As the carriage pulled up to Westcott manor, Pip was startled to realize it was not yet eight in the morning. Their visit to the Dalton home and the dark clouds blanketing the sky gave the illusion of late evening.
Pip stepped out of the carriage first to open the door for Lord Westcott, and they both came face to face with Oliver and Jane, their eyes wide. Oliver's eyes fell on Lord Westcott's cloak that hung around Pip's shoulders.
"Well," said Oliver slowly, "that's new." Pip quickly removed the cloak and hung it on one arm, more willing to bear the cold than Oliver's glares.
"You were in town?" Jane said excitedly, releasing her hand from Oliver's and running up to Robert. "Did you bring me anything?"
"Are you always going to ask that question every time I come home? No, I didn't."
"Pip," Jane tugged on his arm. "Pip, you tell me. Is that true? He got me something, didn't he?"
"Jane, return to your walk," said Lord Westcott, turning Jane by her shoulders and giving her a gentle shove back towards Oliver. "Mr. Kensley, I'd like you to accompany me to breakfast before your garden work."
Pip looked up at the clouds. There was a chilling breeze that pierced his clothes. It was definitely going to start raining soon, and he would've rather began with his chores immediately to be spared the storm on his way to the post.
But Lord Westcott was already halfway up the marble staircase. "Are you coming?" he asked without turning to Pip.
Pip clenched his jaw. It's all right. I'll just work very quickly.
"Yes, my lord," he said, stopped, pulled out his small wrappings of biscuits, and handed one to Jane. "There you go."
Her eyes widened. "Did you make these?"
He grinned. "Me? Certainly not. I couldn't boil water. But Lord Westcott told me to give one to you."
"He did?"
"Of course," said Pip. "I don't know why he's pretending he's forgotten. Strange, your brother is."
And as he handed Oliver one, Oliver muttered, "Why were you—"
"Later," Pip said under his breath with a glance at Jane who was chewing happily on her own biscuit. "I'll tell you everything later."
He ran after Lord Westcott into the entrance hall.
"Lying seems to be a bit of a habit of yours," noted Lord Westcott as Pip caught up to him at the door.
Pip straightened. "I'm not a liar, my lord. But I would be to protect them. I would be whatever they needed me to be."
"Not sure that's a good thing, Mr. Kensley," he said.
Pip faltered. Not for the first time, he wished Lord Westcott would look away from him. This is what he does, he thought. This was what Oliver had warned him about. He talked down to people and made them feel inferior. This was why his love feared being left alone in the same room as him.
He swallowed, strengthening his resolve. I have to be stronger, he thought. For Oliver.
"It wasn't a complete lie, my lord," he said. At the young lord's raised brow, Pip said, "I really don't know why you pretend not to care about your siblings."
Lord Westcott looked startled. He said nothing as he looked down at Jane, now pestering Oliver for the biscuit Pip had given him.
"You shouldn't give those away," he finally said as they walked into the dining room where yet another large breakfast of eggs, beans, toast, butter, jam, and various fruits covered the table. "They were given specially to you. And she works very hard on them."
Pip noted that Lord Westcott spoke very quietly, and wondered if it was because Miss Bradley, Miss Westcott, and Mr. Colton were seated at the table.
"Am I not allowed to share?" said Pip.
Lord Westcott raised a brow at him before he sat down at the head of the table. At once, Mr. Colton stood.
"Half an hour late!" he bellowed imperiously. "You understand, we couldn't wait for you."
"I did," said Miss Bradley, raising a finger. "I waited."
"Thank you, Helen," said Lord Westcott. "Unnecessary, however. For God's sake, Andrew, stop shouting, it's far too early."
Pip smiled and quickly hid it as Mr. Colton's eyes turned to him and narrowed.
"Where were you?" he demanded. "You were not in your room an hour ago and the carriage was gone."
"A visit into town," Lord Westcott said leisurely as he and Miss Bradley began gathering food onto their plates. "Nothing to concern yourself with."
Miss Westcott, however, was looking gloomily down at her own empty plate. Miss Bradley pointedly avoided her while Mr. Colton hardly seemed to notice there was anything wrong at all.
Pip cleared his throat subtly. Lord Westcott did not look up from his plate. Pip glared and cleared his throat again. Lord Westcott took notice. Pip stared at Miss Westcott until Lord Westcott followed his gaze. His shoulders slumped as he looked back to Pip, as though asking what Pip expected him to do about his sister's blatant misery, but Pip was already staring ahead again, unmoving.
Pip heard Lord Westcott heave a sigh and almost smiled.
"Isolde," he said, "what's bothering you?"
Everyone looked up at Lord Westcott, their brows raised. Clearly, they had not been accustomed to the eldest inquiring after their wellbeing. Pip almost groaned.
Miss Westcott glanced at Miss Bradley, recovering from her shock quickly enough. "Nothing," she said, her voice hoarse as though she'd been crying.
"Well, don't look at me," said Miss Bradley with a hmph when Lord Westcott turned questioningly to her. "I have nothing to do with Miss Westcott's affairs, do I?"
Miss Westcott looked pained. "That's not—"
"And anyway, I won't be here much longer," Miss Bradley went on. "I'm off to my grandparents' home in Dawlish tomorrow."
"What?" Pip said at once, then turned red as everyone looked to him. "Er—" he grabbed the pitcher of water on the table. "What else would you like to drink, my lord?"
Lord Westcott's lips twitched. "Just water, Mr. Kensley."
"Yes, my lord," Pip filled his glass as Miss Bradley went on, glad to be the centre of attention.
"Well, I have no reason to stay any longer, do I? I was only meant to be here until the funeral and now that's done and over with, so—"
Miss Westcott abruptly stood, her plate and utensils clattering as she pushed her chair back and hurried out. Everyone was silent a moment, Miss Bradley staring with wide eyes at the door through which Miss Westcott had just left.
"Er—I . . . yes," she said, returning to her own plate. "Well, I—as you now know, I . . . erm . . . I'll be right back, excuse me." And Miss Bradley left the dining room as well.
Mr. Colton's expression as he stared down a confused and calm Lord Westcott turned more and more mutinous, and whether that was because he blamed Lord Westcott for upsetting his betrothed, or because he was still angry about Lord Westcott's being late, Pip was unsure.
He did not follow Miss Westcott out the door as Miss Bradley had done, and did not call to any servants to take her a plate of food to her room. His focus, instead, moved to Pip. "Boy," he said. "Answer me. Where were you?"
Lord Westcott set his knife and fork down with a heavy CLANK. "Are you joking?" he said. "Listen to me, Andrew, putting up with you is not the same thing as allowing you to undermine my authority. Which I have. And you do not."
"I am soon to be married to—"
"Yes, well," Lord Westcott said with a roll of his eyes, "the blessed day is yet to be upon us, is it? And until the day you are an official member of this household, you will not speak to Mr. Kensley again, do you understand me?"
Mr. Colton's eyes widened. "Are you forbidding me from addressing a servant?"
"No," said Lord Westcott. "I'm forbidding you from addressing my servant." Pip stared, astonished. Lord Westcott did not spare him a glance. "Because that's what he is, isn't he? If I am displeased with anything Mr. Kensley has done, I will be the one to speak to him. Not you. Do you understand what I'm saying? Nod if you understand."
Mr. Colton stood at once, throwing his napkin down on his plate with such fury. "You are not so special, Robert. You are not the only one who's served, and you are not the only wealthy man in England. One day, your entitlement will come back to haunt you, and you will understand the true meaning of duty."
He turned and stomped out, leaving Pip and Lord Westcott alone.
Pip opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "I—"
"I just had to speak, didn't I?" he heaved a sigh, rubbing his face with one hand. "Pray tell, Mr. Kensley, are you pleased now?"
"Not at all, actually," muttered Pip. "I've never seen Miss Westcott so . . ."
"But that shouldn't matter to you, should it?" Lord Westcott said sharply. "It's a private matter."
"But she was so upset!" Pip argued. "S-Sir. And, at any rate, you would've inquired after her whether or not I had mentioned it."
"Oh, would I? How do you suppose that?"
"Because," Pip said simply, "I hadn't mentioned it, my lord. I merely cleared my throat. You could've left me to die of consumption. You would have inquired," he repeated with more certainty.
Lord Westcott stared, his brows furrowed. Finally, he seemed to realize he'd been watching Pip for too long a time and gestured at the door with his fork.
"Go," he said. "Leave. Go do your work, I don't want to see you right now."
Pip attempted not to feel hurt by the words—and by all accounts, they shouldn't have hurt him—yet he felt a sting in his chest at the thought that he, too, was no longer welcome in the room.
Why do you care? Pip reminded himself. Leave him to eat alone. If he's going to get all upset for no reason like a child, then let him sit all by himself at the table. See how he likes his own company.
Pip didn't have long to do all he wanted to, least of all think about Lord Westcott alone as he ate. He'd torn out the weeds from the fields, brought out tarps to protect the more sensitive from the coming storm, and weighed them down around the flowerbeds with the usual heavy rocks. Thorns had already cut into his hands and his fingers were caked in dirt.
He'd just been considering how long it would take him to run to the stream inside the forest to gather fresh herbs for dinner when he felt the first few faint droppings of rain on his head. He didn't have long at all. He decided he would do everything he needed to do after he returned from the post.
He ran into the house through the servants' quarters and hurriedly washed his face and hands, scrubbing so roughly that his skin turned red. When it burned sufficiently, Pip ran to his room to find Charles looking for a coat.
"It's freezing!" he exclaimed as Pip hurried across the room to the small stack of books he had in his own private corner. "You should wear something over . . . what're you doing?"
Pip had taken a piece of parchment and quill—of which he had saved plenty—and was writing as quickly as he could.
"Sending word to Thomas," he said thoughtlessly, muttered a curse, and scratched out a few words he'd accidentally misspelled.
"Don't tell me we're going to the post now!" demanded Charles. "Pip, it's already pouring out!"
Pip held up his short letter.
My dear Thomas,
I hope you and mother are both well. I am healthy and happy, darkened in spirits only in missing you so terribly. I hope to return soon to see you.
Pip.
He nodded once to himself, deeming it adequate, and sealed it in an envelope.
"Pip, answer me!"
"Of course we're not going out in this storm."
"Oh," he sighed, relieved. "Good."
"I'm going out in this storm."
"What? P-Pip, hold on!"
But Pip had already taken his coat and run out before Charles could stop him. He couldn't wait until tomorrow, for tomorrow would be too late. Quickly, he thought, imagining his brother waiting by for a letter to come. He imagined Thomas already preparing for his departure and his mother desperate to stop him, and he shook the thoughts out of his head. He had to hurry.
"Stop right there!"
Pip refrained from groaning. There he was, with all his stature, Mr. Colton, sneering down at him.
"And where do you think you're going?"
"The post," said Pip quickly. His leg was bouncing. "I took permission from Lord Westcott, so I'll just—"
"The post?" Mr. Colton said leisurely, seemingly enjoying making Pip wait when he was so clearly desperate to leave. "What on earth would you want to go there for?"
"To send a very important letter," he said through grit teeth. Hatred coursed through his bones, his muscles, curling his hands into fists. "Excuse me, sir," he said. "I must call for a carriage."
"A carriage? In this rain? And ruin the fresh paint? I think not."
Pip clenched his jaw. "Then I will forego the carriage and go directly to the stables—"
"Ah, I'm afraid not," Mr. Colton said at once, his hands folded behind his back. He seemed quite pleased with himself. "I was just going to have the stable hands tend to the horses for the day. We cannot have anyone riding them out in such a storm, after all. It could injure them greatly."
"Sir," Pip forced out, his voice quiet. "Please, I must send word to my family by today at the very most."
Mr. Colton hummed with mock sympathy. "Then you really should have considered that days ago, shouldn't you?"
"It's been a demanding week for all of us, you know that!"
"Don't raise your voice at me, you insolent garden boy!" commanded Mr. Colton, all traces of humour gone now, replaced with the true cruel satisfaction of having punished Pip for being Lord Westcott's servant.
A thought struck him. Lord Westcott. Mr. Colton couldn't punish him for what he was about to do, couldn't so much as scold him for it.
Pip pulled his collar back and stuffed his letter inside, tucked safe and dry against his skin. He hugged his waist, ensuring that the rain didn't touch it, and without a word, he turned his back to Mr. Colton, opened one of the large front doors, and ran out into the storm, ignoring Mr. Colton's demands to return.
He was soaked through his hair and clothes in less than a minute, but that didn't matter. He hugged his waist more tightly, relieved to feel the dry edges of the letter pinch his skin. He ran and ran down the dirt road only for fear that the parchment would soak if he took his time, slipped more than once and scraped his chin and hands against the sharper pebbles, and picked himself up to keep running.
Westcott manor and its golden gates disappeared from behind him completely after what felt like ten minutes had passed, then half an hour, then an hour. For a long while, it felt as though the world was made of nothing but the dirt road that went squish squish squish beneath his feet, the wide open fields on either side of him, and endless grey skies.
Soon, with his body frozen and his chest on fire, his heart hammering in his throat, Pip thought it would be safe to walk, but too quickly the water began to soak through his clothes and the touch of damp parchment against his skin frightened him into running again.
*
Robert tapped his parchment with a quill, as he'd been tapping it the past fifteen minutes, as he'd tapped his fork on his plate all throughout breakfast instead of eating anything. It distracted from the constant noise of the kitchens, and helped him pace his thoughts which, at the moment, alternated between memories of his men, and Mr. Kensley. Trenches, and Mr. Kensley. Whatever work he was supposed to be doing instead of thinking of Mr. Kensley, and Mr. Kensley.
He'd started writing letters to his colleagues only to end up sketching the rough outline of dark eyes, strong eyebrows, straight, soft hair—
Then he realized what he was doing and tore the picture out, crumpling it up, and tossing it away in the small, gilded bin in the corner beside his desk.
His curtains were closed as usual, but he could still hear the rain harshly beating against the glass and roofs. He'd spotted Mr. Kensley covering some of the flowerbeds with a tarp earlier. He wondered if he was still out there . . .
"Oh, get a hold of yourself," muttered Robert, rubbing his face. Then he realized he, like Mr. Kensley, was beginning to talk to himself, and did not say another word.
Robert's door was open, and he was certain there were other people in the manor, other people on his floor. But all he could hear was the rain, the thunder booming all across the skies as though angry gods were roaring at one another, the snapping and crackling of the flames in the fireplace, the tap tap tap that only seemed to grow louder.
When Isolde walked into his room, it was almost a comforting distraction.
"Finally stopped crying, have you?"
"I was never crying!" she said at once. She took the seat opposite him, looking around. "Where's Pip?"
"The post, I believe," he said. "Do you happen to know to which address I can send a letter for Lord Hewitt? I was thinking of having him and his sons come visit."
"Same address as always," Isolde said. "To their summer home in Dartmouth. It may take a week or two to arrive. Did you say Pip went to the post?"
Robert hummed, already writing.
"Who's going to the post?" asked Oliver as he entered. "Because I keep getting letters from the Earl of Cambridge to come visit him and his grandson, and I've come up with quite an impressive variation of the phrase, 'Never in a million lifetimes,' that I'd very much like to send back."
"Are you joking?" said Isolde, exasperated. "I can't—I can't tell if you're joking or not."
Oliver merely grinned, though Robert couldn't help noticing how he also looked around his chambers. Robert sighed.
"No one's going to the post," he said. "Mr. Kensley's already gone."
"Oh," Isolde said with a snap of her fingers. "He must be writing to Thomas!" Oliver nodded in agreement.
"Thomas, is that Mr. Kensley's brother?" asked Robert, and immediately held up a hand. "Never mind, don't tell me, I don't care."
"Why do you keep calling him Mr. Kensley?" said Isolde. "Don't you see how cold it makes you seem? I'm already certain he doesn't like Oliver much because he keeps calling him Philip."
Oliver smirked. "I do it to irritate him. It's endearing."
"Call him Pip like the rest of us, I'm sure he'd appreciate it."
"Can't," Robert muttered as he as finished writing the greeting; To my friend, Lord Hewitt, and knew not of what else to write that would sound sincere. "He's forbidden me."
"Pip has?" Isolde blinked and Robert saw Oliver purse his lips, a poor attempt to hide his widening grin. "But he's so kind, he wouldn't forbid you!"
Oliver snickered. "Seems not everyone is as in love with you as you thought, eh, Robbie?"
"Are you trying to irritate me now?" asked Robert. "Because it's not working. It hardly matters to me what Mr. Kensley does or does not think of me, so long as he does his duties."
"And how is he?" beamed Isolde. "Brilliant, isn't he?"
"He's . . . a bit funny."
"Funny?" Oliver raised a brow. "I didn't think you could laugh."
"Not that sort of funny," snapped Robert. "It's only—he's odd, all right? He talks to himself all the time and sometimes he has a way of speaking that—that . . ." he huffed. "Oh, I don't know. I've barely known him two days, I may just be adjusting to having a personal servant."
"But you like him?" insisted Isolde.
"You seem in a much brighter mood," said Robert instead of answering. "Did Helen talk some sense into you?"
"She's decided to stay," said Isolde with a delicate shrug, though her smile suggested she'd been bursting with the good news. She composed herself with a clear of her throat, her hands placed delicately on her lap. "I had to speak with her like an adult, of course. Once she saw my reasoning that leaving now would be irresponsible in her duties as a friend, she accepted to extend her visit."
"Helen?" said Oliver, and thoughtlessly sat on the armrest of Robert's chair. Robert glanced at him and said nothing. "I knew you looked a bit grim this morning. That's why I took Jane for a walk, I thought you'd want to talk to Andrew alone. Or was Andrew not the problem?"
"Andrew's always the problem," Robert rolled his eyes, tossing his unfinished parchment on his desk. It could wait for later. "You're not really going to marry that prat, are you?"
Isolde crossed her arms. "You—You simply don't know him as I do! H-He's not so bad, really!"
Neither of the brothers said anything a moment. Then Oliver leaned in. "Isolde, no one's here to force you to marry him. You're free to do as you wish."
Isolde glared. "Mother never forced me to marry him! She merely suggested it."
"Suggested, yes," Oliver nodded solemnly. "With all the subtlety and gentility of a spiked mace, she certainly did."
Robert almost laughed, but hid it with a cough. Oliver blinked, startled, but seemed to think nothing of it.
"Look, Isolde," Oliver tried again, "I know her death upset you, but—"
"Upset me?" she scoffed unconvincingly. "Don't be ridiculous. It doesn't make sense to grieve for a woman like that!" She fiddled with the skirt of her dress. "But complying with her dying wish . . ."
Isolde straightened. "Well, there's no use convincing you," she said angrily. "But I'm certain that Robert will be more than mature enough to have a civil conversation with—"
"Oh, Andrew certainly doesn't want to talk to me," Robert interrupted.
Oliver barked a laugh, and Isolde frowned. "Why not?"
"I banned him from speaking to Mr. Kensley."
"Y-You—" Isolde's eyes widened. Even Oliver stood straight, looking shocked. "You did what?"
"I banned him." He shrugged. "He acted as though my own manservant was to answer to him, it was maddening, what was I supposed to do?"
Robert could no longer take their eyes on him. He felt as though he'd confessed to a private affair, he couldn't help but be slightly embarrassed. For want of something—anything—to keep himself busy, he tilted back the curtain on his window, making a show of surveying the grounds below.
"He's an arrogant arse, Isolde," Robert said with an intended lightness in his tone. "This ought to teach him. And besides, you're fond of Mr. Kensley, aren't you? I rather think I did him a . . . what on earth . . . ?"
"What?"
"Is that Mr. Kensley out in the rain?"
"What?" said Oliver, and the two were at his side in an instant, the curtains pulled back to reveal the grounds more clearly.
Walking towards the manor, soaked through-and-through with his arms crossed tightly to uselessly fight off the biting cold, was the young servant.