Already as Lord Westcott, Pip, Miss Westcott, Miss Bradley, a disgruntled Oliver, Jane, Amelia, and Mr. Colton stood outside under umbrellas to greet the guest, Pip felt he was getting better. Beads of sweat were beginning to make their way down his temple and he felt that perhaps two coats were too much, his body suddenly too warm at once, even in the cold rain outside.
This heat had come from nowhere, but it relieved Pip. He thought he could certainly handle a few hours, especially with the handkerchief Emily had given him to keep in his pocket.
He coughed discreetly into his elbow, and Lord Westcott had glanced at him without a word, but neither had had the chance to say anything because just then, Lord Garrick's carriage came to a stop, and a footman jumped forward from the coachbox, holding an umbrella high above the door before he opened it.
Lord Garrick was as big as he'd been the first time Pip had seen him, stretching to the expanse of the carriage door. His footman followed him with the umbrella, and he smiled widely at Lord Westcott.
"Robert, how are you this evening, how are you? Say," he said before Lord Westcott could answer, "you don't look as well rested as I thought you might! Not busying your nights with work, are you? A handsome young man like yourself should be enjoying himself more!"
"Yes, my lord," said Lord Westcott politely. "If you remember them, these are my sisters Isolde and Jane, my brother Oliver, and our friend, Helen Bradley. And this is—"
"Andrew Colton, my lord," said Mr. Colton imperiously, stepping forward to take Lord Garrick's hand before anyone else could. "A pleasure to see you again, sir."
"Indeed, indeed," Lord Garrick chuckled good-naturedly. "I—oh, Mr. Kensley!" he came forward and took the startled Pip's hand in his own, shaking his entire arm. Mr. Colton looked startled and most displeased. "How good of you to greet me, how good! Tell me, Robert, did our young Mr. Kensley give you the gift I'd entrusted with him?"
"He did," said Lord Westcott with a nod. "I assume you gave it to him rather than me to test his integrity?"
He clapped Lord Westcott's arm. "Well, you never know with servants, do you? But I can see you have an honest one here. Good young man, good indeed."
Pip didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. He had no doubt there were people who thought all servants stole from their masters and ought to be watched diligently. It was another reason the Lady Westcott had to know where everyone was at every moment of every day. She was always in her room when they were to be cleaned, valuables were never left unsupervised.
Pip wondered, once again, if Lord Westcott was anything like his mother in assuming servants needed to be proven innocent before a crime had been committed.
As they all turned to follow Lords Westcott and Garrick inside, Oliver caught Pip's gaze and rolled his eyes at Lord Garrick's back. Pip smiled, thankful that at least he would have Oliver there to make the time go by faster.
The storm varied as the long minutes passed. At times, moonlight shined in through the windows, then the clouds would rule the skies once more and the land outside turned to black.
They had a number of candles lit, illuminating the tapestries of the drawing room, the carpets, the mahogany tables and armchairs. The large chamber was a wash of deep reds and gold, and Pip's eyelids kept fluttering of their own accord, awoken only by Lord Garrick's occasional barks of laughter or his not-so-riveting ventures of the past, which only grew louder and wilder with every glass of wine he had after they'd finished their dinner.
After dinner also happened to be when the chill of the night and the fever combined began to crawl into Pip's spine once again. He had barely managed to button his coat before the cold swept over him and left him clenching his jaw so that his teeth wouldn't chatter. Fortunately, everyone seemed more preoccupied with Lord Garrick's story.
"And so I—I told the poor darling that I was not terribly busy that night and could spare her the hour! As she seemed so keen on spending it with me, I could not refuse her!" laughed Lord Garrick.
"That she was beautiful did nothing for your sympathies, then?" Oliver teased, and Lord Garrick's smile widened.
"Oh, Mr. Reed, how you understand me!" he said, waving his glass around and nearly spilling half of its contents on the floor.
Even Mr. Colton, as he pretended to laugh, followed the glass with his eyes. Pip almost wanted Lord Garrick to taint the carpet, if only to see Mr. Colton's wonderfully pained reaction, but then it occurred to him that he might be the one to clean the mess.
"Robert, did you open the box I gave you?"
Pip glanced at Lord Westcott who, without batting an eye, said, "Yes, I did. It was a lovely gift, thank you. I sent back a box of chocolates I'd acquired in Germany, did you receive it?"
"Of course," he laughed. "Finished it in a day! But I am so glad you enjoyed it. Say, Mr. Reed—"
"Oliver," Lord Westcott said with a nod. "You may have call him Oliver, my lord, he doesn't mind."
Pip saw Oliver's eyes flitting to his brother before his grin turned less sarcastic and more forced.
"No," Oliver said through almost grit teeth. "Of course I don't."
Lord Garrick did not seem to notice the hostility in Oliver's voice because he leaned forward, clapping Oliver's shoulder as he'd done Lord Westcott's.
"Well then, Oliver, I should tell you," he said, "I could use men like you in my firm."
Oliver's smirk fell away to something more startled. "Oh?"
"Bright young thing like you?" he nodded eagerly, waving his glass around wildly. "Who wouldn't?"
"Er—" Mr. Colton started, smiling nervously. "Don't you think Oliver's a bit too inexperienced for such business as trade?"
"Nonsense!" said Lord Garrick. "What does it take to learn? Especially for a son of Harold Westcott! And I am no stranger to his social popularity and intelligence, not after all Robert's told me about him!"
Oliver then looked to Robert. "You . . . said I was intelligent?"
"He certainly did!" answered Lord Garrick while Lord Westcott was looking to Pip to refill his glass of water. "Went on and on about you! Said there was no one better for our line of work!"
"Brother," Miss Westcott smiled, pleased. "I had no idea."
"It's not that startling, is it?" said Lord Westcott as though only barely paying attention to the conversation. "I was only thoughtlessly talking."
"Modest, isn't he?" Lord Garrick smiled. "Now, Oliver, I was also told you were an expert negotiator . . ."
As they spoke, Pip refilled Lord Westcott's glass, glancing at Oliver out of the corner of his eyes. He still seemed startled that Lord Garrick had directed so much of his attention to him, but there was a small amount of pride in the way his shoulders straightened, the way he leaned forward, attentive. Pip didn't know why he couldn't be happy for Oliver, clearly getting the praise he deserved.
This was a good thing, wasn't it? This opportunity? And it wasn't as though anything had really changed. He was still Oliver Reed, mocker of the wealthy and the stuffy businessmen and their stuffy offices.
Pip would later attribute the rush of his thoughts and lack of attention to his fever. Now, however, all he could do was panic as Lord Westcott suddenly yelped—
"Oi!"
Pip had filled his glass beyond the brim and the water overflowed onto his trousers and the chair's seat. In shock, and too dizzy to keep a steady grip already, Pip dropped the pitcher and it clattered on the table between them, knocking over the pitcher of wine and the plate of biscuits as well, and splashing all over Lord Garrick's trousers, his shoes, and the carpet.
Lord Garrick jumped up—"Oh my!" he gasped—and the wine in his own glass joined the mess on the floor.
Pip stared with half-balanced horror as time seemed to freeze. Everyone had jumped to their feet and was watching the disaster unfold until it had all gone still. In addition to the rain and fire, there was the steady drip drip drip of the wine and water off the edge of the table onto the carpet.
Finally, past the haze of his fever, Pip awoke. "I-I'm so sorry, my lord!" He bent down, picking up the crumbs of pastries and broken glasses off the carpet. "Please excuse me! I'm so terribly sorry, I didn't—I didn't mean to—"
"You stupid boy," spat Mr. Colton, shoving Pip back by his shoulder, and pulling a clean handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping the water and wine off Lord Garrick's clothes, though that only seemed to be staining them more.
He stood and turned to Pip, glowering. "You stupid, useless boy!"
"There now," Lord Garrick laughed, half-awkward and half confused as the wine had no doubt slowed his reflexes. "No need to scold the boy, it was an accident."
"I'm so sorry, my lord, I'm so very sorry," Mr. Colton said sincerely. "I assure you, he will be punished."
"No need, no need," Lord Garrick said with a careless wave of his hand. "I'm all right. No harm done, as you can see."
"We will bring you new clothes as once," Miss Westcott said immediately while Miss Bradley slowly neared Pip, her arm outstretched as though she hoped to catch him before he fell.
"Ah, Charles," Miss Bradley said as she reached Pip, a hand on his elbow, the back of her other hand barely grazing the side of Pip's neck before she pulled away. Charles's steps slowed as he came into the drawing room, taking in the evening's condition with wide eyes.
"Good, help me with Pip, will you?" Once Charles neared, Miss Bradley leaned in and said in a quiet voice so that no one else could hear, "And send word for a physician, his skin is on fire."
Charles nodded, taking Pip from Miss Bradley as they left the drawing room.
"No, no, he stays here!" Mr. Colton was beginning to say with an accusatory finger at Pip, but Miss Westcott quickly waved it away.
"Stop it," Pip heard her mutter before she turned a charming smile on Lord Garrick.
"Our sincerest apologies, my lord," she said. "An unfortunate accident, no need to let it spoil your night."
"Nothing's spoiled, my dear," Lord Garrick laughed. "Except perhaps my clothes. Oh! And your beautiful carpet! Dear me."
Pip did not think he would be able to sleep a wink, but the moment he was put in bed, he drifted away into the darkness. He couldn't remember what he dreamed of, but it felt as though he'd woken no more than two seconds later.
He was in his own room, in his bed, staring at the far right wall against which a nervous Emily stood, her hands curled to fists over her chest. Someone—probably Charles—was dabbing a cool wet cloth to his forehead, and the feeling made his eyes flutter shut again only for a moment. Miss Bradley and Oliver were at the door, talking to a man in a thick coat whom Pip assumed was the physician, while Mrs. Mary stood behind them, listening attentively.
Oliver, Pip thought. He wanted Oliver. He reached out for him, not caring that others were watching. The man that they'd been speaking to saw that Pip was awake, gave him a kind smile, and shook Miss Bradley's and Oliver's hands before putting his top hat on and turning to leave. Mrs. Mary whispered something to Emily, Emily glanced at Miss Bradley, and the two left after the physician.
Oliver caught Pip's gaze and looked almost pained, though his hands remained at his hips and he would not close the distance between them.
Miss Bradley noticed Pip was awake and sighed. "Honestly, Pip, what were you thinking? Why didn't you say you weren't feeling well?"
"I—" Pip attempted to speak, but his throat felt constricted, as though he hadn't used his voice in years. Charles, already at his side, helped him into a sitting position against two pillows. Pip realized he'd given him his.
He handed him a cup of water, and Pip swallowed with difficulty. Miss Bradley came to sit at his bed's edge and touched his forehead with the back of her hand.
"Silly boy," she said in that exasperated and fond tone that made Pip want to curl into her side and let her rake her fingers through his hair, even though they were of the same age.
"Is Lord Westcott angry?" he asked instead.
Oliver stared. "Is Lord Westcott angry? Blast what he thinks!"
"Ouch!" Miss Bradley covered one ear with her hand. "Must you shout like that?"
"Oh, look at him, Helen! He clearly wasn't feeling well, but Robert had to have him work today, didn't he?" He glared at Pip. "Or are you about to tell me that working was your idea and he had nothing to do with it?"
Pip hesitated. "I—"
"Don't even bother!" he snapped.
"D'you know," said Miss Bradley. "If you're so worried about Pip, you're doing a poor job of showing it!"
"Worried?" Oliver scoffed a little too quickly. "I'm not worried, but he embarrassed us! All to keep his precious Lord Westcott happy. He ought to be thrilled now, eh?"
Pip flinched, his eyes burning as the cold cloth fell onto his blanketed lap. He caught a flicker of remorse on Oliver's face before he quickly grabbed the cloth and wiped his tears, then held it in place against his forehead. Charles was clutching his hand under the blanket tightly.
Miss Bradley was shaking her head with disgust. "Goodness, you and your family. And here I thought it was only Isolde and Andrew who cared so much about what other people thought of them! You should be ashamed of yourself, a man's linens mattering more to you than a man's wellbeing!"
Oliver's face fell as he stared at Pip, but Pip could not hold his gaze. He bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling. What had seemed a show of strength this morning, baring with the pain to serve without fear of being mocked or scolded for being ill, felt now a childish and unnecessary insistence. He hadn't thought things through at all, for he knew that he would've rather taken Lord Westcott's unimpressed scoff than Oliver's cruel words, which were more painful to his heart than the pain any illness would hope to bring.
"Out of the way," they heard Mr. Colton suddenly say, his voice echoing against the narrow halls that led to Pip and Charles's room. "Move at once, I demand to see that insolent little—"
"He's out of his cage," muttered Miss Bradley, and Charles's hand on Pip's tightened almost painfully.
"There you are!" Mr. Colton appeared at the door, and Oliver and Miss Bradley both set aside glaring at one another to glare at him instead. Miss Westcott had followed, her hands on his arm. He seemed to be doing his best to fight against her.
"Lying in bed, no less!" he spat. "Get up! Get up, you useless boy!"
"My, my," Miss Bradley said coldly, standing up in front of Pip with her arms crossed. "Such ugly words for dropping a pitcher of water."
Mr. Colton looked at her incredulously. "Is that all he did?! He humiliated us in front of our guest! We look like we can't keep decent help in our own home!"
Pip's nails dug into his thigh, his other hand returning Charles's tight grip, and he saw Oliver glance at him, but Pip quickly looked away. He could not bear how similar Oliver's words had been to Mr. Colton's.
"Stop it," Miss Westcott hissed at him. "Just stop it, Andrew! Don't forget, our guest is still here!"
"Is that what's troubling you?" Miss Bradley scoffed distastefully. "Your guest's sensibilities?"
Miss Westcott looked at her as though she'd been slapped, and her grip on Mr. Colton's arm loosened. "No, I . . . no, of course that isn't—"
But Mr. Colton had taken advantage of being released to once again lunge at Pip. Charles gasped and wrapped his arms around Pip, pulling him in against him. Oliver was already before him, keeping Mr. Colton back.
"MOVE OUT OF THE WAY, OLIVER!"
"Andrew, please!" Miss Westcott whispered frantically.
"Try that again, and I'll do more than shove you!" warned Oliver.
Mr. Colton turned his dark, cruel eyes on him. "Yes, you would protect him, wouldn't you?"
Oliver's eye twitched. "What are you implying, sir?" he grit out. "If you have something to say, out with it."
Mr. Colton held his gaze for a long time. Then—
"If the Lady Westcott was here," he said with a tremble in his voice, "he would be spending the night in his precious gardens."
"Well, she's not here, is she?" Oliver smirked humourlessly.
"I think—"
"I don't think it matters much what you think," said Oliver. "And hadn't Robert banned you from speaking to Philip? If he's angry with him, he can come have a go at him. You, on the other hand, may now return to the second floor."
Mr. Colton stared as though he couldn't believe Oliver, the bastard son, was giving him orders. He looked to Miss Westcott and was vexed to find her looking at Miss Bradley, ignoring him completely.
He stepped forward, put a finger on Oliver's chest, and said, "Enjoy the authority while it lasts, Mr. Reed. I do hope these moments of insubordination are worth it . . . in the end."
Oliver did not respond as Mr. Colton huffed and left the room. Miss Westcott looked after him as he passed her, as though startling out of her thoughts. Miss Bradley had returned to sit by Pip, taking the cool cloth which Charles had put in cold water, wringing it out herself, and pressing it against Pip's forehead again.
"Are you feeling better, Pip?" asked Miss Westcott quietly.
"Yes, ma'am," muttered Pip, still staring at Oliver who had his back turned to him. Pip saw his hands curl into trembling fists, and without a glance at him, Oliver stormed out of the room, grumbling to himself about—Pip hoped—Mr. Colton.
Miss Westcott, however, must have taken Pip's anxious expression for something else entirely because she gave him a comforting smile. "It's all right, really. Lord Garrick wasn't upset at all. He was still laughing even after he'd changed. But you know how Mr. Colton overreacts at times."
"You should lie down," said Miss Bradley curtly, pointedly avoiding Miss Westcott's gaze. "Get some sleep."
"Er—yes, ma'am."
"If you insist on calling me that, I'll call you Mr. Kensley from now on," she snapped, and Pip almost smiled as he lay down on his side. "Not so pleasant, is it?"
"No," agreed Pip.
"Charles," she said, "you will look after him, won't you?"
"Yes, Miss Br"—Miss Bradley glared—"Helen," Charles said at once.
"And I'll talk to Mrs. Mary," she said with a nod to herself. She pinched Pip's cheek and gave him a weary smile. "Try not to get yourself killed in these next few days, will you? Believe it or not, there are people who'd rather not lose you."
"Er—" Miss Westcott started, "Helen, would you want to –"
"I'm off to bed," Miss Bradley yawned. "It's been a long day. Pip, I'll come back to check on you in the morning."
Pip nodded, and without another glance at Miss Westcott, Miss Bradley left. Miss Westcott sighed, thoughtlessly patted Pip's hip, and walked out.
No sooner had she gone than Mrs. Mary and Emily came scurrying in, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of porridge. Mrs. Mary fussed over Pip as she sat him up again and forced him to eat. Emily hovered nearby with a glass of water, asking him every so often if he was thirsty. Pip smiled and laughed along with Charles, but inside he felt numb.
Oliver's words had burned into his mind, his angry shouts still echoing in Pip's ears. Pip knew he couldn't have meant any of the cruel things he'd said—for he'd even defended against Mr. Colton—but Pip only wished he was here now, to reassure him that he loved him, that he hadn't really embarrassed the family, that he wasn't disappointed in Pip at all.
Some small words of comfort, Pip thought, would've helped ease the storm in his chest, reflecting the storm that raged on outside and turned the world to absolute darkness.
After Mrs. Mary and Emily had gone, Pip and Charles sat for a moment in the silence as Charles changed and prepared for bed, dimming all the candles but one. Pip sighed deeply into his pillow, his own breath like fire against his skin.
"Go on," he said. "I know you want to scold me as well."
Charles hummed, then Pip felt him lie down behind him, his arm tight around Pip's waist. "No," he said against the nape of Pip's neck, keeping him warm. "You've been scolded enough, I think."
Pip turned to hide his face, his eyes burning. He would not let the tears fall. "I don't normally cry, you know."
"Of course not," Charles said with a smile in his tone. "It's only the fever."
Pip covered Charles's hand on his waist with his own, sniffling occasionally into the darkness. He fell asleep to the thought of Oliver's anger.
It was as though he'd been woken by an invisible tapping against his shoulder. Pip opened his eyes to heavy rains and shadows blanketing the room. Beads of sweat formed on the nape of his neck and forehead, and his throat was as dry as the desert. He reached for his glass of water, but it was empty.
With a trembling sigh, Pip pushed the blankets and Charles's arm back carefully once his throat was too dry to breathe, lit a small candle, and made his way to the kitchens, leaning on the walls to steady himself.
Once he'd gotten his drink, he lingered by the door. He considered trudging upstairs to Oliver's chambers and curling into his warmth for the night. Surely, his arms would be a much better comfort than any blankets.
But would I be allowed such a comfort? he briefly worried before he shut his eyes to the thought. He didn't care. He didn't care whether or not Oliver would be pleased to see him, not now when it felt as though every bone in his body swelled, when the cold was returning so rapidly to his spine, his hand that cupped the candle's small fire curling in even closer to absorb whatever warmth it would offer.
He had only just decided to take his chances in Oliver's room when he saw a flicker of light out of the corner of his eye. He stopped, squinted. Had he been seeing things? But no! There it was again, that same flicker!
It was coming from the library. Pip hesitated, and slowly made his way to the room. Could it have been Oliver? What if he'd been meaning to go to Pip's room and hid when he heard footsteps? What if he had purposely lingered on the first floor to visit Pip when he was certain everyone had been asleep? Pip rubbed the heavy weariness from his eyes. What time was it?
He came in, saw the golden light reflected against the shelves and spines of books, saw someone seated at the table, a book in hand. Pip stepped back. It wasn't Oliver, but Lord Westcott!
He looked to be in deep concentration, focusing on the pages. Pip half-wondered if he'd found the story he'd been looking for. Then he realized he ought to retrace his steps before he was spotted. Too late.
"Awake, are you?" Lord Westcott said without looking up. "Bit late."
"I'm sorry to intrude," muttered Pip. He rubbed his eyes with his forearm again. The sweat that had been forming what felt like seconds ago had now dried, and replaced with almost a painful heat he could feel coming off his skin.
"I couldn't sleep," said Lord Westcott. "I'd normally take a book out into the gardens, but with the storm . . ."
Pip watched him carefully. Was he angry at what Pip had done? It didn't seem as though he was, though Pip didn't dare move any closer or ask any questions.
"What's troubling your nights?" Lord Westcott asked instead.
"Er—" Pip started, coughed into his elbow, and quickly regained his breath enough to say, "Thirsty."
"Still ill, then."
"Yes," he said quietly. He hesitated. "Am . . . am I in a lot of trouble?"
"Hm? For what?"
Pip blushed, though perhaps that was the fever as well. "Spilling the—"
"The pitcher of water?" he scoffed.
"And the wine," Pip murmured.
"You must have a very low opinion of me, Mr. Kensley," said Lord Westcott after a long moment's silence, and stood, his book in his hand.
Pip opened his mouth, not knowing what to say. For some reason, he felt guilt lurch in his stomach at Lord Westcott's expression. He carried the same careless frown he always wore, but there was something in his eyes, a sort of fracture in what Pip was beginning to feel was a mask.
Lord Westcott stopped suddenly beside Pip in the doorway, and for a moment, Pip thought he really would tell him how disappointed he was in his behaviour. But that was not what he did.
Wordlessly, Lord Westcott reached up—and cupped Pip's jaw. Pip stared, his heart hammering painfully in his throat. He held his breath, not daring to move, speak, or look away from Lord Westcott's dark eyes.
Lord Westcott's thumb gently caressed Pip's cheek, as softly as though Pip were a wounded animal and his master was terrified he would hurt him, and the touch solicited an instinctive, sharp intake of breath from Pip.
It seemed to be enough to startle Lord Westcott. He blinked, as though waking from a trance, and his hand fell from Pip's face at once.
He looked away, said a soft, "You ought to return to bed before your fever worsens," and left Pip in the darkness of the library, more thunder roaring outside.