the.caged.escapist

Written by Snail for st-maurrp.

[cescapist]

           Ebenezer (Benny) Forester ♠ 25 ♠ Mister ♠ Fairford

Grass between your toes. Wind in your ears. Arms swinging freely as you turn, turn, turn. Walls too tight, clothes too thick, door always locked. “Be quiet!”s and “What now?!”s. Sermons meant to admonish, never lift up. Prayers akin to whimpers of pain. What’s worth a book? What can ink tell that the wide open field can’t?

Introducing Ebenezer Benny Forester, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝙴𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚝

Skeleton -- Biography -- Pinterest

[cescapist]

zachariahforester·:

Thank you, for telling me.

Zachariah had said the exact same words to Samuel after his confession about Ira Vaisman. He knew the value of them, knew the weight. He tried not to brush it away, but accept the thanks the way hew knew it was meant.

Zachariah sighed a long tired sigh. What now? “I’m not entirely sure.” He wished there was a switch he could flick, to get rid of everything he’d adopted and absorbed and leave behind only what was genuinely him, but there wasn’t. He’d been at this for so long and had wanted so badly for these traits and thoughts and skills he’d picked up to be truly his, that he had managed to convince himself that they were. He wasn’t sure what was his and what wasn’t, or if it even mattered. “I think it will be a long process of unpicking. I’m all in knots but- well I don’t think I’ll feel them until I come across them, and then I’ll have to inspect them very hard I suppose and wonder why it’s there, if I need it. If it makes me happy simply because it served its purpose of allowing me my sameness or if I genuinely enjoy it.” And still, still, it was terrifying, this idea that if he undid all these knots that he’d be exposed, as an outsider, as someone who didn’t belong, as someone his family could not recognise or love the way they had before because he was not one of them. “And then after all of that I still have to figure out how to undo the knot. If it’s possible.” If it was worth it. “You think it’ll be worth it?” He asked, looking to Benny for guidance, something he had done far more often than perhaps his younger brother knew.

A small laugh pushed its way through at Benny’s joke. It wasn’t even that funny, but he’d needed the excuse to release some of the tension. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with a smile despite it all. “I loved it too. I wish- I just wish it had come from a different place.” Some of his best memories were of playing with his siblings, helping them build towers of blocks, running through fields and hiding in the trees. He remembered pulling out books for Leah, from shelves just out of reach. Then they’d sit flicking through the pages and he’d help her with words she didn’t know yet. And now he didn’t know, had he done that because he’d enjoyed it, or because he was terrified of losing them? The thought was nearly enough to bring tears to his eyes once more, but he held them at bay. No more tears. “I don’t think maintaining my place in this family would have been nearly so essential to me if I didn’t love you all as intensely as I do.” They were more than worth the skewed sense of self, the part that ruined him now was realised it probably hadn’t been necessary.

He supposed it was some comfort, that his act had been so convincing. “Luckier?” He asked, a little confused. He had never considered himself very lucky, but as Benny explained, he sagged with sympathy, with understanding. He knew acutely what it was to look at another and want what they had. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve never thought you lacking in anything, handsomeness or otherwise. Valentin clearly doesn’t think so either.” He cut himself off, like he was surprised by himself. “It is Valentin, isn’t it?” He asked, hoping he hadn’t horribly misread the situation. He also couldn’t bring himself to articulate it much better than that. Either it was Valentin, or it wasn’t.

When Benny asked about when their mother had told him, he felt the weight inside him ease immediately, just from the anticipation of being able to share it with someone else. “Let me try to remember it properly…” He told Benny the story, less fragmented and emotional than he’d received it, about their mother meeting a man, falling in love and becoming pregnant. About that man abandoning her, and how she’d had to flee her home and to give birth to him in Farrington hospital where she’d met their father. About her attempting to return home only for her family to try and ship her baby off behind her back. About her chasing after him, and their father saving the day on horseback. About how he’d proposed later that night as they recovered in his apartment and the rest, as they say, was history.

After it was told, he left a long silence. It was a lot to digest, even hearing it the second time. “I’ve never seen her like that Benny, so emotional, so angry.” When she’d told them off for misbehaving the anger had never been so deep and seething. “She said she didn’t regret it, but that if she could go back she’d choose not to love that man, my biological father, again. She said men were not capable of love, and I think she believed it, truly. I think she believes they are only capable of devastation and heartbreak.” He was not telling Benny this to turn him against her. He himself, even after hearing it all from her own mouth, could not be truly against her. “But I think she’d do almost anything to protect us, to save us, or some other poor girls from the same fate. Perhaps that’s why she’s never encouraged us to marry. In a sick way I suppose she was quite happy with the way fate intervened with Sissy and Maurice.” He sighed again, and then his thoughts caught up with the words he’d just said. His eyes widened a little. He looked up at Benny.

Understanding,and yet not, for Benny had never experienced something so world-changing as Zachariah had, Benny nodded along to his brother’s spoken plans. They sounded like good plans, like rational plans. The sort of plans that were grounded in the reality of what any one man could do, or could achieve. To find the knots. To untangle them, methodically, bit by bit by bit. To slowly unravel the chain, and see, in the end, whether it was worth keeping. Benny thought it sounded more than worth it, he thought it sounded necessary. He let a smile onto his face, one which was encouraging, one which was true. “Of course,” he said, with a certainly he wasn’t sure he felt. “And I’ll be here, you know. If you need some soap or butter, to help things along, or just someone to… someone.” He gave a little shrug. Someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to look to for advice when it came to not fitting in, someone who wanted to know him, the real him, just as much as he himself.

“Does it matter, where it came from?” Benny prompted, tilting his head to try and catch his brother’s eye. “Not that- not that I mean your feelings aren’t important. I just mean, we still have the memories. You still spent the time with us. You still love us.” Intensely, something that Zachariah admitted with a rawness within his voice, and an honesty that caught on Benny’s heartstrings like a broken nail on a woollen jumper. “Isn’t that what counts?”

Really, it should have been what counted. Not the initial reason behind the action, but the result of it. Did it matter if someone donated to a charity only to look good in front of their peers, if it meant that a hungry child was fed as a result of their vanity? Did it matter if Zachariah had tried so hard to bond with his siblings to undermine his feelings of isolation and difference, if the result was their love for one another, which went well beyond blood? Went beyond appearance? Went beyond any perceived lack of this or that or-

Shocked, surprised, Benny swallowed dry and choked on his own tonsils.

“Um-” he spluttered, wordless, though he very much doubted he needed to voice that Zachariah had been right in his assumption. Benny reckoned that it was clear in the panic upon his face, in the sudden red flush over his cheeks and ears, in the pound of his heart, so loud and wild it was less human and more animal. Yes, Benny loved Valentin. His stomach clenched. His mouth gaped. “It- He- I-” A breath, deep and shuddering. Benny gathered himself, found strength in the reminder that moments ago Zachariah had promised not to change him. “It’s new. Don’t- Don’t say anything, tell anyone. Please?” What had started out as a firm attempt at a command withered into a meek beg at its end. “I’m not to tell anyone. We have to be- safe.” Safe. Secret. Quiet. And yet Zachariah had guessed, without even seeing the two of them together? Was it the luggage in Benny’s room? Was it Valentin’s soap-clean scent on the pillow case and the bedsheets? Was it just the glow of love in Benny’s cheeks, the sort of domestic honeymoon happiness that painted newlyweds, newly founds, in peaches and pinks for the world to see? Benny placed a hand on his burning cheek, as if to hide it.

Thankfully, issues of their mother rearrose, and though Benny felt guilty to admit it, he felt relief in burrowing into Zachariah’s identity and not his own. With steadily cooling nerves and waning embarrassment, he listened. Listened to the story their mother had told Zachariah, about a man who didn’t take responsibility, about the doctor who did, and all the things inbetween. It sounded almost impossible. It sounded almost ridiculous. Their mother, Mrs Forester, the pious woman, the firm woman, the faultless woman, and a child born out of wedlock, and a turning away from filial responsibility, and the adoption of a new life? Surely not. And yet Zachariah said it all with the same certainty with which he had broken the revelation only minutes earlier, leaving no space for any doubt to nestle and make a home. In the silence that followed, each fragment of hesitancy was crushed, one by one, until Benny could only sit, dumbly, and accept that his mother was not the woman he had always thought her to be. She was something, someone deeper, and darker, and far more complex.

Benny couldn’t imagine the way it must have hurt Zachariah to hear those things. It hurt him, it hurt Benny, and he wasn’t even the result of that love. It hurt him, and he wasn’t even the target of her blanket anger. How could she believe that, when their father – his father? – had been so very lovely? Had been so kind? When none of her sons had harmed a woman, only ever been harmed by them in the case of Zachariah? Benny’s brow was twisted with confusion, wretched and tense.

“But that’s ridiculous, I mean look at us, we haven’t…” he began to protest, shaking his head mostly to himself. He sighed, hung his head, and made a soft sound of agreement and acknowledgement as his brother mentioned their mother’s hands-off approach to her children’s marital affairs. Then he let out a sound less of agreement and more of sympathy and pain for their youngest sister. Out of the corner of his eye, Zachariah shifted, moved, and looked towards him. Benny raised his head, and looked back, meeting eyes which clearly churned with query and theory.

“What?” he asked softly, unaware of what had caused his older brother to fall silent, nor to look so perturbed. He ran through what had just been said for a clue. “What?” he repeated, a little more urgently, before his mind waved a tiny, miniscule red flag. His brow changed from crumpled to raised. “Well, happy maybe, relieved, but not- You can’t be thinking that mummy had anything to do with what happened, can you?” he asked, almost laughing a little with some sort of desperate disbelief. Their mother, intervene? Their mother, shoot a rifle? Their mother, a killer? Surely not. Please. Surely not.

[cescapist]

valentin-talbot·:

Vignettes of Summer

Time: June Place: St Maur Status: Closed, for @cescapist·

·16th

Valentin too was facing a moral dilemma that afternoon. With one mouth, Janus said: Go down for tea and spend time with Zachariah before he’d worry about the length of your ‘afternoon rest’ and come look for you in your room. Go down for tea and get ready to welcome the Meir family. Go down and perhaps even motivate Benny to write some of the letters waiting for him.  With the other mouth, Janus said: But cuddles! 

And indeed, with all four limbs wrapped around Benny, who for the past half an hour had done nothing but let Valentin run his fingers through his hair as they existed in that perfect state between asleep and awake where everything felt heavy and quiet and comfortable, it truly did feel like a crime to get up. To force Benny to sit up as well! Oh, he should go to prison for it. No, truly. He was at wits’ end with this dilemma. 

It took the knocking at the door and the announcement that this was in fact Mrs Meir that had urgency make the decision for him. Leaving Benny behind – a crime! a crime! – he went down and greeted Mrs Meir and her oldest daughter and youngest son, then showed them to one of the studies. Mrs Meir soon asked to be excused though, as she had one or the other thing to do in town, causing a shiver of fright to run down Valentin’s back. Naturally, he could not ask her to stay, not if it was the son who had demanded an … audience, so he watched her leave with a smile and the sudden kinship to a puppy left home alone. 

When he turned back to the Meir children sitting in the seats by the desk, he saw the arrogant, confident, indifferent eyes of thirteen-year-old Tilly, and the curious, eager, hopeful eyes of seven-year-old Tim, and oh boy, he did not know which one he feared most. 

“Well, then,” he then decided, and walked around the desk, “let us see what’s been said on moral dilemmas and how to solve them.” He had found a couple of books and placed them on the desk earlier this morning, and with a relatively good and useful understanding of the topic, and a total lack of understanding of what a child is, he got to work. He was mid-summarising a text by Aristotle when the door – left open – creaked open some more. No doubt that all three of the heads spinning hoped for some tea, and no doubt that at least Valentin found himself anything but disappointed when he saw that it was Benny.

Until: “Oh! Do you need the room?!” He had not even considered it before that this might be what Benny used as his study. How foolish of him! He was already on his feet. 

Not even a week had passed since its beginning, and already Benny was unable to consider a time in which this had not been the norm, nor a time in which it might be withheld from him. Valentin’s fingers were on his scalp, the scratch of his well kept fingernails light enough to send the occasional shiver of pleasure down his spine yet firm enough not to tickle. His breathing was a familiar metronome, a shallow and subtle rise and fall of the chest upon which Benny sprawled, cheek unbothered by the buttons of his shirt. His heartbeat a welcomed thu-bump, thu-bump, thu-bump against his ear, accompanied less and less frequently by the odd noise of digestion and all the queer audible workings of a body which one became acquainted with when so closely pressed to it. He was in heaven, and heaven was within him, and around him, and under him, and with its arms on him, and its legs tangled round him, in his bed, in his home, in his heart.

And then the knock had come.

Selfish, Benny had whined, just loud enough for Valentin to hear him. Had burrowed his face against his chest, kissed it through his shirt, huffed, and puffed, and squeezed his arms against Valentin’s sides. And then, knowing he must, and knowing that he would return to heaven and that heaven would return to him soon enough, he had rolled his weight off. He had shared one last chaste kiss, and then slumped back onto the mattress in the spot Valentin had vacated.

Napping had not happened, even though he had longed for it. In the absence of a body to listen to, to give his attention, his own became far too loud. It begged him to stretch, and to move, and to find new and interesting things to see and touch and smell. He had risen only five minutes after Valentin had left, and had turned his attention to the task he had promised of himself: letter writing.

He worked for fifteen minutes, and then his mind, scattering like seeds in the wind, refused to work any more. Words turned from a flow, to a trickle, to a drip, to a stop. In place of ink, Benny spilled out sighs. He missed heaven. If he strained his ears very, very hard, he could just about imagine that he could hear Valentin’s high, soft voice carrying up the stairs. He could just about imagine the careful metre of his speaking. He could just about imagine the way his voice might change as Benny entered his little lecture, the way his eyes might soften and widen all at once. He could just about…

Benny was down the stairs before rational thought had even entered his mind. In his hands, his half-written letter, his ink and his pen, and the blotting paper – a tool someone as prone to mess as Benny could never be without, if writing was meant to be done. Down there, he no longer had to imagine Valentin’s voice, for he could hear it. High, soft, and in careful metre, though sometimes giving way to a pause for meaningful emphasis, or the searching of words. With his clutter held to his chest, Benny peeked his head through the gap in the door, and pushed it to give better way for the rest of him. It creaked, as old hinges were wont to do, and just like that the considered on and on or words halted, and three faces quickly turned to meet his. Valentin’s eyes softened and widened all at once.

“What?” Benny said, a little dumbfounded; he had been so intent on listening to the melody of Valentin’s voice that he had forgotten, for the most part, to pay attention to what was actually being said. Then, with a casual wave, with a too-bright for casual smile: “Oh, no, no, actually I was wondering if I might join? To just- write. My letters. Over there.” He pointed to the smaller desk past Valentin, pressed tightly against a windowsill and peppered in all sorts of instruments for the examination of bits, which Doctor Forester was sometimes tasked with.

He knew, really, that the house was his (or his family’s), and that he hardly needed to ask permission to enter. And yet it felt quite cheeky to intrude, to bring his selfish longing to be close to Valentin into that little space, where such lofty subjects as moral dilemmata were being discussed. Benny’s questioning, permit-seeking gaze dropped from Valentin’s to the children before him, whose names he was sure he knew, if he would only be given a hint. Tabitha, maybe, and Thomas. “May I?” he asked them, remembering very much how, as a child, he had revelled in being asked permission from real, true adults, if only as it made them seem so much more human, and far more game for a bit of cheek.

[cescapist]

valentin-talbot·:

Valentin shuddered. “No, I will not have that, Mister Ebenezer Forester. You can convince me about the health benefits of swimming in a muddy river, the poetry of running through the rain, yes even the cosiness of sleeping in the stables, but you will have to try really hard to make me believe that goo and goop is the best thing in life.” He shuddered again. If ever there had been doubts that Valentin was the son of a Baron, his aversion to dirt had always adjusted it again. Even as a child, he had found mud inexcusable. Or any form of dough he was supposed to be kneading. Or the soft sand underneath his feet, squelching through his toes, when he went swimming in the ocean. Squelching! The word alone was revolting! His greatest threat to this day was the clay the Partridge brothers would sometimes mould into beautiful statues. He had tried it once and quickly declared that he’d never be an artist. Yes, there simply was something deeply inappropriate about all things sticky. Honey? Jam? The saliva of a dog? Childish and dangerous. Naughty in the way you would get scolded for. And yet! And ye, the way he said it, smiling and looking at Benny with a glint in his eyes? It was a challenge. Challenge me, Mister Ebenezer Forester, challenge me and witness how far I’d follow you. 

Benny’s beautiful grin was long gone, and Valentin pitied it. Pitied himself a little for how much he missed it and was the cause of its disappearing. So after Benny explained and before he replied, he put his hand to Benny’s jaw, as though to catch the muscles there, and pulled himself up to place a kiss to his cheek.  “If you had ended out friendship in the name of rejected romance, you would’ve broken my heart,” he said, honestly but without pathos or the wish to be pitied, said it simply. “And I would have deserved it. Or rather,” he added quickly before Benny had a chance to reject the notion, “you would’ve had the right to do so.” He kissed his cheek again, then sank back to his soles and smiled. “Unfortunately, it all went well, and now you are stuck with me.” He had brought it up for a reason, though. Wondering about what could’ve been. How his actions would’ve been perceived had he not … acted out of fear once again. The fear to be found out, the fear to lose love again.   At some point, one day, those two fears would collide again. But at least now he knew which fear would hurt him, and which fear would hurt Benny. At least now, he would know how to choose. 

It was a problem for the future. “Meadow?” he asked, nodding towards it. 

Muddy rivers, rainy puddles, cosy stables. Benny matched the curled lip and challenging eyes with his own mischievous, gleeful grin. Valentin shuddered dramatically, and Benny rubbed his hands over his back like one might with an over-chilled fellow, to warm the skin. “Oh, I shall try,” he promised, fingers scrunching and dancing over Valentin’s back and to his sides in a ticklish flurry. For what was more fun than mess, than to share it with another? What was the point of a muddy river without another splash about beside, a rainy storm without a companion to be drenched with, a cosy stable without a friend to cuddle up beside, close, closer than is at all acceptable? And what was the point of a gooey, sticky heart without the wet kiss of a lover, without wiping the morning gunk from the corners of his eyes, without indulging and delighting in each and every human part of him, oozy and goopy and alive, wonderfully alive?

Valentin’s lips pressed to his cheek, and his hand held him close, so that Benny hadn’t the option of looking at his face and seeing the honesty within it. He could only hear it, clear within his voice, and wince at the truth spoken. True to form his lips did open, his lungs did suck in air, and he did go to protest, but Valentin went onwards, and whilst Benny still felt a stubborn desire to insist Valentin wouldn’t deserve a broken heart, that such a pain shouldn’t be visited upon him at all, he found he couldn’t disagree with the rewording. The fight fell from him in a sigh, and his brow, which had knotted, fell calm and smooth at the second kiss to his cheek.

“Mmn,” Benny hummed, all gooey and sticky again, rid of the thorns and scratches of the hypothetical situation. “Fortunately, indeed,” he said, well aware that was not what Valentin had said, and well aware that it also was. He dropped his hands to Valentin’s hips, and squeezed them, solid and skinny and very much there. Then, at the movement of Valentin’s head, pulled his eyes from the smile upon his face and over to the meadow, where Clever was munching her way through the hot grass. “Meadow,” he agreed, and because he was soppy and goopy and sticky and lovely, he let go of Valentin’s hips but took one hand in his, to lead him into the field.

The meadow, once one was upon it, rolled downwards at a gentle slope until it abutted against a stout stone wall, threaded through with lichen and moss,and scattered with toadflax flowers. Beyond that crooked grey line, onwards and onwards, the land toppled down and down and down until all at once it ended, and well beyond it then was the Bristol Channel, blue in the glorious summer sunshine. Just as Benny remembered, through the humid haze on the left was the coast of England, growing thinner and thinner in the distance until it was but a dark line upon the horizon, a sliver of land separating sea and sky. On the right – closer, greener – was the coast of South Wales.

“There we are,” Benny said, feeling like his own, clumsy words hardly managed to frame it in any flattering or proper, adept manner. Still, he tried. “Nice, yes?”

[cescapist]

rose-meddley·:

“Mylittle Ebenezer helping me with preparing a luncheon, my, my, I amquite lucky today, aren’t I?” Mrs Meddley said in that voice ofhers that was perfectly honest, even though it sounded as though shewas addressing a tiny child, and not a grown man. She looked him overcarefully. “You will want to change first, though. Or else you’llget yourself terribly dirty.” Aprons would also do. It was morespoken as a warning, something to remind him that he was stilldressed for church, in case he had forgotten in his eagerness. It wasalso, in a way, a very polite manner to ask: “Did you come herestraight from Church?” Have you been to church at all?

Shewas about to ask what he wanted, but the suggestions rained it bythemselves, eagerly, like the pitter patter of a quiet Springmorning. She was about to tie on her own apron and turn to bring outthe scones, whenshe paused. Val. “Surely we will want to continue to respect FatherValentin and call him by his full name, yes?” A raised eyebrow towards him. “Or is he family now?” 

Just as honest in return, Benny’s smile was full of glee when he turned it towards Mrs Meddley, childish in its simple pleasure yet mature in the emotion behind it. Yes, she was lucky, he was lucky, the world was bright and fair and full of luck and love. And Benny was within it all, his jacket off, his hands full of soap-bubbles, his eyes squinted tight with pleasure behind his spectacles.

“Oh!” he said, opening his elbows and peering down himself as if suddenly surprised to see his best black waistcoat staring back at him. But it wouldn’t do to go and get changed now, he would surely miss the excitement of luncheon-making, and then he would only possibly dirty his riding habit, and that would spoil his appearance for Valentin. He did not wish to spoil his appearance for Valentin. Perhaps there would be another way. To remove the waistcoat, and to replace it with a dishcloth, or similar?

Water splashed and splurted into the basin in the churning, spitting manner of a too-wide tap. Benny thrust his hands back beneath it to rinse them clean. “I did, yes, yes,” he confirmed, voice still overquick with excitement and joy and happiness and love and all manner of wonderful things. He turned off the tap and shook his wet hands limply before finding a coarse-cloth dish towel, and rubbing them dry until the tips of his fingers were pink and fresh. His fingers then flew to his waistcoat, to remove it and place it out of harm's way, where cucumber sandwiches (with a bit of cheese) might not cause it any damage. Only there, they paused, Mrs Meddley’s well-meaning and gently prying questions freezing them in place. Benny’s eyes were stuck, temporarily wide with panic, upon that cucumber.

“Ah, right,” he squeaked, turning with an expression caught between that of a cowed young boy, and a child hoping through sweetness alone to worm their way out of trouble. He met Mrs Meddley’s raised eyebrow with a chin ducked towards his chest. “Only, he has been a friend of the family for so long, it’s easy to forget, isn’t it?”

Eager to push on, to leave any accidental clue as to the feelings that had grown between he and Valentin, and to get on with preparing a picnic luncheon fit for his planned afternoon, Benny darted over towards the pegs holding a few spare aprons and grasped one for himself. “I can wash the fruit,” he said, as slicing bread, or cucumber, or, well, anything, was hardly something he trusted himself to do.

[cescapist]

stmaur-npc·:

London - July 16th, 1904

Dear Mister Ebenezer,

I admire your honesty through and through. Some might consider it an easy thing, to be honest to a stranger, but a lot is at stake here for you and so you would have every reason to lie to me to wash your name clean and convince me of your virtues. So I shall reply to you with the same openness as you have – as I hope and assume – granted me.

First though, I must commend your sensible nature with which you kindly explained your business to me. You are quite right, this does not sound like the business of a charlatan, nor of a misled magician, who might believe in his work but will not help others all the same. So I shall treat you henceforth with the respectability of any business owner I might encounter. For how much will you sell one vial of your product? How much will you pay those who provide your ingredients? And how much will you pay those who fabricate it? Forgive me for the plainness of those questions, bordering on rudeness. I can ensure you more lies beneath than the simple wish to see the Factory do well for my own conscience.

Next, I wish to tell you that you should no longer feel guilt over what you have done as a boy. The mere fact that you feel it, absolves you. That is what I believe in the bottom of my heart. It was many years ago and if you have not done such things again, then it was a lesson worth learning. A painful lesson on the back of another, an unfortunate lesson, but a lesson worth learning all the same. His wounds will have healed by now, so if I may: Allow yours to heal as well.

Now, at last, I would like to know what you would think of me if I told you that I married my husband out of friendship, not romantic love. That the only love I’ve ever felt was for a woman, whom I have lived with for nearly thirty years, whom I’m still living with. What would you say if I told you that your phrasing of hellish acts offends me, as they use words from a doctrine I dare not believe in. What would you say?

And further still, in appendage to the above, what if I asked you again, what your greatest dream is? It needs not be sensible or acceptable, it needs not be implementable, at least not by your own hands. Your greatest dream, for yourself, for humanity.

With regards,

Sofia Pemberly

18th of July, 1904

Dear Lady Pemberly

Thank you again for your reply. I must apologise if my answers to the questions you have set out in your letter are imprecise or otherwise unsatisfying. As the business is in its infancy, such concrete things as costs, numbers, and the like, are like to change. That said, I can provide estimates based on the information I currently possess.

The price of one vial of the product shall remain modest. My family already has an income - two, in fact, with the rent of land and property. I see no need to gain vast profits, only enough to support myself so that I do not continue to rely on my parents, and a little extra to save for the future. As such, I should like the product to be sold to a vendor for between 4-5s per bottle, with instruction not to sell to customers for more than 7s 6d per bottle. A bottle being no less than half of a pint, of which a dose is between a tsp and tbsp. (I have personally looked at the old bottling machinery in the Factory, and believe that it may be altered to allow for this size, and no smaller.)

The payment for the suppliers of ingredients should be fair, being equal to or just below the price as would go to market. The reason that it may be below is that a large order as would be required by production would guarantee a greater amount of the product is sold, thus reducing loss through spoiling or wastage. Any ingredients that might be refused at market due to an unappealing appearance, yet are otherwise perfectly usable broken down would also be profitable sold to the Factory, whereas they may become wastage at market. As stated, I wish to use local ingredients rather than those found outside of St. Maur and the surrounding area, which would cut costs on freight, and allow the price of the bottle at sale to remain low. Of course, the suppliers of the bottles and labels, whose crop would not be affected by weather, crop plagues, fishing droughts, or any other natural process that might affect those providing ingredients, would have a fixed price contract.

To those who shall be working at the Factory, the majority of the profits shall go. I want to pay each worker reasonably, supplying for them the cost of housing, food, clothing, and savings. Healthcare shall be provided, with insurance. A factory worker who has dependents – those being children, or an infirm family member – would be given a slightly higher wage to provide for those dependents. My aim, should profit allow for it, is that each family be paid no less than 25s per week, with larger families having more workers earning more, and smaller families and single earners earning less (though, of course, the position of each worker shall influence the pay). I know this is a rather high amount compared to most factory labourers in the country, and as I said, it would only be manageable should the profit of sale be high enough. My own, personal share of profits would be no more than double that of the highest earning family in the factory, and I do not expect to make any gross profit for the first several years due to the cost of starting a company. Excess profits, if they exist, shall be pooled and used to improve the factory, the town, and for bonuses specifically at Christmastime. The Factory shall run six days a week, with a rest day given on Sundays to allow for leisure and, if desired, religious activities.

As I said, I do apologise if these answers are vague or leave you unsatisfied. The business is in its infancy, and though I have several-dozen letters between myself and various suppliers of ingredients my scientifically gifted family are testing, the fact of the matter is I do not yet have concrete or fixed answers to those ever-important monetary questions. I understand that you would, of course, wish to see your late husband The Honourable Lord Pemberly’s Factory do well, and I believe that you share my wish to see those who work in the factory do well, also. Therefore, I hope that even in their vagueness these answers shall promise you that my vision is a clear and good one, and let that set your heart at ease.

Your kind words regarding that black spot on my past soothe me, and have acted as a balm. Truthfully, I do not know whether I will ever be absolved of that guilt, but I reckon that its continued presence at least keeps me on the straight and the narrow. Still, I thank you for your kindness, and for your listening ear (or reading eye). It would be very easy to judge me for those actions, or doubt that I have truly changed, and I am grateful you have not done so.

I will admit that I was forced to take some time after reading the last part of your letter to gather my courage and reply. I hope you will forgive any inelegant wording in this part of my letter. I am aware that when speaking I often come across as obtuse or foolish, and I hope not to translate that into written language as well, but when my emotions are heightened it often happens without my permission.

I truly hope that you have guessed, from the deliverance of this letter and from my earlier writings continuing to deal with matters of business, that I in no way look upon you unkindly for your admissions. Quite the opposite, in fact. But before I can remark upon what I think of you over what it is you have told me, I must apologise for my wording regarding my own admissions in my last letter. When using such words as ‘hellish’, I did not mean to insinuate that it was my opinion the acts were so, nor that it was yours, but rather that of wider society which so often cruelly condemns that which it does not understand or value. I am in love with a man. I love him dearly, and ardently, and romantically. I shan’t write his name, for should this letter fall into the wrong hands it may harm him, and to do so has become my greatest fear, far trumping any peril to myself. I long for a future with him in which I may one day write, as you have, that I have loved and lived with him for nearly three decades. Alas, whilst our friendship is long, our love is only newly recognised and cherished. I must wait, with great enjoyment for each moment that passes, for that future. So, to what I think of you: I think you aspirational. I think you brilliant. I think you human, and in love, and for that I am awfully happy for you. I also think you very lucky, to have had friendship in marriage, for I know of marriages which have neither love nor friendship. I understand that there are some husbands and wives who marry for friendship in order to appease that wider society I previously mentioned, and with the safety of that appeasement may then love the same sex with less fear over exposure. If I may ask, did your husband also have a love outside of this marriage of friends? If I may not, then please accept my apology. I am so new to this world of people such as myself, who love in the same manner as I, that my curiosity is an often uncontrollable force. I would also finally say, of the doctrine that you dare not believe in, that such a doctrine has been drilled into me for an unfortunately long time. My lover, who is also my dearest friend, and others around me of similar disposition to you and I, are unpicking the convoluted mess of beliefs that trapped me for so long. It is wonderfully freeing, to see the world and God in a new and love-filled light.

And now, with my heart very much buoyant with joy – for I have been able to sing the truthful praises of my lover, which I often am forced to keep quiet and tight in my chest – to answer your last question. I must warn you, I am often unsensible, unacceptable, and unimplementable, and your permission to be all three of these things at once may set me loose in some ridiculous and silly manner. My greatest dream, for myself, for humanity, is just to be content. It is a deceptively simple dream. Contentment requires so much, when one considers it. It requires the material comforts needed for a good and healthy life – food and drink and home and warmth – but also those immaterial comforts. It requires fulfilment, and stimulation, and beauty, and art, and love, and friendship (be those one and the same, or separate), companionship and understanding, and also mystery and solitude in balanced amounts. It is not something I alone can implement, either for myself or for the world and all who reside within it. But it is my wish. A true, and honest wish. If I can take even one little shuffle in the direction of its fulfilment, then I shall consider myself a very well achieved man, indeed.

Yours faithfully,

Ebenezer Forester

[cescapist]

bernie-talbot·:

-

It took a lot to shock Bernie, but Benny certainly had, stealing a disbelieving laugh from her lips “Are you suggesting I engage in sacrifice?” Oh she liked him! “And where exactly did you hear all of this, Mr Forrester? Do not tell me my brother has been preaching on the virtues of sacrifice and other… strange practices.” 

Bernie hummed in amusement, feeling more comfortable now to speak in more unseemly manner with him, “Yes, I did wonder over there if a revolutionary disposition might suit me rather well. But I doubt all the red would suit me.” 

His words struck a cord, not least because she used to believe them, sure she had envied Florence and Valentin for their kindness, their ability to see the good where Bernie only saw inferiority, but she had truly believed her title made her, in some way, superior to the others in the town. That title alone was enough to make her worthy, deserving, of all that she had. 

“Come now, surely you do not believe a title is enough to make someone inferior, not in the way that matters. My brothers, I will grant you, have certainly proved their worth through their occupation, the good they have contributed to the world. but I cannot believe any of that is earned through their birth. Not anymore.” 

How did she feel about Alastair’s nuptials? Certainly pleased for him. She only wanted the best for him, for all of her siblings, of course it was hard to believe there were many people out there who deserved Alastair. Deserved any of their siblings really. Then there was the jealousy. How could she look at the wedding preparations without having that one treacherous thought - this could have been me.  

“Of course I am happy for him. My siblings deserve happiness, especially after the year we have had. And I do love weddings. Even I am not immune to the joy they bring, the hope that runs through them. Still, I was never very good at relinquishing the spotlight.” should she still crave it? Had attention proved anything but negative over the past year. 

“What about you?” It was a blatant attempt to change the subject. “The Season is over. Did you find anyone? Should we be expecting any upcoming nuptials of your own? It would be nice to have another wedding in St Maur.” 

“No! No, not at all,” Benny blustered, in answer to all of Lady Bernadette’s questions, even the one to which ‘no’ was not an appropriate or sensible response. “Certainly not, your brother would never. I think, if anything, he would highlight the virtue of, um,” he glanced to Valentin again, looking awfully handsome in the summer light. Awfully, dreadfully handsome. Strange practices, indeed. “Love,” Benny finished lamely, still not making much sense. He tore his gaze back to Lady Bernadette, her eyes that same striking, stunning blue, and pushed the smile back onto his face; hiding the horror of his social ineptitude behind humour again. “Father Lancashure, though? Oh, I’m sure he’d have been happy to bring back sacrifice, and send me off as the first lamb, to boot.”

Yet it seemed Benny’s ineptitude was not all bad. Lady Bernadette had laughed, after all, even if it had sounded more like a laugh of shock than a laugh of true humour. And now she joked in turn, dry and dark in the way of those who were quick to grow calluses when the world rubbed them wrong.

“I don’t think revolution often suits members of nobility,” he quipped in turn, returning to the usual fidgets of a man unused to stillness. “From what I’ve heard the red they make you wear is the bloody sort.” Ah, yes, wonderful, more death jokes. Benny really shouldn’t be allowed to stay near graves for too long, it seemed to turn him awfully morbid. “Not that I wouldn’t be there right beside you, apparently. I’ve been told we get lumped in together, by those lot.” Yes, Mister Ira Vaisman had opened Benny’s eyes to many things indeed, in their little conversations. That he was in a position of privilege was, amazingly, the least of them.

He’d been spending a little more time thinking on that subject, as of late. Nothing too in depth, nor too complex, as it ran quickly depressing circles around him, and Benny’s mind was apt to jump at the best of times, let alone when it looked like the ship was sinking (it did not help that there were many lovely distractions in the Summer: swimming, and singing, and bird-watching, and hiking, and riding, and Valentin, at his side in any and all endeavour-). Yet despite the shallowness and slowness of his thoughts on the matters of class and power and responsibility, he had indeed reached the conclusion that a title was not enough to make one superior, nor that its lack made one inferior.

“Well, no, I suppose I don’t,” Benny admitted, knowing that in doing so he was telling Lady Bernadette something which she would never usually accept: that she was not special simply due to her birth. “But I don’t think that a man is inherently superior due to his job, either. Goodness, though, I agree with that. And you know what they say, it’s never too late…” He wasn’t quite sure to whom that last part applied. Was it to him, who now was dipping his toes into the hot, dangerous pools of business, and trying his best to do good with it? Or was it instead a jab at the Lady before him, who had coldly scoffed at Benny many times in the past, and who had, with freezing frigidity, wounded his older brother’s heart? He did not know. Perhaps it was both. He twiddled his hat between his fingers, and looked at the gravel path beneath their feet.

At least they could agree that happiness for one’s siblings was something they both felt, and that, if nothing else, was good. Benny nodded at the ground, humming once more, only briefly interrupted by the quivering screech of a young gull flying overhead. It masked a tiny honk of inappropriate laughter at her candour. “It’s only one day, is it not?” he said, swaying towards Lady Bernadette before swaying back again. “You’re sure to have your own wedding soon, and the spotlight will be all yours again.” Not a wedding to Zachariah, though. Not the wedding that Benny, head full of dreams and unrealities, had years ago briefly squawked excitedly about before earning a well placed nudge to shut him up.

He certainly shut up, now, and not before another squawk – though this one was not of excitement so much as of surprise, and embarrassment. The gravel under his feet skittered away when he lost his balance upon his heels. “Uh, no,” he said with some hurry once the surprise of the question had dusted his cheeks with a blush. It was only a lie in that marriage was not on the cards, and that he had not needed to find Valentin, as he had been at his side almost all along. “No, no, no, no. I’m uh- hardly ready, for that. I’ve got a business to try and set up, and then run. It’ll be up to Zachariah to be the first, I reckon.”

[cescapist]

valentin-talbot·:

Valentin was surprised at first at the reaction, seeing how he had spoken only earnestly with very little attempt at being flirtatious, but when he understood, a chuckle escaped him, as soft as the hand that then moved to cover Benny’s on his chest. “I don’t know much, but one thing I know for sure. And that’s the fact that love is not a competition.” But he took the kiss, with eyes fluttering shut, with a smile resting fondly on his lips, with a thousand tingles of love spiking through him in all the ways he was teaching himself to embrace, not flee from. Took the kiss and took the words, and promised himself to never forget them.

“You’re quite right,” he nodded solemnly, “this is, in fact, quite goo-dy,” pronouncing the first syllable like ‘goo’ now on purpose. “Sticky and unacceptable.” No hint of joke, just the voice of a man quite concerned for the terrible state their lack of kisses had put them in. And yes, of course it broke when the kisses did come, and he felt warm and alive and … good. 

He listened carefully, actually serious then, and despite the urge to interrupt and correct Benny-of-the-past, he forced himself to be patient and listen to all that Benny had to say. It pained him. And he wanted to apologise again, again and again, for a behaviour he could no longer change. The promise to himself, the other one, the one from yesterday, about been steadfast and honest in his love as long as Benny would have him, until that wound was fully healed, or at least scarred safely, rearose. He wanted to undo the wound, but because he couldn’t, he would care for it until it was no longer hurting. It was the only thing he could do. It felt like too little.

Maybe that was why he was not certain how to respond. Because he had been upset, hadn’t he been? Upset that Benny had put him into such a difficult position. Even if it had been a superficial anger, hiding the fear that sat beneath, he’d just let his actions be guided by it… Should he tell Benny now? Or would that not hurt him once more? “And yesterday? If I had said that I could not love you back? Would you really have left me?” 

“I have it on good authority that goo and goop are the best bits in life, and you should put your fingers in it,” Benny replied, thinking fondly of all Mrs Meddley had done to cheer him in the depths of his loneliness and boredom. It was very gooey, and goopy, and goo-dy, the sticky, tacky, glutinous feelings in Benny’s chest; the way his fingers and eyes and lips felt drawn to Valentin, the same way hands in unfloured dough were drawn back into it. Just as with the eggs, Benny delighted in the eye-rolling, ridiculous, over-sweet goo which dripped from his heart, in cracking open the shell of it and indulging every want to kiss Valentin’s cheek and touch his back, his shoulder, his chest. In the desire to pull him up against the gate post and hold him, to smell his hair, to speak four-letter words.

But there were still sharp shards of shell in the goo. Still fragments of the crack and the smash.

Yesterday? Benny’s face, open and expression, twitched with confusion, and then, as understanding bloomed, it crumpled. Yes, yes that- that had been selfish, really, hadn’t it? That would have been a betrayal of trust. Benny’s fingers twitched upon Valentin’s back, and his thumb stuttered in its back-and-forth rubbing. “I… don’t think I could have,” he admitted, voice small and doing nothing to hide the raw, sore wound that line of questioning needled. “I would have tried, because it would hurt, horribly, to know that…” The wound welled, thick in Benny’s throat, and he cleared it gently, reminding himself with another twitch of his fingers that Valentin was there with him, in his arms; had kissed him, would kiss him, that it had not been said. “-To feel that you were just within arms’ reach, but that I couldn’t touch you. But even if I tried I think I would have come back, in the end.” He swallowed, and resumed his slow, even caress over Valentin’s back. “I missed you awfully, when we were apart. And as much as I really, really enjoy the kissing, and the holding,” for he did, very, very, very much, “I missed your friendship most, for that’s what I had known.” He missed sharing things together – jokes, and cigarettes, and conversations, cups of tea, biscuits, adventures. He missed Valentin’s stories, and his brilliant mind and his kindness. He had wanted it all plus kisses, plus sweet nothings, plus warm skin. But really, what he had missed was his friend.

[cescapist]

zachariahforester·:

Zachariah had never been a very physically affectionate man, especially not with other men, but he took Benny’s hand then as it clutched at his knee. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. He wasn’t looking for apologies. Benny had done nothing wrong. He huffed out an almost laugh, gave an almost smile, born from the affection he held for his brother. “I thought you’d see it like that.” That nothing had really changed, and that things would only change if those who knew decided to let it change things. He’d known deep down that Benny wouldn’t let it, that for him they would always be brothers, bound by more than just blood. Perhaps that was why, “you’re the first person I’ve told.” he admitted. There was nothing Benny had done to make himself unapproachable, if anything he had been the one Zachariah was most confident he could confide in. If he had hesitated, it was for reasons within himself.

Zachariah sniffed a little and then nodded and at the truth of Benny’s words. Boxes did not make good containers for humans. “I thought it was the only way I could be content. That if I could just fit in perfectly then any discomfort would disappear.” And for the most part he’d believed that he was happiest when he was most assimilated. It wasn’t a disagreement with Benny’s point, just an explanation, of why it had gone on for so long.

He actually did let out a little laugh at Benny’s onslaught of questions. Yes, nothing had changed, not really. It was a blessed relief. And perhaps this had been another reason Zachariah had chosen to tell Benny first. If he could cobble together his thoughts enough to make it through Benny’s questioning, he’d definitely be able to explain it to others efficiently afterwards.

“I ah-” where to start, what was important? “I’m not sure how to explain it really. I just- I suppose even before you and Leah were born there must have been a feeling that I was being closely watched, but detached at the same time. Not necessarily by mother and father, but just in general. I don’t think I properly noticed it until after you were born. And- And- I really don’t know how to explain it other than there was an incredible sameness between you and Leah, between you and our parents, a sameness I felt was lacking in myself. I think it started from such small seeds, such intangible feelings. As you got older, I felt more and more… other. I thought if I could just emulate you well enough then it would go away. I used to keep track of foods you did and didn’t like, or which toys you played with most.” He gave an embarrassed sigh, almost a cringe, the first time he’d properly admitted this. “I think now, ironically, if I had tried less I would have belonged more, at least within myself. It seemed effortless for you, it was the effortlessness that made it real. That was the one thing I couldn’t copy. I just managed to create more space than I closed.”

He cleared his throat. He didn’t want to start crying again. He wasn’t sad, he wasn’t, he didn’t want to be. He hadn’t lost anything. Benny was here. “So I suspected something for a very long time. Eventually, I decided to track down the records of my birth, our parents’ wedding, my christening, and it was all- well, none of it added up with what I’d been told. So I confronted mother, asked her for the truth.”

He wondered how much of her story he should tell. He knew if she had her way it would never be spoken again. He’d promised to honour her sacrifices. He delayed just a little while longer. “You never suspected anything?” He asked, the self-consciousness that usually worked very hard to hide finally coming to the surface. An anxiety he’d always had finally asked aloud.

Of course Benny saw no change, of course he did: what sort of person would see differently? Brows still drawn into a determined scowl (determined to love and cherish and not let things change), his lips softened into a smile beneath them, grateful, touched. There was something very moving about being the first person to know, outside of Zachariah and their mother. Something moving about being trusted, by Zachariah, by Samuel, by Leah, and Sissy. Something very moving, indeed.

“Thank you, for telling me,” Benny said quietly, and squeezed back at the hand which took his, small and firm, before letting go.

Benny supposed he could understand Zachariah’s reasoning behind his actions. The nail which stuck out, got hammered down. To fit into the expected box, to drive into the expected wood, saved one from a hammering. But people weren’t nails, or hammers, or trinkets and keepsakes to be put in boxes. They were messy, and belimbed, and they moved about and their hair sometimes stuck up oddly and occasionally they bit their tongue when they ate food – all that to say they didn’t fit in an order, or a pattern, or a box. And Benny rather thought that was what made people fun, was seeing all the different ways they could be whilst still being themselves.

“And now? What do you think now?” Did Zachariah have a plan on how to be content? On how to disappear that discomfort, or otherwise grow to no longer feel it? If he did, Benny would like to know it. He reckoned he might have a little more insight into the matter of accepting oneself, warts and all, than Zachariah did.

Then, there was his flood of questions, and as was usual when such a flood occurred, it took the recipient a moment to sort through them, to find the end of the thread Benny wanted to see and pull it loose of its mysterious knot. Benny folded his hands back into his lap, and listened, that very determined, concerned frown back upon his face. It quickly vanished for a moment, in a muddle of confusion, mirth, and then some hurt, some sympathy and empathy and an aching tenseness in his upper lip. He made a little noise now and then, prompting more than reacting, until Zachariah was done, and all the answers to his first questions were lain before him.

“You know, twins do often have a sameness to them,” he joked, first, because it was hat comment which had first tugged Benny from his very serious expression, and he hoped, as he always hoped, that the injection of some levity might bring to Zachariah some happiness and relief, even if only fleeting. “I know that’s not your point, but- wording, I guess. I- I never noticed. If that helps? That you were emulating. I didn’t care why you liked the same things as me, or why you played along with my stupid games, and I don’t think Leah cared why, either. We just loved having an older brother who wanted to play with us, and bond with us.” As to the matter of effort, Benny hadn’t really ever considered whether his existence and belonging was effortless (which, really, was an answer to the question in and of itself), but he’d not had any impression that Zachariah was trying, no more than any person tried. Tried to be liked, and get the things they wanted, and be given love and attention from their parents, and an extra biscuit from Mrs Meddley, and an extra-snug tucking in from their nanny. But he’d been a child, more a child even than Zachariah, and had no reason to look for the signs of effort expelled.

It seemed very purposeful, that Zachariah hadn’t said more than ‘none of it added up’, or at least it did to Benny. So he let that sit on the backburner, in light of the more important question that was now asked of him.

Immediately, honestly, without needing to think, Benny shook his head, a little shrug of his shoulders and mouth emphasising just how clueless he’d been. “Honestly, if you’d not told me so seriously now, and if this weren’t a serious conversation, I’d have thought you were pulling my leg,” he said, and pushed his glasses up with his knuckle. “I thought- well, I suppose I noticed differences, but I just thought you were luckier than I was, that you’d inherited things I hadn’t. Like- broadness.” He gave a small, slightly bashful, slightly wry smile. “Handsomeness. That sort of thing.” The smile lost its edge, and became again a softer thing. “But no, I never thought there was anything different in you just- lacking in me.” For a moment, Benny’s eyes roamed over his brother’s face, as if trying to picture the man that could have been his father in the features which weren’t their mother’s. It was impossible, and it brought another question to mind, one to add to the list.

“When mummy spoke to you, what did she say?” he asked, voice gentle, gentle the way a physician’s hand would be when testing an injury: prodding, pushing, probing.

[cescapist]

scandalous-heart·:

Seven people all under one roof. That sounded mad. Well, seven family members, two parents, five children. He was sure there were more than seven people in this house at this exact moment, but servants didn’t quite count. Anyone you had to pay to be there didn’t quite count. “Is it chaos?” He asked, his eyes a little full of wonder.

A bark of laughter escaped him at the scene put forward by Benny. “An ogre princess! I hadn’t even considered that ogres would have a monarchy, but no, you’re quite right, there likely would be ogre princesses.” He grinned as Benny continued to paint their picture. “Oh, that would be *quite* the three-way. Definitely something to put in my memoirs,” he said thoughtfully. “Though if this ogre princess is my true love, I think Irving should get a true love also, I wouldn’t want him to feel left out. Perhaps he falls for my noble steed. If orges have noble steeds? They have monarchies so I’m assuming they have noble steeds.”

Abby loved how freely Benny gifted himself, in his openness and his honesty, these golden insights into his loves and his hates and his past and his hopes. It was rare to find someone like that, and Abby might have continued smiling forever if the topic of his own portrait was not such a miserable topic in his mind. “I quite enjoyed the attention, especially the family portraits.” His father used to murmur little jokes just under his breath, keeping as still as he could, and Abby would hold out for as long as he was able until he exploded with laughter, and then his mother would chastise them both with a forced frown to cover up her own smile, and then they’d all resume their pose and it would start all over again. “My last portrait was fairly recent though, just after I came of age and inherited everything properly. It’ll be added to a long dusty gallery of Weston portraits I expect. I think mother thought I’d be honoured, but I found the whole thing rather dismal.” He should have been an old man himself by the time his portrait got added to the collection.

But it was hard, so very very hard to stay gloomy with Benny in his arms, so eager, so excited, by the idea of being drawn by him. He chuckled and nodded readily. “If you think you can sit still for long enough,” he teased lightly.  

He watched somewhat nervously as Benny flipped through his sketchbook. It wasn’t a secret, he kept telling himself that. He proved it to himself by regularly shoving his sketches under the nose of his valet as the man tried to dress him, or at a maid who hadn’t tidied the room fast enough to escape him. But as before, anyone you had to pay to be there didn’t quite count. So he watched Benny silently, and waited for his judgment.

His nerves felt ridiculous when Benny turned back to him, fondness filling his eyes and his smile. You couldn’t fake that. You could use kind words to save someone’s feelings, but you couldn’t fake a look like that.

He raised his eyebrows interestedly at Benny’s coy suggestion. He stepped forward, hand meeting Benny’s on his button, gently taking over the unbuttoning process. “Hm well, I’ve never had a nude model before.” With the waistcoat unbuttoned, he moved to untie the necktie. “How much of you do you want me to draw?” He asked, with faux innocence, undermined by his little smirk.

“Oh! I have an idea.” He took Benny’s necktie, and tied it as a blindfold around his own head. “You choose your pose, and let me know when you’re ready. Then I’ll open my eyes.” As he spoke, he kept up his own side of the bargain, beginning to undress himself, fumbling only slightly with his blindness. The blindfold was perhaps unnecessary, he could have just closed his eyes or turned his back, but it was part of the fun now. “Surprise me! I want to see you with fresh eyes.”

Chaos didn’t seem like a very accurate descriptor for Fairford, outside of Benny’s room and the occasional evening in which they played games together, all seven of them. No, they were all far too well brought up for chaos. Benny shook his head. “Not really, no. There’s always a bit of a rush before leaving for church, though. And it was a bit of a nightmare before we all went to Queen Charlotte’s Ball – mummy was close to having a fit of nerves.” She’d wanted them to be on time, and they had been, and Benny thought the entire day had gone rather well. He even managed to not insult the Queen when meeting her.

If Abby were with them, however, and the house became a hold of eight and not seven, Benny was sure there would be chaos. The sort that even Mr Norrington, with all of his grumpy scowling, couldn’t control. Between the two of them, they would cover all of the paintings in the house with drawn-on spectacles, and dragons, and ogres, and- “Ogres surely can’t have proper noble steeds, even royal ones. It would have to be a…” Benny’s mind whirred, skipped, leapt, and landed in a puddle of mud. “An ass. A donkey!” He grinned, and then his face screwed up as he properly appreciated the nonsense they were speaking. “God, could you imagine the offspring? Ass-dragons, everywhere.”

Despite the hilarity of ass-dragons, and ogre princesses, and well documented ménage à trois (Benny would have to ask whether Abby really was writing a memoir or not, later), upon the topic of portraits it was clear to see some of the wonderful, present joy leave Abby’s face. Odd, as his words suggested he would have the opposite reaction, yet his smile vanished, and though there was no obvious sadness that slipped into its place, its absence was enough to make Benny decide he’d not press Abby to show him those very portraits. Neither of him as a youth nor as of he was only recently, in their long, dusty gallery.

“I’m not making any promises I can’t keep,” Benny joked as he leafed through Abby’s sketchbook, already feeling himself fidgeting with excitement. Stillness was quite the feat for Benny to achieve, so as his eyes roved over pages and his fingers turned them one by one, he bounced lightly upon his toes, barely hovering his heels above the floor. As more drawings revealed themselves to him, progressing in their skill and changing in their subject, that bouncing grew slower and slower, until, rapt, Benny was barely moving at all, and then turning, and moving all at once.

He had to swallow thickly when Abby came close, and unbuttoned his waistcoat with the speed and skill of a valet, used to removing the clothes of another man.

“You haven’t?” he asked. A nude model was the sort of thing Benny would think Abby was very well acquainted with, from the impression he’d gathered of the man. Art, seduction, and intimacy, all in one; how had he not experienced that before? Yet Benny had no real reason to doubt him, and there was something wonderfully special-feeling about being the first. He placed his hands upon Abby’s hips to rest, slipping under his jacket and upon his trousers. The following question brought a flush of heat to his cheeks. “Um-” he squeaked, just as his silk tie was pulled out from his collar in a long, hot sweep. Thankfully, before his cheeks could be too closely examined, and their colour committed to memory, Abby covered his own eyes.

“Oh, yes, that’s a good idea,” he agreed, and pulled his fingers from Abby’s waistband to shrug off his jacket and waistcoat, and drape them over the back of the desk’s chair. He’d been wondering how exactly to politely, lightly, and humorously suggest that Abbernath draw everything above the waist and below the knee, and nothing of the in-between, but being given the choice of pose meant he no longer needed to ponder such tricky wording, and could instead get back to the fun of their ridiculous, shared, chaotic idea. “You must tell me if I pose badly, though. If it looks bad. Use your artist’s eye,” Benny insisted as he slipped his bracers off his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt next in a flurry of fumbling fingers. He’d hate to have Abby draw him, to expend effort and time, only for Benny to look like a gangly, stick-limbed, well, ogre.

Though it was perhaps odd, there was something comforting about hearing (hearing, for Benny was not looking, even though he wanted to, as he felt it impolite to watch) as Abby shedded his own clothes. It made Benny’s own nudity feel less obvious, even when he pulled off his socks and his bare toes were on display, and when he bent down to push his trousers and underwear all the way off. “Say, your mother’s not going to come knocking or anything, is she?” he asked, half joking, as once totally naked he decided to crawl upon the made bed, summarily exposing his buttocks to the unlocked door.

He didn’t really know how to pose other than to be comfortable and to hide the parts he’d rather not committed to paper. After all, Benny hadn’t spent hours looking at art, and his eyes still skipped over-quick past any painting with more than hands and face exposed. But after a little bit of moving around and trying different things, he ended up pulling various pillows and cushions towards him and laying back upon them in a sort of slouch. As he had to know where it was Abby was going to see him from, he couldn’t avoid looking any longer, and thus nervously glanced over towards the sea of white skin, shining in the sunlight. He quickly folded up the leg closest to Abby, his thigh thus hiding his crotch.

“Ready, I think,” Benny said, and pulled his eyes up so that Abby wouldn’t catch him staring when the blindfold was removed.

[cescapist]

stmaur-npc·:

The letter arrives with the morning post on the 11th of July, a strong indicator that it was written after the commonly scheduled writing hour at 11 in the morning. It’s on rather heavy ornamented paper, reminiscent of the 1860s, at which on top reflects a pale watermarked insignia of two heavily interwoven letters: GP. The ink used is green, and while the handwriting is legible and orderly, it does not entirely conform to the demands typically made by governesses.

London - 10th of July, 1904

Dear Mister Ebenezer,

I have been waiting for your name to show on an envelope ever since I first heard it. It is a pleasure to finally put this name to an ink colour.

You are quite right in that this first introduction was made by Lord Frederick Conway, the charming young lawyer who so recently moved to St Maur County, where you, as I have concluded, are from and presently live. What I did not see coming was for your name to reappear after the issues with that maligned American businessman have been resolved.

To buy the Pemberly Factory! When I have no children in life to keep me company and my estates are all I have to dote on… I cannot say I am displeased.

Yet, you are quite right, such a decision requires more than a name and an ink colour, and thus know that I was reading your introduction with a great deal of care and interest. I hope my questions reflect it.

You say you are twenty and five years old, which is a brave age for someone to start such a great business venture. I cannot mock nor judge for I was married by that age, and thus in the hands of a man who could have easily ruined me with his power, wealth and wit. Yet I trusted him as I trusted myself and I have lived the best of all lives. So I can only applaud your bravery. This being said, how have you found a cure-all health tonic at such a young age? I was always quite convinced that ambrosia was reserved for the gods. It seems utterly unfair to me that Asclepius blessed a boy for merely being an inspired dreamer.

You speak of your mother and her charity work. Would you care to elaborate on what those charities of hers do precisely? I do not need numbers and names, I am just interested in the types of their work. And in a similar vein, dear Ebenezer, your brothers the doctors of medicine; who are they helping? You speak of fellow man and woman but there are a great variety of those, are there not? Surely a truly Faithful family as yours would not sink as low as ruining their good moral upbringing by allowing just anyone in their practice, would they?

Lastly I must ask about this philanthropic nature of your soul. Tell me, if you are so kind, what is the worst (most disgusting, morally downwrong, shocking, awful, terrible, hellish) thing you have ever done?

With honourable regards,

Sofia Pemberly

The letter arrives several days after it is dated on the 15th of July with the afternoon post, suggesting it was delayed in being sent off. There are various starts and stopes within the final paragraphs of the latter, indicating it was put down and picked up again multiple times, as if the writer was finding it hard to keep pen to paper.

11th of July, 1904

Dear Lady Pemberly,

Thank you ever so much for your prompt and considered reply. The heat here in St. Maur has been utterly ghastly the past two days, but I am glad to report I found a cure to the heavy, sticky climate in the arrival of your letter. Unfortunately, I cannot report the discovery of any cure-all health tonic, for to do so would make me a scoundrel and a liar: two things I am glad to say that I am not. The product I am creating, with the help, aid, and research of my physician brother and father, is to be a tonic containing those vital minerals and accessory factors found necessary for the correct functioning of the body. As you may well know, the St. Maur of the past was visited by the sick and infirm to take in the air and the waters – much as in Bath. Whilst our understanding of medicine has evolved past such superstitions as miasma, it is my belief that there may well be some as of yet undefinable or unperceived benefit to the elements found within this place, a benefit I feel myself daily, and miss awfully when I am not at home. Of course, one cannot bring all of Great Britain to St. Maur, nor can one claim that St. Maur is any form of ambrosia. Rather, what I wish to do is harvest elements found here which we know are beneficial – real, measurable, scientifically proven elements, such as the lipids in fish oil, or those found in the rind of fruits – and create a potent and potable substance to counter general ill health. I do not expect, nor advertise, a cure for disease, what I hope to offer is a supportive, strengthening agent which fills a gap in the diet of the average man or woman.

Of course you are absolutely correct in calling me a dreamer, and in highlighting my age, which is indeed young. I cannot and will not tell you that I shall succeed in my endeavour. I have learnt first hand that such promises are made by charlatans, and promise never to make such myself. What I can say is that to start young is to give myself time to build a steady and sturdy company, and that to dream is the first step towards realisation.

Regarding my mother, and the charities she is involved in, their purposes are to my knowledge twofold. Firstly, they are concerned with the matter of improving the lives of St. Maur’s unfortunates, and she aids in holding a widely known fundraiser each year in the form of a Bazaar in the Springtime. Both funds and donations of items are raised to be given to the poorest of souls residing in our fair town. Secondly, they are concerned with the good Christian value of caring for thy neighbours, providing aid for fishermen and their families who may be going through any number of hardships, related to their professions or not.

As for my brothers, I must first explain that it is only the older one who is a doctor, my younger brother is preparing for his studies. For him, medicine is currently a passion and not yet a career, but I have every confidence that he will be amongst the best of them once his studies are ended. He has a strong sense of justice, and wishes to give aid to all, no matter their financial means, their creed, their colour, or their social standing. I have spoken with him about the possibility he would work for a trust once he has graduated, for as I am sure you are aware, even the families of doctors need to eat, and the practice my father and older brother run does have a fee. The fee is not unreasonable, however, and they take patients from all walks of life. My father also has implemented a system of payment by instalments for any who are unable to pay fees at the time of their medical necessity, so as to encourage anyone in need of aid to come forth and not suffer. The children raised by tenants on our land are also given free medical care up until they are sixteen. I cannot say that we have ruined our good morals or upbringings yet, but it is my genuine hope that we may do so shortly by giving help to all varieties of man and woman.

I’m sure I could list countless things which I have done through my twenty five years which would hold me back from sainthood. As a child I was an absolute hellion, and our local Priest, rest his soul, might possibly have taken some comfort in his last moments knowing that he was soon to be away from me. I suppose there are two answers to your question which I must give. The first answer is my most atrocious wrongdoing in the eyes of the world, and the second must be the most atrocious wrongdoing in the eyes of myself.

So, to the first. I, despite my Christian upbringing, despite my mother’s morals and my father’s encouragement of responsibility, recently found myself partaking in licentious and debaucherous behaviour. I shall neither go into the details, nor name the other parties involved, for I do not wish to harm you with the offensive specifics of this behaviour nor besmirch the reputations of the people with whom this behaviour was had. What I shall say is that sins were committed, and decency was lost. Yet, as no one was harmed in these acts, I must say that I do not believe them to be the most disgusting, morally downrong, shocking, awful, terrible, and hellish acts I have ever performed. For that, I must give my second answer.

I broke the arm of a child. I was seven, and he was five, and we were climbing trees. I cannot even remember who the boy was, other than that he was blonde and young and I was annoyed with him, so I pushed him out of the tree. There was this horrible snapping sound, and at first I thought he had just landed on a flimsy branch, but when I looked down at him he had gone white as a sheet, and his mouth was open and screaming but there was no sound. He’d been winded by the fall, and couldn’t take enough of a breath to let it out. Then I saw that his arm was all wrong, and I panicked. I ran away, and got my father. I refused to take responsibility for hours, even after the screaming had stopped and the boy had been sent home to his mother with his arm splinted. I think the worst part of it all was that a part of me – and this is hard to admit – did not feel remorseful. I kept on saying ‘it wasn’t my fault’, over and over, and I think I stuck to that for as long as I did because a part of me truly believed that the boy, this little five year old blonde cherubim of a boy, was responsible for my actions, that he had caused me to push him from the tree by being as annoying as he had been. That is, by far, the absolute worst thing I have ever done, and in my opinion it is far worse than kisses that were had out of wedlock, or any other such thing.

Perhaps it is the guilt which I feel over that event, which convinces me now to try and help any, no matter whether they are my dearest friend, an absolute stranger, or someone who is annoying me quite awfully.

Yours Faithfully,

Ebenezer Forester

[cescapist]

bernie-talbot·:

-

It seemed now that Bernie had begun being honest, she wasunable to stop – there was something so refreshing about it, especially afterso long speaking in half truths and constructed realities. “I do not think God appreciatesmuch about my family and I at the present moment, either that or he has arather wicked sense of humour.” She attempted to smile at him, to convey thatthis was mostly a self-deprecating joke. She had learned from experience that self-deprecationdid not suit her, it very rarely read as sincere.

A carefully shaped eyebrow raised at his pun, tempered bythe slightest lift of the corner of her mouth, the expression of a woman amuseddespite herself. “Paris is… Paris. It is dirty and European and filled withrevolutionaries. But it is dreadfully exciting – still, I think the few monthsI spent there were more than enough. England is home no matter how much I mayenjoy complaining about it.”

As usual the look that Benny had sent Valentin’s way wentcompletely over Bernie’s head. She had been too self-absorbed for too long to trulyunderstand that her siblings had thriving, secret lives beyond her knowledge.

“That was certainly good of him, I cannot imagine manypeople who would be better company than Valentin. Him and Florence areundoubtedly, in so many ways, the superior siblings.” Her and Alastair were similarin so many ways that she often lumped him in with her own sins.

“I think I have done enough sinning for one lifetime.” That wasa lie, and she knew it, she was more than happy to indulge in sins that wouldimprove her life, especially if they would not hurt others. “As for my upcomingsister in law… she is fine, although I will admit I find it strange – the prospectof having a new member of our family, it has been just us for so long… althoughI am sure you can understand that, I feel you and your siblings are far closerthan we.”

Benny personally hoped that God had an absolutely brilliant sense of humour, for if not then Father Lancashure had been right, and God didn’t find his mischief making funny at all (‘You shan’t be giggling when the flames of Hell are upon you, Ebenezer!’). He also hoped that God couldn’t possibly be anything other than greatly appreciative of the manner in which the Talbots had conducted themselves under the tyranny of the Baron’s rule, nor through the shouldering of his scandalous behaviour, for if He could find fault in any of their actions – theirs! – then He would surely find several dozen more in Benny’s own. Yet to say such on either count felt as if it would be presenting far too much in the way of cold, unfeeling reality (Hell was real, and it was within the Baron). Lady Bernadette seemed to be in the mood for blackish humour, and Benny could always appreciate that, even if their humour did have its differences.

“Ah, yes, honesty does seem like the best choice then, doesn’t it?” he asked with a grave nod, yet the pinch of his brow and the curl of his lip showed clearly he had noticed her humour. “If you want to get back on His good side, I hear that-” don’t make jokes about poverty! “-He likes… sheep. Lambs. Or sons, actually, but-” why are you trying to joke about human sacrifice, Benny? Stop it. “Lambs are tastier to eat, afterwards.” Benny gave an incredibly strained smile that was more of a grimace, its shape stretched over both his teeth and the foot he had managed to shove between them. He should have gone with saying something about living in poverty, after all. That surely would have been less offensive than suggesting Lady Bernadette sacrifice a lamb, or a boy, and then joking about cannibalism. Benny tried to move quickly onwards.

“Well, what’s more exciting than a filthy European revolutionary?” His forward-step in conversation was apparently not very far forward, at all, and then he was stumped. How on Earth could anyone complain about their home? Benny would never understand that, just as he couldn’t understand anyone enjoying the city, or being very far from home in a city, or being very far from home in a city abroad! He stuck a bemused smile on his face, and nodded over and over, humming for lack of response.

A little frown cut through Benny’s brow and quietened the tattoo of his heart at Lady Bernadette’s second self-deprecation. On the one hand he was incredibly biassed in Valentin’s favour, so absolutely in love that he couldn’t disagree that he was the best of company, and a brilliant person to boot. On the other, he would hardly divide him from the rest of his siblings and label him – or any – as ‘superior’. It was a sentiment that extended to Lady Florence, as well, and then in the opposite to Lord Alastair. He couldn’t even say that Lady Bernadette was an inferior sibling, despite all that had occurred between her and Zachariah, or her and Benny. It simply felt wrong to cast judgement in that way. “Oh, I’d hardly say that,” he commented. “You’re all plenty superior. Lords, Ladies, Nobles, Military, and Church. All,” he gestured with a hand, raising it and his hat high above his head, “up there. You know.” Certainly compared to Benny, Gentry but not Nobility, and without office or post or anything to give his name credit at all.

In some ways, Benny could understand. In others, he could not. He had been so delighted for his dear youngest sister when she had told him of her secret engagement, and had been so ready for it to fruit before Viscount Maurice’s unfortunate death. He had been so chuffed to see Zachariah courting Lady Bernadette, and had set himself up to call her a sister-in-law, before that courtship so suddenly cooled. He gave a nonspecific hum in reply. “Yes, though it must be nice, to know that Lord Alastair has found someone.” For that had been what had pleased Benny so much about Sissy and Maurice, about Zachariah and Bernadette: that they were in love, and that they were to have the support of a marriage. Did she not feel the same, knowing that Lord Alastair was to be committed, to have a woman committed to him, to be supported – with or without love, though given the rumours that Lady Augustine’s family were unhappy and unsupportive, it should surely be with.

[cescapist]

dinah-stmaur·:

♣ ♣ ♣

It was funny how as soon as Benny said it, Dinah too felt like this was almost a dream. She had tried here best not to assume anything about how the office would look, but it was hard not to, and so she was also surprised by how less chaotic than her imagination it was. In truth, she had expected almost a big, open space and a row of men working over machines. Benny’s description made her want to laugh because it was exactly how her mind had expected the room to look. “I hope it’s not a disappointment,” she whispered to him, and unfortunately—or luckily—she never got to add that they could always find other occasions for him to grease up.

Dinah smiled at the sight of Mr Hewitt. No grease and no screwdrivers for fingers, but he seemed an amiable fellow. When Benny introduced her, she curtsied, and then promptly blushed as her friend was being far too kind with her. “Only because I think he is rather clever and smart that I could not bear to see such intellect wasted,” she added, both earnestly and with a little note of tease. But then she let Benny speak first upon Mr Hewitt’s question.

There was a glint of surprised in her eyes as Benny mentioned business, but it was followed soon by a proud smile. It warmed her to know that Benny had set high goals for himself, and was doing his best to not underestimate himself.

“As the progenitor of this idea, I was curious to see how it would evolve,” she answered for herself, careful to be truthful without causing any undo embarrassment to Benny. She didn’t want Mr Hewitt to think Benny had brought her along for shallow reasons. “And having read a little on your business, I wanted to see how it all works for myself.”

“Well, I can happily say those are two interests I can help you with, Ebenezer,“ Mr Hewitt replied, with a smile. It was not arrogant, but not modest either. The man exuded confidence in an effortless way that never looked like arrogance. "And please, call me, Mervin.” His eyes shifted to Dinah as she spoke of her reasons and his smile stayed while he slightly cocked his head as clearly a little flattered that the two had read upon his enterprise. One again, it came off as if he was a little surprised by the honour but found it reasonable.

“Our works is divided in three parts. Maintenance of our sold models. We have engineers and specialized workers who go on site where our engines are in use and make sure they function according to our specifications and to the costumer satisfaction. Manufacturing is handled in our factory. We have a warehouse a few doors down were we assemble the new engines,” he explained, pointing to a door that seemed to head over a long and narrow corridor, “and do our final testing. Lastly, we have the research to come up with more efficient designs and the business part that we do right here.” He pointed at the unfinished blueprint. “Our operation has grown since its start. We were much smaller. Could have fit the whole of it in this room,” his smile had a nostalgic edge too it, but his gaze was clearly looking at the future instead of lingering on the past. “I will tell you right now, it can be grim at first.. but one must persevere and try to see obstacles on your path more as opportunities.” It was the way he said it that made it sound less like the typical pitch of a lucky businessman. He did not seem to want to dismiss those grim moments, or the hardship he had faced, but it was exactly the act of not turning his back that had made him able to push forward. “Are you interested in starting your own company?” he asked Benny, curious.

As much as Benny was interested in discovering the missing link between man and machine – an automaton with a beating heart of hot flesh and blood, but with fingers of tools, and eyes of lenses, and nuts and bolts for ears – he was not at all disappointed to find that Hewitt’s company was less intimidating. He would have said so, too, to put dear Dinah’s heart at ease, were it not for their moving onwards.

Within Mr Hewitt’s office, Benny shook his head and flapped a hand modestly at her compliment, completing the exchange of praise and humility between them with genuine fluster. Honestly, the two of them seemed to get along so well it was a surprise to Benny that he had long considered Dinah to be Leah’s friend, or Valentin’s friend, and not his own in addition. It was a mistake he was quickly rectifying, and his heart joyfully declared ‘Friend! Friend!’ as Dinah did not take any offence, as feared, but quickly transitioned from a flicker of surprise to a beam of approval.

Benny’s own smile brightened again, giving a little nod along to Dinah’s explanation for her presence. He was grateful to her for not mentioning her additional reason as being moral support (or, as it was on the short journey from cab to front door, physical and moral support), it did a lot to save him face in front of a man Benny was quickly deciding to respect, deeply. Mr Hewitt – Mervin – had a position to aspire to, an opinion which only cemented as he began to talk about his enterprise and the manner in which it was run.

“I see,” Benny said, as all was explained, and the breadth of the operation was made clear. His brow was raised with clear admiration, and he went from watching Mervin, to peering through the door at the corridor, and then over to the blueprint, which he felt both a desire to look at closely and to politely divert his eyes from in order not to uncover secrets of Mervin’s trade he wasn’t to know. “May I ask how long it took you to grow it to the size it is now?” Eyes deciding on diversion, they tracked about the office as if imagining how it might have looked, to have such big dreams in one small room. Benny would count himself lucky, should his plan coalesce. He’d be starting out with a whole factory.

Mervin’s warning was unexpected, but not unwelcome. It was the sort of advice one should hear from one’s teachers, Benny thought, and thus he gave a firm nod in return. The words were a far cry from those encouraging, urging phrases that had fallen from Mister Roger Smith’s mouth, but Benny supposed that culture and age did that to people. Mister Roger was the dreamer sort, the American sort. Rocks in his path? Smith would plough through them with his engines. Mervin, it seemed, was the traditional sort. I keep them all. I build my castle.

Again, caught. “I am,” Benny answered. “Or, rather, I shall be. There is room for a business in my hometown, our home, St. Maur.” Benny looked to Dinah, the name so very clearly her own. “I reckon a good business there could help in giving the local area a good push,” he swept his hat out from himself in demonstration. “So, anything you can teach…” he left that sentence hanging, looking expectantly and hopefully at Mervin.

[cescapist]

bernie-talbot·:

Sundays had become hard for Bernie. 

Her prayers were once relatively simple. Success, a large loving family, forgiveness for her arrogance and vanity. Perhaps occasionally she had prayed for advice, for the strength to chose between her heart and her head. 

But she had always known what she was praying for.

Not now. Now she sat in church confused. What did one in her situation pray for? Surely those prayers were meant to change, could not be the same ones her father drilled into her. When she lowered her head, however she could not think of anything else. Was she just meant to pray for forgiveness for her precious prayers? 

Was she meant to pray at all? 

It was this same turmoil that was spiraling through her mind when she heard Benny call her name. 

She could not keep the surprise, the suspicion, from her face when she turned to him. She was not unaware of how she had treated him. He had been an unfocused annoyance when they were children, an example of uncontrollable energy her childhood self could not abide. Then he had been an irrelevant connection, the annoying younger brother of the man she could not stay away from.

Had their roles been reversed she would not have been able to resist rubbing it in, to make sure the other person was aware of their change in rank. It made her uneasy around all the Foresters. The best case scenario would have been if she completely ignored him, anything else would only have spelled trouble. 

Still, he was not here. Very few people were, although she no longer though that such a bad thing. 

“Mr. Forester.” It was more acknowledgement than greeting. 

She slowed down, eyes trained on his, as if waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under her.  “Thank you, Although I can honestly say I have never enjoyed London less. Even before the start of this awful heat, I do not think the Season had ever been quite so tedious or dull.” There was bite in her voice, but a little bit of fear as well. 

“I suppose I say that every year. But this time I do mean it. London felt so… restrictive. And yet I also could not bring myself to feel pleased we were returning home.” She was poking at him, seeing how he would react to her blunt honesty. “I suppose I am supposed to lie and claim I found the whole thing charming, but somehow that did not feel right whilst standing in front of a church.” 

Her eyes seemed to be shining with the challenge in her words, waiting to see how he might react to them. 

“What of you Mr. Forester. Are you sad to have left London? Or pleased to be free of it.” 

It was not the frostiest of receptions Benny had received from Lady Bernadette, and for that reason he took her lack of ordering otherwise as permission to stay by her side, and engage her – as he had wished to – in conversation. Slowly, Benny’s arm relaxed, and as was his habit he began to fiddle with his hat, nodding in a rather commiserating manner. However this action was very much sympathetic in nature, and not empathetic. Personally, Bennye loved heat. It was far better, in his mind, than the cold. The cold was a horrible thing which left him feeling a little bit grumpy, and made it so horribly hard to get things done. Hot weather, however, suited him, as there was nothing quite so lovely in his opinion as bathing in the river in Summer, or picnicking in the shade of a mature, sticky sycamore. And as to the matter of the Season-! Well, it was often tedious, and dull, but only ever in that horribly busy way. There was no lovely stomping about in fields or watching birds play in the wind or comfortably sharing tea with people you had known all of your life. Instead there were sooty streets, there were pruned parks, and there were dinner parties full of strangers all wearing exactly the same clothes, and Benny liked to avoid that if he could.

“Oh, well,” Benny said, nervously twiddling his hat and rocking upon his heels, “I’m sure God appreciates your honesty.” Benny, himself, had tried being more honest recently. Fewer secrets, fewer little lies to cover bigger ones. He didn’t know if God looked upon him more favourably as a result, but he did like to imagine that the people he loved, did. “Would you have preferred to return to Paris, then? Was it less restrictive there? I hear they hold a laissez-faire attitude.” Whether or not his pun would receive from Lady Bernadette the same smiles often granted by her brothers (Valentin with fondness, Alastair with a sort of bemused air of tolerance), he tried – a little bit desperately – to steer Lady Bernadette into a topic which wouldn’t risk turning her mood.

“Oh, happy to be home, me, as always. You know, I’ve never been one for the City. And, anyway, your brother was so very kind to keep me company in my early return.” He dared a glance towards Valentin, still dressed in the costume of sermon-giving, looking very appropriately priestly. His heart thrilled to recall the weeks they spent in relative privacy, thumping so loudly in that moment he was sure Lady Bernadette would hear it and like a telegram would interpret its erratic beats as the message it always longed to belt out: I’m in love! He loves me! We’re in love! He hoped the smile upon his face would be taken as his usual cheery grin, sent towards his good friend and nothing more.

“Did you- uhh,” catching himself before he asked an incredibly forward and rather rude question, Benny fell quiet for a second or two before finally plucking a far better one from the air. “Your brother is marrying!” Or not a question. More of a statement. “What’s your opinion of your new sister-in-law, then? And uh,” he gave a nod towards the church, “you can sin a little if you need to, I’ll not tell.” What an awful thing to say to her. You fool, Ebenezer, you fool! “I mean, you can lie, if you- want… to.”

[cescapist]

valentin-talbot·:

Valentin nodded. “And you are good,” he said, repeated it, really, only differently phrased. “The mere fact that you’re trying already elevates you from most others.” And after a moment of thinking he added: “I think I can be proud to be in love with you. For plenty of reasons, but this one especially.” 

“Moody?” Valentin misheard on purpose, smirking in that sheepish way of his that clearly indicated that he was joking. “I’m sorry, what are you moody about?” 

Benny was so wonderfully close. Every kiss worked against the almostness of the previous touches’ closeness. Valentin’s hand was buried deep in Benny’s hair, fingers knotting into the strands, pulling him towards him, so he could push back firmly – or whatever was firm in Valentin’s soft natured being. Yes, in Valentin’s mind, there was nothing more he could want.  Yet, one of his hands began to wander, down the nape of Benny’s neck to his collar, fingers slipping underneath it to feel the warmth, the skin, the closeness – he noticed only when Benny laughed. Startling away, he looked at him.

No explanation came, and Valentin relaxed. Ah, the mildness. A lighthouse, wasn’t it? His arms wrapped around Benny’s shoulders and his face was buried into them. Hoping to disappear in the laugh, or the next one, if longer, if louder, if more graspable. Hoping to ground himself in the world between spikes of … fear and placid indifferent mildness. Where it was all real. 

“What did you think I was thinking?” he asked eventually, not moving to let go just yet. “About the published poem. What were you imagining I was feeling when I read it?”

Benny made a series of noises, starting first with a bashful grunt of acknowledgement for the compliment, then a little hum of tentative non-agreement, and finally a choked upon hiccup; an attempt to make audible the bloom of adoration and fondness and warmth, happiness, ecstacy within his chest.

“Val,” he said, voice filled with disbelief: not that it was true, but that Valentin would say such out loud. He moved his hand firmly over Valentin’s chest to where his heartbeat was strongest. “It’s quite unfair that you are so good with words, it leaves me at such a disadvantage. What can I say to meet that, hm?” he asked, speaking truth but shrouding it in a cloak of humour. Still overwhelmed by the lance of raw emotion that struck through his chest, Benny pressed a lingering, tender kiss to the spot where hairline curled, wispy and thin, around the shell of his ear. It wasn’t tender enough, would never be tender enough – least of all when given atop Clever’s back as she lugged then up the hillside – but it would have to do until such a time as was invented a machine which allowed the sharing of emotion. “I’m proud of being in love with you, too,” he said, soft, into Valentin’s ear. “And proud that you’re in love with me. I’m so proud of that.” So proud, Benny felt there simply must come a time in which he would tell someone. To say, ‘Look! He loves me! He, Valentin Talbot, a man of such depth, of wit, of emotion, of brilliance, loves me!’

That time was not now, not yet. For now, it was just the two of them, joking and japing and riding, and Benny snorted with amusement at Valentin’s obvious play. “I’m moody that I’m not kissing you,” he replied, with put-on moodiness. “In fact, I’ve not kissed you since we left my room after dressing, and I think that’s a very reasonable thing to be moody about.” Hours. Hours! Any cow, sheep, or man would surely feel the same.

Which was why, when those hours ended, Benny was so very reluctant to let their kiss end. Valentin pulled away, as if shocked, and Benny simply smiled at him, trying to lean in and catch his lips again, even with the fingers in his hair holding him wonderfully, brilliantly in place. Yet Valentin ducked inwards, fingers releasing, arms curling. Benny only managed to skim his pouted lips against Valentin’s cheek as he buried his face somewhere around neck and shoulder and chest. He made a plaintive, but humoured whine, his hands running up Valentin’s back, following seams. One to the nape of Valentin’s neck, where his collar obscured his skin. The other hooking fingers around ribs, not too close to the armpit to tickle, but enough to feel heat. Then his whine turned into a hummed honk of laughter, and there was much nuzzling of Benny’s cheek against what it would reach of Valentin’s head. To embrace, to be held, that slaked the endless thirst within him, too. That pulled upon the string. That filled him with warmth.

For a moment, Benny closed his eyes against the blue sky, thoughts upon Valentin’s chest against his, his arms, his face, his back, and upon the press of Benny’s feet on the insides of his boots, the poke of a stone into his back, the gentle caress of a breeze from the sea, the smell of Valentin’s hair, his clothes, his incense-and-dust, his soap-and-skin, the musk of a morning’s sweat, the left-over scent of horse and saddle.

His mind was so upon that present, that physicality, that it took Benny a moment to process what he had said beyond the sound of it, so close to his ear, so soft, so him. “Hm?” he asked, arms still very much around Valentin, though the highest had begun to rub up and down, slowly, slowly. “Mm,” he then said as he processed what was asked, and the phantom of the fear he’d felt that day stabbed its cold fingers into him and tugged him out of the warm haze of the embrace. His hand stopped rubbing. Benny blinked his eyes open, and the world was far too blue and green without the red of his closed eyelids. He held Valentin a little tighter, not wanting the embrace to end, and finding comfort in it; a phantom was just a phantom, what they had now was real.

“I thought you must have been disgusted,” Benny answered, voice low and quiet, because he knew now it wasn’t the truth, and ugly lies such as that shouldn’t be said loudly. “To realise that I’d loved you even then, and- pulled you away, and got you wet, and undressed, and then had huddled up to you, the same. I thought you would have felt betrayed, that I had- undermined your trust in me, by being so selfish.” Just his thumb, now, rubbing back and forth, back and forth. Benny was tense against the wall, but his arms were relaxed, their touch light. If he had been right – if Valentin had felt any of that, if he did feel any of it now – he would not hold him against his will.

[cescapist]

Item: One letter, addressed to Lady Pemberly @stmaur-npc, sent from St. Maur. It is written in blue-black ink, and there is a partial fingerprint in the same on the bottom right corner.

9th of July, 1904

Dear Lady Pemberly,

Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mister Ebenezer Forester of Fairford House, St. Maur. I believe that you have already met with the solicitor representing me, Lord Frederick Conway, and I am exceptionally grateful to you for handing to him the deed to what has become known as The Old Cider Factory here in St. Maur. I am aware you may have expected correspondence from me weeks ago, and must apologise deeply for the delay in writing to you. Unfortunately, I ran afoul of a predatory businessman from the Americas, and your deed was most useful in resolving the legal issues that arose. Thankfully, resolved, the issues are, and thus I am very much hoping that you shall judge my apology acceptable, and consider the proposition I have for you.

I wish to purchase from you the deed to The Factory in St. Maur. I understand, of course, that you are a woman of good character and intelligence, and therefore do not expect you to sell the deed to a man you do not know. I am willing to answer all questions you may have, and indeed to make any visit or meeting required of me. I hope that I may answer some of the most obvious questions presently:

I am twenty-five years old, from a good, large and Faithful family which has its roots mostly in medicine. Both my father, my older, and my younger brother are in medicine, with father and the eldest both Doctors and my younger brother entering into Oxford shortly to begin his studies. I find myself far more suited to numbers than to humours, and have an aspiration to succeed in business. Specifically, I am working with my family to create a health tonic, with proven efficacy in the improvement of general health. This is what I propose The Factory to be used for. Having been a producer of Cider in the past, the layout and even some of the machinery left within the building are perfect for the production and bottling of fluids.

Of course, being of good moral upbringing, this business venture is not presented purely for profit. My mother, a prominent figure in The Lighthouse Society and other Charities within St. Maur, raised me to care greatly for my fellow man and woman, and so care I do. Not only would this business promote the economics and wellbeing of the peoples of St. Maur, but it would also supply employment, skill training, a fair salary, and healthcare to many. The tonic, the recipe of which is still in production, shall also be sold at a smaller margin of profit than many other health tonics, allowing for greater affordability amongst the populace. I suppose one could say that I take much of my inspiration from such figures as Sir Titus Salt and Mister Joseph Rowntree.

Of course, I am but an inspired dreamer and nothing more without The Factory, the first step in creating a healthy and philanthropic business, and thus I do look forward to your reply. It is my sincerest wish that I may impress upon you the sincerity of my venture, and that we may thus reach an agreement.

Wishing you well,

Yours Sincerely

Mr. Ebenezer Forester

[cescapist]

Kin

DATE: 10th of July PLACE:St. Mary’s Churchyard STATUS: Closed @bernie-talbot

Benny hadn’t really had the chance to talk to Lady Bernadette upon her return from Paris straight into London. Nor, if he had been presented the chance, would he have wanted to take it. It was not that he didn’t like Lady Bernadette (though he would admit no shortage of upset towards her, on Zachariah’s behalf), and more that he knew she didn’t like him.

He could hardly blame her, of course. Plenty of those who had suffered through being Benny’s classmate either at Grammar School or at Sunday School did not like him. Benny – distractible, excitable, loud, boyish, boisterous and bombastic – had hardly been to everyone’s taste. He had matured greatly in the past twenty or so years, of course, and most who had shared a classroom with him were now very amicable towards him. And yet, Lady Bernadette was not. She had not been during classes as children. She had not been during visits in which the families convened. She had not been during the first stumblings of society as adolescents. She had most certainly not been when she and Zachariah were caught up in their flirtation. And now… now…

Now she was changed. Even Benny, who had long resorted to giving her no more than a polite tup of his hat in public, had noticed that. It was only natural, of course, to change following such an event as had befallen her family seven months ago, but this change felt more pronounced within Lady Bernadette than any of their siblings. She had lost some of the hard, mirror-shard sharpness that had so engulfed her before. She had softened her gaze, had lowered her head, had stopped looking quite so down her nose at everyone around her. And, of course, she had become not only Lady Bernadette, sister of Benny’s dear friend Valentin, but Lady Bernadette, sister of Benny’s dearest most beloved and adored friend Valentin. It was for that change – the one which Lady Bernadette had no control over – that Benny decided he simply must try and be nice with her, to worm their way past simple nods and hat-waves and tight-lipped smiles in hello, and into the realm of neutral, mutual respect.

Church had ended. Sermons, since Valentin had once again taken his position as serving Priest for St. Mary’s, had become an incredibly intensive affair for Benny. There was no cure for his attention (or lack of it), even love; and yet Benny did so very much love, love so much he was consumed by it, and thus... He wanted to listen, he truly did, but words moved through Benny’s mind like water through a sieve, and the thoughts which caught within the web were often only tangential – memories of lazy mornings spent with his head cushioned in Valentin’s lap, listening to him read aloud – if they were connected at all – I should take Valentin to Norrington, and we should have our photos taken. By the end of service, when they had all done their singing and their praying and their religious contemplating, Benny was both glad the sermon had ended, and sad that it was over. It was the sort of feeling which was best remedied, he’d found, by a cigarette, by standing in the churchyard, and by casting occasional longing looks Valentin’s way (which, he was glad, appeared very much like looks cast at his mother’s back, longing for her to make the family’s excuses and allow them to leave). He was doing thus, bringing his gaze away from Valentin at the church’s door and letting it flit and flutter about the familiar cemetery, when it fell upon her.

Benny dropped the end of his cigarette and crushed it under his heel. Then, as had become habit, picked it up and wrapped it in a handkerchief for later disposal. With a little breath, the sort one took to make one steady in the face of potential rejection and frustration, he approached.

“Lady Bernadette,” he greeted, hat removed and held to his chest with the sort of etiquette he so often forgot to employ. “May I give a belated welcome back to England, and also to St. Maur. Did you enjoy the season?”