"It feels . . . strange, somehow," said Pip.
Standing in the dining room and not being scolded by Mr. Colton was not something Pip had ever thought he would have to learn to live with. Granted, he'd always imagined what the manor would be like without Lady Westcott's most attentive and loyal follower to enforce her rules and strict structure, but to look around at every creak of the door, at every muffled scream from the kitchens, every "Well, well, well," and not find Mr. Colton there, scolding lord and servant alike with his nose in the air—it was admittedly not something Pip had ever considered.
Lord Westcott hummed, his attention on the documents laid out on his lap and the table ahead of him. "What?"
Pip blinked. "Did I speak out loud?"
"You did," he said. "What feels strange?"
Pip squirmed. "Only . . . the manor."
He scoffed. "You mean without Andrew?"
"It's not quieter," said Pip as Mrs. Mary's fussing and Charles's complaints and Sebastian's giggling sounded from the halls. "That's not the word I'm looking for."
"D'you know, you're right," he said, looking up as though only now noticing the difference. "I think unburdened might be more suitable."
Pip nodded. "Yes. I keep expecting to hear him shouting through the halls, but the fear is gone."
"So you say," he said, "and yet you didn't seem to want to cheer with the rest of the household after he had left."
Pip shrugged a shoulder, and Oliver, who had yet to leave his mind but had remained below the surface, barely kept at bay, was at the forefront of his thoughts once again.
"It felt wrong to laugh," he mumbled.
Lord Westcott rolled his eyes. "My, Pip, how grand and good you are."
His face turned red. "I didn't mean it like that! I only meant . . . I sort of pitied him near the end. I always wondered whether he would change after the Lady Westcott passed. Er—sorry."
"Stop apologizing," he said distractedly, looking for a particular document. "I hardly knew the woman. My tea, please."
Pip filled the cup, adding the milk and sugar, and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed, and Pip snatched his hand away at once, the contents of the cup nearly spilling.
"Oi!" he hissed. "Watch it!"
"S-Sorry," he stepped back, covering his cheeks with his hands.
He noticed that Lord Westcott was avoiding his eyes, his own cheeks tinted pink.
"And stop staring at me!" he snapped, turning away from him.
"I'm not!" Pip said into his palms.
"If I catch you so much as glancing in my direction during Lord Hewitt's stay—"
"Lord Hewitt is coming today?" he said.
"Don't try to change the subject!"
"My my," a voice at the door said, and the two looked up. Oliver was smirking. "Is the happy couple arguing?"
"Don't be foolish," muttered Lord Westcott into his cup. "You look like shite. Pardon my language," he added to Pip. Then, to Oliver, "But you do."
"Couldn't sleep," he said, crossing his arms on the back of the chair opposite them. "Isolde and Helen can be very loud when they want to be."
At Lord Westcott's raised brow, Oliver scoffed. "Pace yourself, brother, they were up all night talking, is what I meant. They only just left me for some peace and quiet."
He looked to Pip. "You've returned early though. What were you doing in the gardens?"
Pip clenched his jaw, but didn't answer.
Oliver held his gaze. "Robbie," he said. "Mind if I borrow your servant a moment?"
Lord Westcott glanced at him. Pip just slightly shook his head, and he knew Lord Westcott had seen it. Regardless, he stood with a sigh.
"Go ahead," he said, avoiding Pip's eyes. "When you're finished here, Pip, return these documents to my chambers. I have to go find Isolde about our guest, at any rate."
"Wonderful," said Oliver. "I can hardly wait for the pampered princess to come tell us all about her precious diamond collection. And Lady Hewitt will be a pleasure as well."
Again, Pip noticed Lord Westcott's lips twitch in an effort to hide his smile. Pip wished he could follow him.
Instead, he left on his own, and Pip and Oliver were alone in the drawing room. Oliver's smirk fell at once and he straightened. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure there was no one else who would see them.
Pip should've been angered by this. So why was it that all he felt was weary? He was tired of having his hopes dashed, of being only happy to see Oliver while Oliver was so frightened of being found out, of the secrets and the lies that proved, every day, how much less important Pip was to this man.
"He's calling you 'Pip' now?" said Oliver mildly. "I thought you'd forbidden him."
Pip kept his eyes on the fireplace. "I don't think you're starting this conversation correctly, Oliver."
"I know you're upset with me," said Oliver, and when Pip didn't answer, his face fell. "But I can explain."
Pip shook his head. His voice was resigned to his own ears. "Oliver—"
Oliver closed the distance between them, clinging to Pip's arms as though afraid he would be shoved back. He was afraid.
"I've missed you," he said, almost desperate. "Haven't you missed me?"
Pip huffed a miserable chuckle. "You only touch me when you're afraid," he said. "Could you want me for nothing else?"
Oliver looked pained. "I knew Andrew would never do anything to harm you," he said. "I knew you would be safe. That was the only reason I hadn't come to save you myself."
"Safe?" breathed Pip, finally meeting his gaze. "I was silently suffering for days. My conscience was weighing me down like the world was on my shoulders, I kept looking into corridors and listening for any sign that I had exposed you. I was hiding from Jane and ashamed to look at Miss Westcott and begging Lord Westcott for reassurance. I wasn't safe, Oliver!"
His eyes burned. He whispered a curse and wiped his face furiously. When he looked up, Oliver was staring at him with horrified eyes, as though he couldn't believe the damage he'd done. He gripped Pip tighter.
"I was beside myself with rage and—and fear," Oliver defended. "You saw me! You saw what I was like when I thought you didn't want me!"
"When have I ever pushed you away from me?" demanded Pip. "Why couldn't you see something was wrong for yourself? Why is it you are so tuned to Mr. Colton's every move, every stranger's eye, but never to what is so plainly hurting me?"
"You should've told me," he said. "Had you told me—"
"What?" said Pip. "What would you have done? Would you have told everyone? Because you didn't last night. You could have, you could've ended his hold on me, and you didn't."
Pip's lower lip trembled. "I needed your help," he said, "and you weren't there."
"Listen to me," he said, his grip on Pip tightening, almost painful. Had his touch always hurt?
"Do you know why I didn't tell you?" said Pip, his voice trembling. "Because Mr. Colton told me that given the choice between the Westcott name and me, you would not choose me. So yes, Oliver, we both doubted one another, but the difference was that I was right."
"You weren't!" he protested. "But Andrew confessing it to the world—that was not how I wanted everyone to know, Pip! It was . . . it was a violation of our love, it would've hurt more than anything."
Pip stepped away from him, forcefully pulling his arms free. "Not more than anything," he said coldly. "Not more than being trapped in that room, and finding that you weren't the one who had come to save me. Not more than that."
Oliver shook his head. He looked terrified, his brows furrowed. "You can't—you can't move away from me," he said. "You can't hate me."
"I could never hate you," said Pip. "But I think that perhaps—"
"NO!" he screamed, taking a step back and then forward again. "You can't leave me! I love you, you can't leave me!"
Pip frowned. "Oliver?"
Oliver's lower lip trembled, his eyes filled with tears. "It's because of him, isn't it?" he growled. "You'd rather have him."
"Stop it," he whispered. "How can you say that after everything? This has nothing to do with Lord Westcott, you know it doesn't!"
But it was as though Oliver couldn't hear him. "It's all about Perfect Robbie," he hissed. "Always gets everything, always everything. You're supposed to be mine, not his!"
"This isn't about your brother!" said Pip. "You've disappointed me, Oliver, that's why I'm upset!"
"You're lying!" he said. "You just want any excuse to be with him! You're so desperate to be rid of me, aren't you? Just like the rest of them!"
"That's not true!" he cried. "Oliver, it's not—please, stop this," he urged, reaching for Oliver's shoulder and not knowing whether he should touch him. "You're hurting yourself."
"You're not allowed to leave me," said Oliver, gripping Pip's wrist as his hand hovered. "Do you understand? I will not give you up for the world. You're mine."
Pip shook his head. "Oliver," he breathed. To his own shock, his voice was trembling. "You're—you're hurting me."
"You're just rattled," said Oliver. "Things are different now in the manor and that change is frightening. It's affecting you. But you know in your heart who truly loves you. You know who you truly love. Me."
"Oliver—" said Pip, but at once, Oliver's grip on his wrist turned gentle, and Oliver wrapped an arm around Pip's waist, pulling him in against him.
"Feel that?" he whispered, pressing his forehead to Pip's. "Can you feel my heart racing? That's for you. You trust my love for you, don't you?"
Pip wasn't afraid of Oliver. He could never be. He knew, as angry as Oliver was, he would never hurt anyone. But this desperation, this blatant fear—it shattered Pip's heart. Oliver clearly loved him, or he claimed to, and yet what Pip felt was something else.
"What do I do?" he whimpered, looking up for help, but there was no one there. He wanted to leave, and that thought alone terrified him. This was Oliver, he wasn't meant to ever want to leave him. In the end, Pip did the only thing he could think of, the only way he knew to keep Oliver happy, thus keeping himself happy, for didn't his happiness rely on Oliver's comfort?
Pip wrapped his arms around Oliver's shoulders, pulling him in tightly against him.
"Please," he whispered into his curls. "Please calm yourself, my love. It's all right. Everything's all right, I forgive you, please don't be upset anymore."
Oliver wrapped his arms so tightly around Pip's waist that Pip couldn't breathe. "You can't—" he started, and stopped, then started again. "You can't abandon me. Not you, too."
"Never," he whispered, the words no longer flowing from his heart, and instead his tongue, as though reaching for them had become so instinctive. It was what Oliver needed for reassurance. It was what Pip could use to comfort him.
"You were just confused," said Oliver, and even in his voice, Pip could hear the reassurance was for himself. "You love me."
"I love you," he echoed.
"You can never leave me, Pip," said Oliver. "I can't live without you, I won't. I love you." And Pip's heart ached so terribly he could not speak again. Instead, he wrapped his arms that much tighter around Oliver and buried his face and his cries in Oliver's shoulder.
He loved Oliver, he knew he did, and there was nothing that could ever change that. But something had shifted, something had changed. Something had broken.
*
"Stop that," scolded Helen.
Robert realized he was tapping his foot incessantly on the floor as he leaned next to the door to the kitchens, awaiting his sister to finish speaking to Chef Blackwood.
"Someone's in a mood," he said.
"On the contrary," she said with a shrug of her shoulder, a smile sneaking its way to her lips. "I feel incredible. You, on the other hand, are clearly agitated."
"I'm not," he said.
She leaned in. "Is it because Pip isn't here? You know you can just go sit with him in the gardens, if you miss him so much. Or he'd probably be collecting fresh herbs in the forest."
"This isn't about Pip," he snapped. "And I would appreciate it if you would kindly keep your little implications to yourself!"
"Oh?" she asked, undeterred. "So you don't fancy Pip, then?"
"Helen," he grit out. "I swear—"
But Robert never got to finish his threat because right then, Mrs. Mary came into the hall, panting.
"That boy," she huffed. "He'd be startled by his own reflection! Oh! Good day, my lord! Miss Helen!"
"Hello, Mrs. Mary," Helen grinned. "You look positively radiant today."
She chuckled wearily. "Oh, thank you, Miss Helen, that's very kind of you. I told you the pink was a nice colour on you, didn't I?"
She picked up a deep pink skirt, and gave a little curtsey. "That you did. But didn't I tell you to stop calling me Miss?"
She waved her hand. "Nonsense," she said. "A woman my age, it's inappropriate! Already enough I'm calling you by your first name, I think!"
And she wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. Robert frowned.
"Mrs. Mary," he said. "Are you all right?"
"Hm? Oh, yes, fine, fine! I've only been running around a bit more, and I'm not as young as I used to be! Is Miss Westcott here? Miss Helen's here, I assume Miss Westcott is as well!"
Helen looked pleased by this deduction. She nodded, pointing into the kitchens. "She is, she's talking to Chef Blackwood. I was giving a lot of good input, but then I'd suggested we have fish without lemon, and I was promptly kicked out."
"No, really, Chef Blackwood!" said Isolde as she came back into the hall. "I think the lemon is a good idea!"
"It's the backbone of seafood!" exclaimed Chef Blackwood from amidst the bustle of the other chefs and bakers.
With a grumble, Isolde said to Helen, "You just had to rile him up, didn't you?"
Helen giggled. "He's a funny man."
"Miss Westcott," said Mrs. Mary. "If I may speak to you concerning the Lady Hewitt's chambers."
"Ah, yes," she said, rubbing her temples. "I'd nearly forgotten about her."
"I tried," confessed Helen. "I managed it for a minute there."
Isolde smiled and shook her head, amused. As Robert watched them, he could understand what Pip envied. He half-wondered if Oliver felt the same way, then scolded himself for the thought.
Pip and Oliver had chosen each other; questioning that was a betrayal to his brother. No matter the furrow of Pip's brows, no matter his plain desire to love in the open, no matter his tears . . .
Robert shook his head. It's none of your concern, he told himself. Stay out of it.
"And why are you here?" demanded Isolde, bringing him back to his present surroundings.
"I don't remember, to be honest."
Helen nudged his arm. "He's too busy thinking about someone, I suspect."
Isolde looked to her brother with wide eyes, and Robert glared at Helen. "No, I'm not. Now I remember. Lord Hewitt said something about being allergic to either . . . peppers or peas, though I can't remember which. I wasn't really listening. Best to exclude both, just to be safe."
She heaved a sigh. "Wonderful. I'll have to have another chat with Chef Blackwood, then."
"Can I come back into the kitchens with you?" said Helen.
"Er—why don't you go help Mrs. Mary with the guestrooms?"
Helen puffed out her cheeks. "Oh, all right. I'll go ready the chambers, but if she finds a worm in her sheets, I'm not to be blamed."
Isolde looked as though she didn't know whether or not Helen was joking, and that terrified her.
Helen gripped her hand and gave it a slight squeeze before she followed Mrs. Mary out of the corridor. Isolde was smiling until she caught Robert's eyes.
"What?" she said defensively.
Robert shrugged. "Nothing."
Isolde leaned against the doorframe, staring at her brother. "Robbie, can I ask you something?"
He groaned. "You're not going to ask whether or not I'm interested in my servant, are you?"
She blinked. "Not at all." At his raised brow, she relented. "All right, but what if I was? It's not such a ridiculous assumption, is it? You spend all your time together—"
"Yes, because he's my servant."
"—and you would've gotten to know each other well by now, wouldn't you?" she went on as though he hadn't spoken.
"No," he said. "We wouldn't have. In fact, I understand that boy less and less every day, and he's said the same of me."
Isolde looked startled. "You converse on such matters? That's deep conversation for a master and his servant."
"No, it's not," he said, exasperated. "What's wrong with everyone? I could care less what he thinks of me!"
"Well, I only think that he may think quite a lot of you," she said. "Have you asked him?"
"Are you mad?" he said. "I'm not going to ask him because it doesn't matter! I do not fancy Pip!"
"Er . . ."
They both turned and found Charles standing there, eyes wide. Robert straightened and Isolde's mouth hung open, neither of them knowing what to say. Charles was Pip's best friend. If he told Pip what he'd heard . . .
"Sorry," croaked Charles, pointing past them. "I was just . . . going to the washroom?" he phrased it as a question, his face red, and Robert realized he and Isolde were blocking the corridor.
He stepped out of the way, and managed to ignore the crawling sensation in his chest that felt a lot like panic until Charles was nearly out of range. Then—
"Charles?"
Charles turned slowly, his eyes on the carpet. "Y-Yes, my lord?"
"What did you just hear?"
Charles glanced up, met Robert's dark eyes, and quickly looked back down. "Nothing, my lord. I—I heard nothing."
"Excellent," he said, attempting to carry as much warning in that one word as he could.
Charles seemed to understand instantly, and he bowed once more before turning around and nearly running away.
When Robert turned back, he found Isolde watching him.
"Oh, yes," she said mildly. "You clearly don't care at all what Pip thinks of you."
***
Just a heads up, I'll be posting six chapters next week because the week after that I'm going to be out of town, so I won't be able to post then. AND I won't be here for that following Friday either, so I'll post six more chapters the Friday following that. So. Six chapters next Friday, no chapters the two Fridays after that, six more chapters on the 18th, and then hopefully back to your regularly scheduled programming :)