with some other man and that William, while he was in fact writing Catherine a letter, had never sent her any and didn't plan on sending it to her but had simply wanted a way to get his thoughts out while they were apart. It was a lie told and even if it hadn't made things worse, it didn't appear to have made things any better, either.

Except...

At first, William didn't think he'd heard correctly, mouth opening and shutting before he could ask Mr. Lockhart to repeat himself. Instead William chewed on the inside of his cheek where the skin felt tender, hardly daring to believe that it was true. He wasn't going to stand in the way, which meant... he could keep Catherine?

"Oh." William said finally, the word escaping him like the air from a punctured balloon and he wanted to collapse, a marionette with its strings cut, but he resisted, focusing on the way that Mr. Lockhart was still talking. William still felt jittery, still felt cold, but it was the shaking of relief instead of that cased by anxiety this time as William found himself nodding without quite being sure which part he was nodding to. "Do you want to sit in on the talks?" He offered immediately, feeling solicitous in light of Samuel not breaking the engagement and kicking him out of the house, never to see the sun shining down on Cather's face again, the wedding dress that he wasn't to see, but knew that she was working on going unworn.

Clearing his throat, William realized perhaps he was getting ahead of himself, but he'd never been in such a situation and just like with asking for the engagement, felt floored that Samuel acquiesced to what he wanted, leaving William confused with just what to do with himself. "May I speak with her today?" That was the more appropriate remark, wasn't it? To see if he could speak with her, or perhaps Samuel wanted to counsel her first and he should come back the next day. He wanted to see her then, ten minutes ago, and an hour ago, wanted to make sure that she was fine, let her know that she was and always would be worth fighting for, but the terror of losing her was a beat whose teeth still scraped the skin of his belly and William was cautious of testing Samuel so soon. "Would that be agreeable?"

It didn’t matter how tired and exhausted he suddenly felt, the escape of tension from his frame leaving him feeling wrung out like a wash rag, it was worth it as long as he could make sure that Catherine was okay, the image of her face when he first walked in filtering through his mind. She’d looked close to crying and he’d nodded at her, what on earth must she have thought?

[baronwillliam]

tenderstarved​:

.

He hadn’t read it –– or so he said. Samuel slowly lowered himself into his chair, watching William read, studying his face as his eyes scanned line after line of text. The younger man’s expression was mostly blank, but…stunned, Samuel thought, rather than shuttered closed. At some point, however, William’s jaw tightened for a second, a quick, involuntary sort of tic, before he smoothed his features again and his shoulders tensed up. No, Samuel thought, rubbing his hand along the lower half of his face, he hasn’t read it yet. For a split second he started to feel bad for William, for springing this on him, but then he remembered what was contained within that scandal sheet, and frowned. It made the situation slightly better, knowing that William had not read this yet, did not know about what Whistledown had said, both about the two of them together as well as individually, because it meant that the baron sitting across from him had not had time to plan a story. But only slightly. 

The pamphlet was placed face down on his desk, as if William didn’t want to be confronted with the presence of the damn thing, and despite himself, Samuel found himself, once again, feeling a sort of kinship with this quiet young man before him. He wasn’t looking up just yet, and, for the briefest moment, Samuel had the thought that he, at least, looked far more contrite than Kitty had. Something about that rankled him, just a touch, even as it made him slightly proud of his daughter. Four daughters in, and fatherhood never ceased to confuse him. He listened to William speak, his frown deepening at the implication in his words, the idea that William would never do anything to Kitty that she didn’t want, and he tugged off his spectacles, dragging a hand down his face. He felt, suddenly, like he owed an apology to Amelia as well as Kitty, for all the grief he gave his third daughter for her wildness, and resolved to send the Blackwood estate a set of books as well. I would not wish daughters on my worst enemy, he thought, sighing heavily out of his nose, and replaced his spectacles, staring at William as he did so. 

“Lord Hastings,” Samuel began, “I can assure you that I want to be having this conversation just as little as you do. This is…not how I was expecting to spend the last few evenings. But you understand, this is…troubling,” he said carefully, “to read. As a father. I–– the last time we spoke, I believe I impressed on you my love for my daughter, and how important it is to myself and to my wife that Kitty is taken care of, and while you’ve been…” He hesitated. “Well, actually, you’ve been the easiest of all of my sons in law to deal with, where marital contracts are concerned,” Samuel admitted. “But…you understand, of course, the–– the concern I have, after reading this, yes?” He wished, suddenly, for a glass of whiskey, or two, or three, but Mary Ann had helpfully removed all alcohol from his study the day before, claiming she didn’t want him to make any rash decisions while under the influence of spirits. He loved that woman. She drove him insane sometimes. 

“You say you didn’t propose to Kitty because of something that happened,” Samuel said slowly, “but something–– something did happen, yes?” He stopped, and then waved his hands dismissively. “I–– I don’t know that I want to know, actually,” he admitted, “but I–– if nothing happened, why were the two of you–– what were you–– what was she thinking?” He asked, and then shook his head, clearing his throat and reaching for the pamphlet, unsure whether he wanted to read from it directly or crumple it in his fist. He settled for sliding it closer, well within his grasp, just in case he needed it. “And you know–– you know she wants children, yes? More than just out of duty; Kitty has always wanted children. This is…this is concerning, Hastings,” Samuel said earnestly, sincerely, “because this is about the long term security and– and the happiness of my daughter. I understand that the two of you have strong feelings for one another, but…” He shook his head again, and then leaned back in his seat, surveying the drawers in front of him and wondering if perhaps Mary Ann had missed any while removing all alcohol. He really needed a drink. “Of course, I won’t pretend Kitty is wholly innocent in this; I’m sure these letters are enough to give you–– if not pause, then at least…cause for concern, surely? I––” He stopped, sighed again, and wondered just how long Kitty had been lying to them, and about what. How many other secrets was his daughter keeping? It felt like only yesterday when she was still small enough to ride around the house on his shoulders. 

“Do you still wish to marry her?” He asked suddenly, folding his hands across his stomach. “Knowing that…if there’s even the smallest possibility the two of you never have children, she may never be happy?” Perhaps that was harsh, but it was the truth –– or at least, Samuel thought it was the truth, but he was beginning to realize that, perhaps, he no longer knew what the truth was, where Kitty was concerned. 

There were some people that called him lord, some people that called him mister, and some that simply said Hastings. William never corrected any of them on what title to use because in general, his title was something that he didn't care about, resenting it more than cherishing it out of some lingering spite of his father's burning adoration for it. Despite that, there was something that felt wrong about hearing Mr. Lockhart refer to him so formally and it only increased the sensation that things were not well at all, his mind perhaps made up before William ever returned from Cliveden. When had the paper come out and how long had the man known of its contents, stewing in his own rage and solidifying in his opinions until they couldn't be changed? The idea that he'd lost Catherine without even knowing it and that it happened while he was away on a hunting trip instead of present so he could defend himself, it was terrifying as well as frustrating, a sense of helplessness beating at the bones of his rib cage.

Despite the careful way Mr. Lockhart spoke, not yelling or screaming, but appearing to measure out his words as if to find the politest way of breaking William heart, William found himself tensing even further because it didn't matter how much force you used to attack something, broken was still broken in the end and William felt coiled so tightly that the slightest pressure would cause him to snap. From calling him Lord Hastings to using the words 'son in law', it was maddening how William didn't know which one to base Mr. Lockhart's objective on and he could feel his heart inside his chest, hear a buzzing like a swarm of bees inside his mind as a headache threatening to make itself known. It was hard to focus on a single thought, his calm a thin veneer waiting to crack, and there was something threatening about knowing he cared too much about Catherine to hold onto his self control. Breathing felt difficult as he as William nodded, shallow things that didn't give him enough air as he tried not to twitch and tap his fingers, fearing that he would be seen as impatient or uncaring. It felt so important not to give off the wrong impression, but William didn't know what impression Samuel was looking for, or what he wanted. But he could understand the man being concerned for Catherine's safety, of course he did. How could he not when the one question that burned at his lips was to ask if Catherine was okay?

Maybe it was that tension that caused him to finally open his mouth not to ask a question, but to answer something that William hadn't even been asked properly. It was fine if he wanted to question how Will felt because he would do whatever was necessary to prove it, but to question Catherine as if she'd done something foolish, as if she'd acted out in the moment without consideration, that was more than Will could take. It wasn't the heat of the moment, Samuel himself was the first to say that Catherine was quite taken with Will, he'd said it. He couldn't just take it back. "Mr. Lockhart, if I had to guess." William interrupted quickly, words coming out of a throat that was clogged with feeling. He cleared his throat, trying again as his fingers curled tightly around the arms of the chair. "I touched her hand and expressed my feelings and she expressed hers. I kissed her and I left the library that night thinking about a life with her. Considering she accepted my proposal, I would like to think she was thinking of the same." He didn't, couldn't, think that Catherine's mind was filled was thoughts of her reputation and the dangers it would face. She was the one who cried at the thought he was proposing simply for the sake of her reputation and not out of true feeling, that meant something, and he'd promised not to harm her reputation, hadn't she believed him?

Except God, he'd failed that, hadn't he? He promised no harm would happen to her reputation and Whistledown made him a liar, causing him to break a vow to her when he wasn't there to fix it. It was understandable if she was hurt by him, understandable if Mr. Lockhart was disappointed or enraged, but if he was certain of one thing, it was that Catherine did not deserve to face her father's anger, not when she hadn't done anything wrong, not when William was the one to fail her so thoroughly and completely in the short time span of two weeks after proposing. There was a blind determination that Catherine could be spared whatever he could protect her from and once the dam was broken, it was impossible to repair as the water flowed at full force, words tripping out of William at a speed he was entirely unaccustomed to. Was that why he felt so lightheaded? He didn't know, but it wasn't worth thinking about because he couldn't think and even if he could hold onto a thought longer than a moment, a heartbeat, he wouldn't waste his thoughts on wondering why his head felt funny when there were more important things to be concerned about. He would be fine, but he needed Catherine to be fine, needed to keep to his promise in any way that he could and keep her as safe and unscathed as could be managed. If it could still be managed.

"I know. Of course I know she wants children, she wants a large family, and I've told her we could name one after you. I don't care about naming any child after my father and what Whistledown had to say about me is as much a surprise for me as it is for anyone else. I don't remember ever hearing anything about it. I was wounded on the battlefield, that's true, and I was feverish and disagreeable for a long time, ill and disagreeable and perhaps I was told, perhaps I don't remember or wasn't listening, but I don't know. I don't see why I could have made a full recovery in all other ways except that. I can't guarantee you it's a lie, but I have no reason to believe that it's true. I don't want it to be true." And where in god's green earth had Whistledown come up with such a thing? Had she merely heard that Catherine wanted to have children though some distant grapevine and decided to come up with a lie? There were few people who knew Will at war in London with him, fewer aware of his injury or its extent, the most knowledgeable he could think of was his mother, his mother who didn't approve of Catherine and oh, his stomach lurched. Everything was wrong and it it wasn't before, then it was going that way. His headache felt worse.

There was something odd, surreal, about Mr. Lockhart moving seamlessly from talking about how perhaps their engagement was unsavory, how perhaps Will couldn't provide for Catherine and keep her secure, to then acting as if Catherine was the problem. The letters hadn't concerned William when Catherine first told him about it, but it appeared that maybe Mr. Lockhart was concerned, even if William didn't believe it was for his own behalf. And really, shouldn't he be concerned about Catherine, about what might have been in those letters, about someone making it sound like Catherine had been carrying on a secret courtship this entire time, just like William's mother -

Oh. Oh, hell.

"The letters were to me." William blurted out, and was he shaking? He almost felt like he was, like all the warmth had been leeched from the room despite the heatwave that gripped London so recently. What he wouldn't give for a cup of scalding tea in that moment, something that would warm him up from the inside with the sense of being known because Catherine knew how he took his tea and knew how to make it perfectly. Maybe he would be escorted from the house and never taste a cup of tea prepared by her hands again, banned from seeing her while she was whisked away, a memory that he clung to while William let himself be swallowed back up by war. Forget London and the season and damn them both, he fulfilled his promise to his mother and did his time, he found a bride, found someone that he loved and how many times was he supposed to lose someone like that? It wasn't fair to ask him to shoulder it more than twice, he would far rather return to the field and be shot out, be knocked unconscious until it wasn't a question of if he was broken or not. "We've been writing to each other, I have a partial one at home that I haven't finished writing yet if you'd like to see it. Thought it was romantic, still doing it even with the engagement."

What was he saying? What was he doing? He didn't know, couldn't slow down to think about it beyond spouting out whatever words came to mind and hoping that they made sense. It was bad enough that Mr. Lockhart thought that his daughter was being taken advantage of, he wouldn't have the man thinking that his daughter was some sort of two timer or a mistress or a harlot or anything like that. Catherine was wonderful and the man had to know it, Catherine was his favorite and William hated the thought of the man looking at Catherine with a shine in his eyes that was a little dimmer. How could Catherine ever forgive him if he destroyed her relationship with her father, if she could forgive him for any of the mess at all?

"Of course I want to marry her. But I don't want to make her miserable. I would never -" The words caught in his throat because he wasn't sure what he wanted to say and William reached up to rub at his eyes, unsure why they were burning. He'd been blinking, he was certain of it. "Her happiness is of greater concern to me of my own. I want to marry her, but I want her happy. I want the chance to at least try to make her happy, is that too much to ask for?" It likely was because this was the man's daughter and William was juggling with her happiness after stumbling with her reputation, everything likely to end up in shatters all around them, broken just like William's tenuous self control. Usually when William was left with a shredded hold of his emotions, it meant he lashed out in anger, but William didn't have the first idea of what he was feeling. Dread, panic, despair, terror, desperation, all different words with a similar meaning and maybe it was seeping from his pores the same way you would sweat out a fever because Will felt it all at once, so acutely, yet separated from his body at the same time. What an odd feeling, but still, no time to think about it.

Catherine. Catherine was counting on him and here he was, making it all worse for them. What was he going to do? "If I could compromise with you, I would. If you would ever accept that, I would offer it in a heartbeat, a third of all that I am in order to keep her, but I know you wouldn't take that, it wouldn't be fair to exchange her happiness forever for that. But I wish I could try a year, just a year to be hers and her be mine, to see if it's a lie or not. But if I couldn't give her a child, a family of her own, I would let her go so she could be happy, and I would destroy myself if that's what it took to give her back her freedom. I love her and just want her to be happy. I want her to be happy and safe and I've yet to encounter a price that's too much to pay in exchange for that."

[baronwillliam]

tenderstarved​:

.

As time had passed, Samuel had begun to regret the way he had handled the Whistledown sheet with Kitty, but, like his youngest daughter, apologies did not come easily to the Lockhart patriarch, and unfortunately, not enough time had passed for him to fully put it behind him. The scandal was still very much looming above all of them, and he still had to make a decision. Part of him wondered if it was wiser to merely sit Kitty down and ask her what she wanted, but…that would involve admitting that he didn’t think he knew what was best for his daughter anymore, and that he simply could not do. It was his job as her father to ensure she was provided for and taken care of, and if he was going to hand her off to another man to take up that duty, then Samuel needed to know that he was making the right decision. And as much as he’d rather liked William Hastings when he’d met him the last time…there was still the scandal sheet to contend with, and what it signaled for William and Kitty’s relationship. 

He was loathe to admit it, but in truth, Samuel had not thought Kitty was capable of lying, and certainly not to him. The two of them had always been close, and while it was rather gauche to admit that one might have a favorite child –– she was his favorite. And he’d thought, foolishly, naively, apparently, that that had meant something, and that she would be truthful with him in all manners. But it seemed Kitty had grown up into a woman sometime when he wasn’t looking, and she’d begun to make her own decisions, and her own mistakes. He just wished she’d told him when he and Mary Ann had asked about Margate –– if he’d only known, he’d have been more likely to head off any sort of scandal by ensuring Hastings secured a special license, though…that still left the manner of these letters Kitty had been writing, as well as the possibility that William might not be able to give her children. 

And wasn’t that a tricky situation for Samuel to be in. Part of him had wondered, laying awake long into the night, whether this Lord Hastings had manipulated Kitty in some way, taken advantage of her tender heart, so often overflowing with love, and lured her out into some secret meeting at Margate. He didn’t think that was the case, but…he didn’t know Hastings well enough to know for sure. And he didn’t trust that his daughter would give him the truth anymore. Christ, and he’d thought ensuring Amelia was married off had been the end of his troubles. 

He was sitting in his study, staring without seeing at the damned Whistledown pamphlet, when there was a knock at the door, and one of the maids poked her head in. “Begging your pardon, Mister Lockhart, but Lord Hastings has arrived,” she said softly, and he sighed heavily, nodding once as he stood with a soft groan. “Thank you,” he murmured, waving her off, and made his way into the hallway, where the door to the sitting room was wide open, and the beginnings of tension were starting to creep into the atmosphere. Kitty was sitting next to Mary Ann, looking like she might burst into tears, and it sent a sharp, guilty pang through his heart. Once this business was sorted out, for better or for worse, he’d get her a new set of books, and maybe a new watercolor set besides, and hope that sufficed for an apology. 

“Hasings,” he said quietly, flatly, his eyes moving over to the younger man, sizing him up once again, wondering if, perhaps now, he might see something he’d missed the first time around. The man’s eyes seemed guileless as he looked at Kitty, genuine concern in them, but… “A word?” It wasn’t a question. Samuel turned and headed back to his study, leaving the door open behind him, and waited for William to enter, and for the door to shut, before he picked up the Whistledown pamphlet and raised his brows. “I take it you’ve not read this yet, then?” He asked, holding it out to William. 

Turning at the sound of Mr. Lockhart's voice, William couldn't explain why the quiet tone seemed to slice through him as effectively as a scalpel, neat and precise and yet potent enough to make his entire body want to jerk in response. A tension stole through his body to make it lock up and William instantly went on his guard, certain that something terrible had happened. He didn't know what, but it was clear that something dreadful had befallen the Lockhart family, maybe an issue with one of Catherine's sisters, and it didn't matter what it was, William knew without question that he would support Catherine and assist her parents any way he could. "Of course, sir," He replied after only a slight pause of confusion, following along with a backwards look at Catherine as he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring nod. It didn't matter what was wrong, he would help fix it.

Entering into Mr. Lockhart's study, William take made sure the door was shut before taking his seat, frowning as a sheet of paper was offered. "I haven't read anything, I -" Only just arrived back in London, he wanted to say, explaining that he hadn't stopped at anywhere to read anything important, but it wasn't something important. Or at least, it wasn't important to William, but he understood that many in Society placed a great deal of value in it. Instead of being some great missive or political paper, it was a copy of Whistledown's sheet and the frown slipped off William's face. In it's place came a blank look, something carefully guarded even as William's throat tightened up in panic, shoulders locking up in preparation for a fight. He'd been featured in Whistledown once before and her words were nothing but the truth on that occasion and something that William wasn't too bothered by anyone knowing, but what Whistledown had done this time was horrific.

This wasn't the meeting that William expected it to be, the sharing of bad news in the Lockhart family that they were inviting William to share in because of his attachment to Catherine, this was different. It was a second round of interrogation if he was lucky, and it was the dissolution of his engagement if he wasn't. Tense and almost in disbelief, William went again to read it from the top, but stopped only a sentence in. He didn't want to see the words again, he knew what they said. Not only had Whistledown somehow discovered they were alone together in Margate and thrown scandal onto their relationship, she had attacked each of them separately, going after the letters that Catherine swore were innocent and making them into something horrible. It wasn't a surprise, William knew exactly what society would think of them and Catherine had to as well - there was a reason she had said she would stop writing them, wasn't there? Except... he didn't care about the letters, he didn't because he knew about them, but he hadn't known about the rest, about the flower, and somehow that bothered him more than the letters themselves.

But what Whistledown said about him didn't sound familiar at all. If it had, he wouldn't have talked with Catherine about children, wouldn't have said that they could name one after her father, the man across from him that William was hesitant to look up at. William wasn't a stranger to parental disappointment since his father had never been proud of William in his life, but seeing anger or disappointment on Mr. Lockhart's face just might gut him. Still, he couldn't avoid it. Whistledown's paper was returned to Mr. Lockhart's desk, flipped upside down so that her hateful words couldn't be seen.

"I hadn't read that," Will said quietly, answering the original question as he forced himself to look up at Mr. Lockhart's face, posture ramrod straight even as he sat nearer the edge of his seat than the back. "And I'm certain you have questions, which I'll answer for you. But before you do, I want to say that my feelings for her existed long before Margate, and that I'm honored that she not only accepts them, but reciprocates them. I would also never do anything to your daughter that she didn't want and I would want her if the most scandalous thing to ever happen to us was the brushing of fingers while exchanging a tea cup. I didn't propose because of anything that has happened between or anything that could be said, I want to marry her because of the way I feel for her." He thought of Catherine talking about her parents being in love and the way they were friends and William swallowed hard. "She was my friend before she was anything else, Mr. Lockhart, and I would never hurt her. Please, ask your questions."

[luthienne]

paramore, “interlude: i’m not angry anymore” / martha gellhorn, selected letters / adonis, selected poems; “rage” (tr. khaled mattawa) / anne carson, plainwater: essays and poetry / carole maso, the art lover / jade bird, “furious” / carmen maria machado, in the dream house

[baronwillliam]

Deciding to go on the hunt at Cliveden was something of a spur of the moment decision for William, but it wasn't one he regretted. The weather was good, the company was better than expected (The impossible had perhaps happened and he may have gained a friend.) and he was filled with stories to share with not only Catherine, but also with Mr. Lockhart. While the man had been surprisingly warm and welcoming when William first asked for Catherine's hand, he didn't want to take that goodwill for granted and looked forward to asking his opinion about some of the things he'd seen in Cliveden. He knew the man was where Catherine gained her love of books and if it was possible to forge a bond with the man over stories, William wanted to do so.

In what was becoming a habit after returning from a trip away, William skipped going home to get settled back in and instead had his carriage take him directly to the Lockhart home to see Catherine. It could be excused as wanting to collect Orion, but William meant what he'd told Catherine before and she was the first person he wanted to share his new stories with, which was understandable, wasn't it? No one would judge him if he wanted to see his fiancée and all things considered, William was more collected than he was upon returning from Margate when he was suffering from a lack of sleep and an abundance of drink, almost frantic to try winning approval to marry Catherine. This was different, it was gathering up Orion and asking Mr. Lockhart how Catherine handled it and what he thought of William's idea of getting Catherine a kitten as a wedding present as well as giving him the chance to see Catherine, asking if her flowers were delivered on schedule, his promise still kept.

Left in a good mood after the hunt and feeling even more pleased with the prospect of seeing Catherine, William failed to notice the look on the face of the staff member who opened the door for him, but he did notice a tension by the time he was shown to the sitting room. It could have been anything, it could have been his imagination, but it immediately became clear that it wasn't, his eyes going from Mrs. Lockhart's face to Catherine, a sense of dread settling in his stomach like a vault of ill tidings. "What's wrong?" He asked, the smile that started to form on instinct at seeing Catherine vanishing from his face. "What's happened?"  // @tenderstarved​

[baronwillliam]

tenderstarved​:

.

His answer came slow and thoughtful, and Kate found herself nodding, even though she had nothing to compare this feeling of accidental thought to. Something about the way he explained it made it make perfect sense, like she could see into his soul, and she glanced away again, thinking. When I have something I want to share. That made her smile again, soft and slow, the implication in his words clear, his tone pointed, like he’d drawn an arrow with his voice and aimed it directly at her. She opened her mouth to admit the same thing, but hesitated, thinking, suddenly, of the letters hidden in a box under her bed, shuffled in with letters to her sisters and her niece, and the old friend she’d been writing to for so many years. Will was the first person she wanted to share things with, certainly, but there was another, a close second, and she started to frown, trying to decide if it was something that needed to be shared in that moment. After all, it was not the same as a previous attempt at marriage –– not even close –– but it was still…private. Secret. Even if unintentionally so. 

And then his hand closed over hers, large and warm and solid, and she looked over at him again, her cheeks flushed with a touch of embarrassment. “It’s unfair because –– ” Kate’s words stalled out, her tongue twisting slightly around them, and she pressed her lips together in a tight smile. Embarrassment still colored her cheeks and her eyes, and she found, suddenly, she could not meet his gaze as she began what she suspected would be the first of many admissions to him. “It’s unfair because it doesn’t…it doesn’t solve anything, it doesn’t…doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t change the way I feel about you, or –– ” She shook her head, feeling even more heat rise to her face as he continued to speak, as he said I’m happy and told her how much of him she now owned, and she felt even more foolish than before. But he had told her that he would not keep secrets, and so, neither would she. “And that is why it’s unfair,” she said, still gazing resolutely at the flower bushes, unable to look at him as she admitted this. “Because here we are, planning our lives together, making vows and promises, and you would not even recognize her if you saw her again, and still, here I am, jealous of a woman you had feelings for nearly a decade ago,” Kate admitted, shaking her head and laughing softly at herself. “It’s not fair. It’s not rational. But…” she trailed off, lifting one shoulder in a light, gentle shrug. 

“I don’t –– I’ve never loved someone like that,” she shared quietly, glancing down now, examining where their hands were joined, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, tracing the circle of her ring. “My mother likes to say that there’s too much love inside of my heart and it spills out at any given opportunity, that I fall in love with people at first sight, that I give too much of myself too often, too freely, but I…I’ve never loved like that,” she explained, her own thumb reaching up now to brush along the inside of his wrist, unable to resist touching him in kind. “To that point of sacrifice. I think it’s…I think it’s very brave,” Kate murmured, her heart tight in her chest. “And I…I understand the armor you hammered around your heart a little better now,” she finished, still watching their hands, still studying the movement of his thumb. 

She hesitated for only a moment before plunging into her next sentence with all the grace of a cannonball into a lake. “Though, if there’s to be no secrets between us, I should tell you –– I’ve been exchanging a correspondence with an old childhood friend,” she admitted, “which, if I’m being entirely honest, we lost touch for a number of years, and my memories of our childhood are…” Kate hesitated, thinking of all the holes in her memory, and when they started, and why, and felt her chest begin to tighten again. “Spotted,” she explained, looking up at the flower bushes again. “Hazy. And I can’t remember his name for the life of me, because he’s never signed the letters, never felt like he needed to, and I, of course, cannot ask, because what sort of friend would I be if I did?” She laughed again, the sound a little hollow, ringing in her ears. “But it’s…it’s not like Emily,” Kate went on, “at least, what I mean is, I’m not in love with him, nor have I ever been. In my head, he’s still that half remembered little boy who used to jump over the creek in the back of my father’s country property and make daisy chains with me.” 

Kate bit down on her lower lip, glancing down again, this time focusing on the small space of bench between them, still unable to look at him. She wasn’t sure what she expected –– anger? scorn? derision? some combination of the three? –– but she knew she wasn’t sure if she could look at it full on, couldn’t bear the thought of the way he looked at her shifting for any reason. “It’s not the same as the way I feel about you,” Kate went on. “Not even close, really. But I know it’s not proper to be exchanging correspondence, and if you want me to stop writing to him, I will, and I’m happy to share the letters with you, and––” She stopped, realizing how quickly the words were coming out, almost bargaining in their urgency. After a long, hesitant pause, she spoke again.  

“You are the first thing I think of when I wake up,” Kate said earnestly, honestly, openly, even as she still did not look at him, “and the last thing I think of before I fall asleep. I –– I think of you all the time. I keep all the flowers you’ve given me by my bedside until they start to wilt and then I press them into my sketchbook so that they’ll keep until they crumble. I’ve been sketching your hands for days, because I can’t get the image of your hand over mine on the telescope out of my head. Every time we’re apart all I can think about is when I’ll get to see you again and if you’ll smile and call me Catherine or darling or dear, or if you’ll have a myth to share with me, or…anything, really, and…” She hesitated, finally chancing a glance up at him, eyes wide, brows pulled together. “I think of you all the time,” she repeated softly, “and if you are firmly and undeniably mine, then I am completely, totally, utterly lost to you.” 

.

Maybe his answer wouldn't change the way she felt for him, but neither would her asking the questions change the way that he felt for her. It didn't even need to change the way she felt about him, if it brought her any peace or calmed and curiosity in her mind, then he would do it - the fact she held a question at all was reason to answer it. Sometimes not having an answer may have seemed like the simplest course and William wasn't going to force anything on her, but he wanted to make sure that she knew that whatever she decided, she could have it. That seemed to be one of the main things he was always trying to convey to Catherine in conversation - how much she meant to him, and how he would give her anything as long as he knew she wanted it.

"Oh." Was it meant as a question or a statement? Or was a little more than an exhale of breath? Stunned, William no longer minded the way she was avoiding his gaze since it meant that she couldn't see the faint smile growing on his features. Jealous of a woman that he hadn't seen in years, that was married, that likely didn't even remember his name, and wasn't Catherine just a marvel to be jealous at all? She didn't seem upset at him for having feelings even if she had seemed like she wanted reassurance that it was difference between the two of them. It occurred to him for a brief, shining moment that perhaps she did want reassurance, that she wanted to know that she wouldn't be placed aside for a different woman if the right one were to come waltzing in front of his eyes. It wasn't a polite thing to find happiness in, but there was a bubble of something lighthearted, perhaps contentedness, in the idea that Catherine didn't want to lose him. She could be jealous all she wanted and Will would quietly revel in the fact that someone, somewhere, might miss him if he wasn't to stay by their side.

Even though she couldn't see him, William found himself nodding along to her words. She never loved someone like that and she didn't love him, that was okay. William hummed in easy acceptance of it, never having expected her to love him anyway, and happy enough with the idea that she was taken with him, that she cared enough not to want anyone else to take away what was hers. She had three sisters, after all, William supposed Catherine had done more than her amount of sharing. "Don't give me too much credit, darling," William murmured, and this time it was his eyes that fell, seeking out where her thumb brushed along his wrist, so close to blue veins. He thought again of what he had upstairs, of feeling her heart pounding through skin as blood travelled to her face, staining her skin pink. She was pink earlier, was her heart pounding out a song that went unheard over birdsong? "Maybe you've never loved like that, but do you remember that day with the flowers? I told you that I'd never loved someone until it was more important to me to be kind than to be right." That had amazed him then and it still amazed him just how generous of spirit she was, how understanding and willing to give others praise even if they didn't necessarily deserve it. William didn't feel like the person Catherine described, but he wanted to be that person, be better than what he felt like he was because she believed in him. "Do you think my heart is armored?" He asked mildly, quietly, wondering if she knew how she had smashed through all the plates put up to protect it.

Catherine was her own person, an entire being with experiences and memories different than his own, which meant that she had her own history of shame and hoard of secrets just as anyone did. Even though William had felt the need to confess something to her, it hadn't previously occurred to him that Catherine may not realize he didn't hide things from her. He also hadn't expected her to share a secret of her own because that wasn't the purpose of his confession, but, feeling calmer than before and buoyed but what she'd confessed so far, William didn't tense in preparation of bad news. William wasn't naïve, it was easy to see just why Catherine considered writing to a childhood friend to be a secret. Writing letters was for engaged couples, and no matter what her past or her feelings for him currently, people would paint their own picture for it. Society had its rules and Catherine was breaking them.

How odd to feel so accepting of it. Was it shock that made him feel calm? It was hard to say, his breathing remained steady as Catherine spoke, his sense of peace growing like a lake that was finally running out of ripples to make. "Catherine," He started slowly, making sure that she wasn't going to start talking again before he had his turn at a say. "I'm not going to deny you friends. You know what people would say if they found out, but I won't make you stop writing him." After all, it wasn't a paper ring on her finger, but one of emerald, and soon they would be married and William trusted her. "You could ask him to meet, you know. And be friends all over again." And maybe later on, he would take her up on reading the letters, but it didn't seem that pressing of a concern in that moment. "You can have your friends and you can write to them. And you can write to them to meet them. And you can be jealous of women from ten years ago or ten days, nothing you've said has changed the way that I feel, either."

Of course Catherine had to try proving him wrong. Gone was his calm as well as his breath and William was torn between wanting Catherine to look at him and being unable to look away from their hands, the idea that she spent time sketching any part of him maddening, and even more so at the mention of the telescope. How terrified he'd been to touch her hand, but how incapable of resisting her as well. She was so brave, how could she ever think that he was the brave one? How could she not see it? "Catherine." If he sounded breathless, it was only because he was, lifting their joined hands to press a kiss against her knuckles. "Darling. Dear." She could hear any of them that she wanted to, when would she learn that? "You're not lost. As long as you're with me, you aren't lost and you'll never be alone. I've never been skilled with talking, but my words find a home in you that I didn't know they lacked. There is nothing I have that I wouldn't grant you, and nothing you could wish for that I wouldn't try to obtain." He wanted to kiss her knuckles again, but forced himself to put their hands back down - they wouldn't be alone much longer. "You have my devotion even if you don't yet have my name." William added before a voice called from the doorway. Their mothers coming right on time to end the moment.

[baronwillliam]

tenderstarved​:

.

“For the life of me, I’ll never understand why you think so little of yourself,” Kate murmured, tilting her head slightly, even as she knew it would not allow her to fully capture his gaze as he looked away. Her thumb moved over his knuckles again, soft, careful, and then she squeezed his hand, just a touch. She didn’t know how to tell him that she knew, she’d always known, and had wondered, but hadn’t been brave enough to ask. Maybe one day she’d admit it; maybe they’d both admit to it, to burning long and quiet like two solitary candles in the darkness. But for now she did not want to add anything else to the mention of the flowers, did not want to press a knuckle into a sore spot. She did not want to remind them of a time where he thought his advances were unwelcome or unwanted, and so instead, Kate hummed in agreement at his comment about the ring and smiled at his vow, wishing, not for the first time, that they were in a chapel instead of a garden, and there was no one waiting for them inside the house. 

She started to nod in response, started to tell him that was smart, that was wise, when his comment about kissing stole all the air from her lungs, making speech stall out in her throat, and Kate shot him another pleading look. “Will, you’re not being fair,” she hissed, grateful when he followed her, when they sat down, and he changed the subject rather than terrorize her further with talk of what he’d do to her, once he was allowed to. Because if he’d kept to that subject, if he’d leaned down and whispered in her ear, all the threats of maids arriving with tea and all the windows in the world wouldn’t have been able to keep her from falling into his arms.

The change in subject, however, was startling and stark enough to, shockingly, chase away all lingering desire, like a bucket of cold water thrown upon her as he delved into his hatred of his father. Kate couldn’t help but notice the way he spoke in present tense, despite his father’s death; like the hatred William housed within himself was a still living thing, something that could not be so easily buried as the man who had raised him. It made her want to reach for him, want to lay her hand against his chest, to seek out the burning flame of loathing and to help him bank that fire. Instead she sat beside him and listened, her gloves forgotten in her lap for the moment, her hands still and empty. She let him unburden himself without judgment, without scorn, without even a twitch to her facial muscles, not wanting to give him any possible indication that she did not want to listen, that she was thinking less of him for the story he told him. It was a long, slow, and delicate process, this unburdening, and, not for the first time in his presence, Kate felt like she was some sort of squire of old, helping him remove his heavy armor and exposing the vulnerable spots of his soul. And this particular armor was ancient, and it was heavy, and this vulnerable spot he was exposing was soft and raw and new, and she wondered how long he had been carrying this –– not just the loathing, but the loss of this Emily, and the ache and the grief and the guilt that came with it. 

It was not easy for her to listen to; something ugly and acidic was rising within the back of her throat, despite her attempts to quell it. She didn’t know why she was feeling like this, why she was jealous of a woman who came so long before her, especially not when this story was long over and there was a ring on her finger. Still, she felt jealous, and still, she did not let it show, not wanting him to feel like he could not speak to her of this. Kate merely listened, jealousy and sorrow and a soft, heart-aching tenderness all swirling in her chest as he spoke. The longer the story went on, the more she understood that still living hatred in his chest, because she did not understand this sort of relationship, between father and son. She could not imagine her father denying her anything, nor could she imagine a mutual loathing between herself and her mother, and she had, of course, always understood that Will’s relationships with his parents were far more complex than her own, but this was far beyond what she had imagined, what she might have been able to parse out in her brain. And that was not even to begin to examine the relationship he’d had with Emily, or how it was still coloring his relationship with his mother, and with her, despite the fact that she’d never met the other woman. 

“It was honorable,” she finally said when he’d finished, her brow furrowing slightly, her throat feeling oddly tight. Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep. The depths to him never seemed to cease, and she’d known that William’s sort of devotion was the bone deep kind, but it was one thing to know it, and another thing to hear him talk about it. “You loved her.” It wasn’t a question. “And you tried to save her from a fate she didn’t want. That is honorable,” She repeated, lacing her fingers together to stop herself from reaching for him, still trying to wrestle with the new, jealous beast inside of her as she did. 

Kate understood, suddenly, what he’d said on the library roof, about understanding wanting to give a crown of stars to someone. She’d thought she’d known, of course, before, because she’d felt the same way about him. As long as she had known him, Kate had always wanted to provide him with a soft place to lay down and rest, a warm spot in the sunlight to rest the aching bones of his soul. She’d thought she’d understood, but she was realizing, quickly, that she hadn’t –– not until now, not until she realized how deep the wound within him ran, and she realized exactly why he thought he had so little to offer. “Do you…do you think of her still?” Kate asked, and though it wasn’t quite the question she wanted to ask, it was the one she was brave enough to ask. 

It helped, a little, to know that what his mother harbored towards her wasn’t entirely personal, but where it soothed a little, it flared something protective within her as well. She wanted to march back inside and demand to know why it was exactly Mariam thought so little of her son, but instead, she took a deep breath against the tightness in her chest. How different things are with you. “Are they?” She murmured, brows furrowing slightly, chest tight. “Different?” Suddenly, Kate shook her head, twisting her laced fingers slightly, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry; you don’t have to answer that. Any of it, really. That was…it was unfair of me.” She turned her gaze back towards the gardens, eyes roaming over the flowerbeds against the house. “You don’t…” Kate trailed off, took another deep breath, and then looked back at him. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Will. It doesn’t make me think less of you. In fact it might make me think more of you, if that’s at all possible.” Her smile was soft and small, but visible despite that. 

.

"I've made you many promises, Catherine," He admitted, pleased smile playing at his lips. "But I don't remember ever promising to be fair." When it came to defending Catherine's heart, he would be tireless, a sentinel without sleep to ensure that she remained feeling warm and safe, cared for and protected, but there were certain things William knew about himself that he couldn't tell her yet, that it wasn't proper to tell an unwed women. When it came to her self control and her desires, well, did it really matter if he was fair if they both enjoyed it in the end? Besides, there was something thrilling about being able to see the effect on her and knowing he was responsible for her flush.

It was better to think about things like that than what he needed to explain to her, and some part of him worried that admitting to prior marriage intentions with anyone would make her doubt his affections, or question just why he proposed on the library once more. He didn't want her to think that his mother was right, that William was doing it for any other reason than because he wanted to, wanted to be with Catherine. Despite the multiple times he'd tried to express his feelings, there was still that lingering feeling that maybe he wasn't trying hard enough and she would have cause to doubt him, that unpleasant awareness that it didn't matter what he did, how much space he was allotted inside her heart was completely out of his control.

As he spoke about his father, William wondered if she felt as disconnected from that kind of parental relationship as he did when he met Samuel, his experiences in dealing with paternal figures not matching the reality. He'd expected scorn and derision, to be cut down to size and be made to prove over and over again if he was made of the correct material to wed Catherine. The kindness William allowed himself to believe in was that Samuel could be convinced to say yes, he'd never expected the man would agree without a fight. Maybe that was why William was so willing to agree to whatever Samuel wanted in the marriage contract, he wanted it settled before the man came to his senses and changed his mind, became more like the man William expected. If given the choice, William preferred not to speak of his father as he'd given the man more than enough attention before his death and the moment he left the world, William considered himself free of any obligation admit to his existence. Part of William knew that he needed to talk without pause, to hurry and get the story out before he could rethink saying it, but another part of him wished that Catherine would interrupt so that he knew what she thought about it. No one else would get that reaction from him, because there was no one else that he would soothe over his own choices.

Still, if asked to guess what response Catherine would have to what his father considered one of his greatest sins, what William thought of as his greatest failure, he wouldn't have guessed this, that she would call it honorable. His father called it foolish and he called it theft, because he didn't approve of his son's actions and what was a daughter but a commodity? The fact that Winifred managed to find a man who was decent and cared for her was a miracle that William hadn't expected she would be afforded and he didn't know how she managed it, but she wrote of their father's fury over the way she challenged suitors with tasks and William was forever proud of her. Proud of her match, proud of her cleverness, proud to be her brother when he wasn't proud to be his father's son. Was he proud of himself? That point wasn't as clear, but there was some relief in being able to hear Catherine react and not hear disappointment in her tone. There was an oddness as well, to hear her so plainly state that he had loved once before, a word that no one else afforded to the situation, and there rose up the urge again to bury things down because it seemed wrong that Catherine should have to deal with things from so long ago. The motion of Catherine lacing her fingers together drew his eye and William's own fingers twitched, wanting to reach out to her and hold her hand again, but he didn't know which of them it would be to give comfort to, or if it would be appreciated, him touching her while discussing another woman.

Head tilting to the side, it was a question that William hadn't expected, but would give his full attention to because it should have been an easy answer, but it wasn't. "Not... intentionally. It's almost accidental, if I do. I think of her when someone like my mother throws her back in my face, and sometimes I hear a song and I remember it was her favorite. But she's not the person I think of when I have something I want to share, not anymore." The implication being that Catherine was that person for him now, and it was true. She did far more than call to him like a beacon whenever there were words lingering on his tongue in search of a home, but he'd tried to describe time and again what she meant to him and how, and now wasn't the time to try once more. Instead, it seemed more the time to make sure Catherine knew that she wasn't a stand in, an imitation after giving up on some other woman she didn't know

"How is it unfair?" This time, William didn't stop himself from reaching forward, covering Catherine's hands with his own when she began to wring them together. "I'll answer anything you want me to, there is no part of me that you're unwelcome to know. I can't guarantee you'll like what you'll find, but I won't keep secrets from you." It was a large promise to make, but one that he meant as he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, bumping against the stone of her ring. When he looked back up, she was smiling, and there it was again, that release of tension he didn't know that he held. "If there's something you want to know, then ask. But I can tell you now, I haven't seen her in many years and I doubt I would recognize her if I did. I hope that whatever life has given her since our paths parted, that she grew to be happy. But I know that here and with you, I'm happy, and that being with you is an experience that I would have missed if my plan worked. I don't wonder what a life with her would be like, only about what our lives will be like together, and the part of me she held is now firmly and undeniable yours, as well as all the rest of me."

[virginbylorde2025]

losing people is so interesting bc like. no i don’t want to speak to you ever again. yes i think about you on your birthday.

[baronwillliam]

thornedrook​:

As the boat picked up speed, Kit relaxed his back against the side, his head tipping up towards the sun and eyes closing. Content, for the first time during this trip. Kit was curious enough to ask, but not enough to push or pry. There were ways to acquire information without such means after all, if he were really desperate.

Crack.

A jolt.

A horn.

Silence.

Kit did not move his head, nor did he open his eyes. deciding that if he did not see what was happening, perhaps it was not really happening after all. And then, he realized, his toes were wet. His toes were wet. “Hastings,” Kit said slowly, head still not turning, eyes still not opening. His words were calm, as if he were simply asking what direction they were going. “Did you sink our boat?” 

"Don't be absurd," William replied, opening his eyes to stare up at the sky. Hardly a cloud, which was a surprise as a sudden thunderstorm breaking out would fit the mood quite perfectly, in his opinion. "To say 'did you sink the boat' implies that the boat is on the bottom of the riverbed, which it's not. However, it's taking on water, so it is currently sinking."

What was the term for that? I didn't sink the boat, but I did crack it open like a nutshell left by the fireside? It seemed apt as he tried to work the ship free of the rock they'd hit, unintentionally breaking the hole wider. He should ask someone with boating knowledge about the terminology. Not Effingham.

"Look on the bright side, Dartford. We weren't originally entrusted with the boat, so if anyone asks, we can blame Effingham and Jacobs for lending it to us." Or maybe the king would think it was funny - after all, they might have entered into a secret organization with the man. Was changing their names to George part of the membership requirements?

[baronwillliam]

tenderstarved​:

.

Her breathing was still coming in gasps more than actual breaths, but the fresh air was helping, hot and muggy though it might be. It took her a long moment to move her gaze from his eyes down to the ring in his hand as he fiddled with the bag and then the box, and then the circle made of a soft rosy gold and bright flashing emeralds. It’s okay if you don’t like the ring, he was saying, but she could barely comprehend the idea that she might not. She opened her mouth to tell him just that, but he kept speaking, and so, instead, Kate began to tug off her gloves and turned her gaze back up to his eyes. The hunger that had chased them both out of the house was still there, lurking in the depths of his stare, but it had mostly given way to the earnestness of his words, replaced with something softer, something tender and gentle and…sweet. Her gloves clutched in her right hand, she started to reach for him, only to be beaten to the punch by his hand capturing hers, the ring hovering just before her finger. 

Between the words and the brief hesitation, it was like he was proposing to her all over again, like he was giving her yet another out, another opportunity to change her mind. Part of her wondered if he expected that, if he was still waiting for her to admit that this was all some sort of elaborate joke and the punchline would culminate with him alone at the altar. Even just the thought made her vaguely nauseous, but then again, Will did have such a bone deep habit of expecting the worst, and punishing himself for wanting things. Her gloves still in her grip, Kate closed her right hand over his. Her body was still flushed, still heated, and she was still craving something more than just an innocent touch of the hand, but she was able to smother it, for now, and smile at him. 

“It’s perfect,” she reassured him, without even looking down to get a better look at it, to examine every little detail of the construction of the ring. All she’d really seen were the green stones, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the look in his eyes, the words he’d spoken into the air between them, and the promises between them. It said something about how used to this that she was getting, the fact that she wasn’t surprised by his admission, even if made her feel weak and wobbly in her stomach and her knees. “Is that why you never put your name on the flowers?” She asked, teasing and earnest in equal measure, squeezing his hand gently and raising her brows slightly as she did. “You already make me happy,” she promised, her voice quiet, as if she didn’t want them to be overheard by the grass beneath them. “And I meant what I said, about wanting to be the one to make you happy. If all we ever do with the rest of our lives is try to make each other happy, it will be a life well lived,” she murmured, her thumb brushing out over his knuckles.

The ring glided on easily –– easier than she expected, and she was delighted to realize that it fit nearly perfectly. It was almost too big, sliding past her knuckle easily, but it didn’t twist around on her finger once he let go, and she breathed out a sigh of relief at the realization. Then she glanced at him again, a little sheepish this time. “I didn’t want to have to give it up to be correctly sized,” she admitted, her cheeks turning pink again, dimples appearing in her flushed skin. “I don’t want to ever take it off.” Kate glanced down at it, spreading her fingers out, palm flat, and finally examined the ring for longer than half a second, confirming that she did in fact love it, and that it was, in fact, perfect. Little flowers were carved into the sides of the band, bordered with delicate little dotted edges, and her smile broadened. “It really is perfect, Will,” she whispered, looking up at him again. “I want to kiss you again,” she admitted, her grip on his hand tightening for the briefest of moments before she let go, “but I’m worried that if I do, we might never stop.” 

As if to punctuate her words, Kate took a step back, and then another, her left hand still caught in his, and she tilted her head back, towards the gardens proper, rather than the little path they remained on. “We should sit. The sunshine will do us good,” she offered. And the windows, she thought, but did not say so. Having an audience who could not hear their conversation but would keep their movements honest was for the best –– evidently, they needed an extra set of eyes to ensure they did not tear her reputation to shreds. “And I believe you had matters you wanted to discuss, about why you joined the army?” Lacing her fingers through his, the ring on her finger feeling deliciously foreign, she tugged him forward until she was leading him to a bench, her hand stretched back behind her rather than let go of his. 

.

For as much as Catherine could set him alight, it was also true that she could soothe him in a way no one else had mastered, that no one else had ever dreamed to attempt. The touch of her hand was calming like a balm to his nerves, a feat that he'd noticed her accomplishing before even if William wasn't sure just when he gained that ability. It was a beautiful, but brief respite, as tension dripped back into William bloodstream at the question he knew was a tease, but still stirred something unpleasant inside him, something that wanted to shy away from her warmth. It was something that feared being laughed at, which was a surprise as much as it wasn't - a surprise because William seldom cared what people thought of him and firmly believed that the bridges he burned would light his path, but expected at the same time because he'd never cared about someone in the same way he did about Catherine. He'd cared similarly once, but they would get to that soon enough.

Looking at her hand over his, William didn't meet her gaze as he confessed, "I thought you might prefer them more if... you didn't know they were from me. I thought you would suspect, but as long as there was some degree of deniability, you could pretend they were from anyone you wanted. They could mean whatever you wanted." She would know what the flowers meant in their own language, William was always aware of that and he took care to make sure he never sent her anything too forward or negative thanks to the distant help of Winifred, who teased him and accurately deduced why William asked her of all people. The fact he wrote to her instead of asking the seller at the flower shop meant it was personal, something he cared about, and the fact he didn't ask their mother meant it was private. From there, not much room was left for speculation - flowers for adoration, chosen for personal and private reasons because he cared, but William didn't think Catherine would read into it the same way. From him, they could be friendly appreciation, something innocent, and from someone secret, they could mean exactly what William felt and couldn't say.

"Yes, you're right. It will be a life well lived and I vow you won't have anything less," William agreed as the ring pushed onto her finger. It went with an ease that made him worry it would fall, but resizing it was something that could be done if necessary. Once it was firmly in place, it seemed secure enough, but they could decide properly after she wore it a few days. "I'm glad you like it. Flowers suit you." She always made him think of flowers, or perhaps flowers made him think of her. The scent of lavender meant Catherine should be nearby, and the sight of her made him imagine a field of wildflowers and her laugh ringing to the sky. One day he wanted to see her stretched out beneath the sun with flowers blooming all around her, petals lost in her hair - a private picnic just for the two of them, away from the eyes of others.

"I told someone to bring us tea, we'd certainly be caught." Caught, because they were supposed to kiss and touch the way they did quite yet, no matter how his hands felt empty when they weren't curved around her body. He needed to remember that privacy was not a luxury allowed to them, but something to be stolen. "But once we're married, I plan to kiss every part of you until you forget how to speak." That was another vow he made to her, said as certainly as anything else, and William squeezed at her hand instead of chasing after her, knowing that the step away Catherine took was a wise idea - if she hadn't done it, he would have.

Sitting was good, it was proper and there wasn't anything about sitting with their hands in places that could be seen that was a bad idea - or at least not in a way that was occurring to William in the present. "Ah." He would rather be sitting for the conversation ahead anyway and followed the pull of Catherine's hand, wishing to kiss her knuckles once and yet knowing it was unwise. "You know that I hate my father, yes?" William said as they made their way to the bench, settling into place with Will's entire body turned to face Catherine. It would be easy to pull her into his arms and let her lean into his side, but no, the window. "I hate him for many reasons, but in part, he's why I joined the army. Because in my mind, he did something I couldn't forgive and I wanted to get away at any cost." It was also a good way to teach himself control and discipline, a way to contribute that was purely him instead of his father, but he didn't mention that part.

"When I was younger, freshly returned from university, I met a young woman named Emily." Emily, just Emily, no need to give her last name to find her. "And... we held feelings for one another, but her father didn't approve and planned on having her many some higher ranking Lord that she said her family owed money to. She didn't want to marry him and I, well, I would have done anything for her." There was something strange about this, talking about Emily when he hadn't talked about her in years, telling the story of a distant love to his new love. It was almost embarrassing, like he'd done something wrong for feeling something for anyone before Catherine came along. "We were going away together, we had a plan to run away and get married, and we did manage to get her out of her home, but we were also caught. We were forbidden from seeing each other and Emily was immediately shipped off to make sure we didn't try anything else and I was... indignant towards everyone, afterwards, but mostly my father. The one time I didn't need him paying attention to me, and of course he does. He was furious, too, when he found us. Didn't want trouble from Emily's family, didn't want me embarrassing our good name, wanted to know how I could humiliate him by daring to run away to get married and why I couldn't for once do things the proper, honorable way."

William's laugh was humorless when it came. It was still so easy to picture his father, vein bulging in his balding head as he raged about whatever slight William had committed against the damnable family title most recently. "And I was angry at him, of course, for not caring about what I wanted, or about Emily and her wants. Later on, my mother tried to console me by saying it wasn't my job to save Emily..." Giving a sigh, William looked up to meet Catherine's eye, not entirely sure at what point during his speech that he'd dropped his gaze. "And when she found out I proposed to you, she asked what I was saving you from. Which may be part of why she doesn't like you, because I've done this before and made what she thinks are rash promises, but my mother had no idea how different things are with you."