And Yet, You're Here (Arthur Havisham)

Chapter 1

"Well, I knew as good as any that Mr. Havisham was quite well respected. 'Ain't expect this turnout, though. What D'ya think there, Cecil?"

I tore my eyes from the large carriage standing eerily still before Satis House to turn to Mr. Wegg, offering him as sincere of a shrug as I could muster given the circumstances. Although we at The Three Cripples had received much of our supply from the Havisham Brewery, I felt as though I were an imposter among the large crowd of mourners. I hadn't known the man personally, nor his surviving children outside of brief glimpses in the streets, and I couldn't ignore the twinge of annoyance deep inside of me that I wasn't currently in my lodgings atop the pub enjoying the warm fire and instead here, attending the ultra-extravagant funeral of a man who I hadn't even truly known in the dead of winter.

I let my eyes wander from Mr. Wegg's oddly casual disposition to the black curtains that fell over the grand windows of Satis House, fighting the urge to let them veer back to the black carriage that held the coffin of Mr. Havisham, before the doors swung open and the crowd went silent.

Marching solemnly towards the carriage were two young figures, clad in black. I peeked up over the man in front of me to catch a glimpse- a true glimpse- of the often elusive nobles who had spent their time recently locked away within the towering walls of their estate. Exchanging glances with those in the crowd was Amelia. She offered soft smiles of gratitude to those who met her eyes, giving little nods of acknowledgement as she hugged herself tightly. Although she built up enough courage to offer others a small dose of warmth in the wake of the tragedy, I could see her dark eyes glistening against the morning light with tears that soon found their way down her cheeks as she averted her gaze towards her brother.

Her brother, Arthur, did not share the same sentiment. Stoic, his large, brown eyes never left the carriage. His cane made a muffled clack as it met with the snow-covered stone of the walkway, and he offered Amelia no comfort. He did not spare the audience a passing glance, nor take a moment to acknowledge that we were even there. And although his face didn't express much emotion, I couldn't help but sense an air of discomfort in the way he carried himself. Although he stood tall, uncaring, and cold, the fragile, shuddery breath he let out as he stepped outside the gates of Satis House was unmistakable.

The crowd dispersed once the siblings rode away, and I looked to Mr. Wegg, my brow furrowed. Noticing my confusion, he shook his head and grinned.

"It's only courtesy." he began to explain. "'Been giving us the best beer of the lot, they have. Without them, I wouldn't be able to keep the pub! Might as well show me face, show them how loyal we are, and maybe they'll extend that gratitude, yes?"

Although I couldn't share the same excitement in this grand idea that Mr. Wegg seemed to have, I nodded in the hopes that the trip back to the pub would be swift if I didn't question the logic.

When we arrived back at the pub, shivering from the cold and taking a moment to feed the fire, I was given little time to rest before the Christmas eve crowd flooded in, desperate for the Christmas Spirit that the Havisham funeral dampened early that morning. But, of course, this was nothing a few fiery drinks couldn't remedy when it came to the patrons.

The night went on agonizingly slow, and the crowded buzz of drunken patrons did nothing to make the time go by faster. I quickly weaved through patrons, collecting empty tankards and dropping them behind the bar with a loud 'clank' before beginning to wash them. I did this again, again, again, numb by the amount of times I had walked back and forth from the lounge to the bar, until a gust of cold wind suddenly shook me back to reality. I looked up, seeing a figure dash to the back-corners of the pub, sitting by a lonely table beside the fire. The crowd seemed to turn in this figure's direction, even went quiet for a moment to take in what they were seeing. After working here as long as I did, I knew the patrons who frequented the pub, and for something to shock them into even a moment of quiet was something worth catching a glimpse of. Deciding my work could take a moments pause, I put the glass I was cleaning down and wiped my hands on my apron, making my way towards the back of the pub to take a peek at who had made their way inside.

Once I reached the back of the pub, I didn't see much to gander at. A young man's frame turned towards the fire, his hat on the table beside him, the fresh snow melting in the presence of the roaring fire. I looked on, trying my best to see if I could figure out who it was just from what I was seeing, and yet, I couldn't. Brown hair toppled in messy curls atop his head, and his shoulders raised and lowered with a long sigh. The figure fidgeted with his coat, before pulling out a pocketwatch and clicking it open. The engraving caught the light, enough for me to just barely make out the fancy script- "A.H". I stepped in closer as he closed the watch, and there, in front of me, was someone that until this morning, I hadn't seen closer than a street's length.

There, staring into the bright flame of the fire with dark, focused eyes, clad in black, was Arthur Havisham. His presence was stark against the dim surroundings of the pub. His clean exterior and mourning clothes clashed with the hearty fire and cheerful noise from just beyond the area he was seated. His skin was like porcelain, light, and dusted with pink on his nose, ears, and cheeks where the cold most likely attacked before he had entered. His eyes, dark, unfeeling, bore hints of emotion in their puffy, red state. When the floor creaked, his head turned to the side, and he quickly worked to wipe the residual tears in his eyes and sit up straight.

"Gin." He muttered. Though there was sternness, it wavered a bit. Almost as though he were trying to intimidate me.

"Yes, sir." I replied, standing there for a moment before blurting out- "My condolences, s-"

"I have no need for your condolences." He spat back, refusing to meet my eyes. "Just-" He shook his head in frustration, and waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "Gin."

My cheeks ran hot with embarrassment, but there was no denying the hint of anger in my chest. I stared at him for a moment, before nodding. "Yes, I can-"

"I have a friend meeting me here as well. He'll be needing one as well."

His bluntness stirred something within me. Part of me understood his frustration, his desire to be short. After all, having to bury your father on Christmas Eve must have been a heavy burden to carry. But part of me desired to shout- I had been working all day, and was now offering my best hospitality to- and pardon my label- a spoiled brat.

"I suppose there isn't anything else I could help you with, then." I responded, a hint of venom in my voice, taking mental note of his request. He shook his head, turning around to look back into the fire with the same cold, focused look he had been giving it when I arrived. Although the pub was quite rowdy, I could heard he way his breaths became shuddery. He screwed his eyes shut tight, and I took that as my cue to leave. That was, until he shouted out towards me once more, this time, his voice breaking.

"Wait." He said, voice saturated in defeat. I turned around, looking over at him as he quickly wiped his eyes. "How much would it be..." He swallowed what I could only assume was his pride as he asked this next question. "How much would it be to stay here."

I couldn't help but think back to the beautiful exterior of Satis House, and what he could possibly want with a room above a pub rather than the cozy life I assumed he lived back in the estate. Unwilling to let him know I was curious of his situation (as well as unwilling to be verbally spat at once more,) I answered flatly.

"Five Shillings a night." I responded, and Arthur quickly dug into his coat pocket, taking out the money and holding out his hand. I looked at it, and a bit amused, I took it from him. 'His hands are cold,' I thought as I counted it out in my palm.

"I want the cleanest room you can provide." He mumbled, looking up at me finally with those misty eyes. "I will not accept anything less for the amount I've given you. Inform Mr. Wegg of my presence, I'm sure he'll understand."

"Yes, sir, I'm sure he will." I responded, turning on my heel and making my way to the bar. I dropped the money onto the bar beside Mr. Wegg, who looked at me with quite the incredulous look.

"And where is this from?" He asked, counting it out as I scanned the bar for the glass bottle of gin. " If I ain't known any better I'd say this was to stay here-"

"Well, Mr. Wegg," I replied, pouring the gin into two clean glasses and motioning towards Arthur in the far corner. "Let's just say your act of courtesy worked. Guess who's asked for a place to stay?"