Robert was suffering from a migraine. Dawn peeked in through the curtained windows as the young lord attempted to keep himself awake with books, but exhaustion rung in every bone in his body. How he would've liked to put his head down on the library table before him and close his eyes.
However, that meant nightmares. Visions from his past, screams in the distance. It was easier to push such thoughts away when he was in a hurry, but in the dead of night when there was no one to rouse him from his hauntings, when particular young servants were not there to put his mind at ease, Robert silently endured. As best he could.
In terms of the previous night, it meant wandering the halls and distracting himself with their wide collection of stories. He'd wanted to read An Eternal Flame, but the book remained with Pip, and the thought brought such a warmth to Robert's cheeks, that Pip would hold on so tightly to something Robert had given him, that he did not have the will to ask for it back. Pip could keep it. Perhaps he could tell Robert what it was he'd read.
At the moment, however, as Robert stretched his arms over his head and slapped his cheeks to will the weariness away, he found the mere hum of the kitchens agitating, the chirp of the birds, the chill of the November air. Even the slightest creak of the wooden chair, in which he sat, against the floorboards was an irritant. It roared and echoed in Robert's ears and made him flinch.
He thought about conversing with Lord and Lady Hewitt today, attempting to speak to Oliver, sitting with Jane who had yet to look in his direction since their conversation in his chambers the previous day. And he groaned, rubbing his face with his hands.
He wished he could stay here in this library, away from everyone else.
"Can't we just stay here?"
Robert's hands fell into his lap, and he was left staring into the wall, remembering Pip's expression and voice back then. He had seemed so resigned, so afraid, it had ached Robert's heart. And yet, despite wanting to hide away, Pip had wanted Robert to hide with him. There had been no hesitation in his words, as though it were only natural that they stay together.
Robert did not wonder whether Pip had meant it that way. He simply wanted to believe it. He fell back in his seat with a sigh, tracing the cover of the book in front of him. It had been a short story about knights that Robert had read halfway and couldn't finish.
He would be allowed this much, wouldn't he? If Oliver was to have Pip so intimately, then Robert could surely be spared the simple pleasure of his fantasies.
A knock came at the door, and Robert sighed, rubbing his eyes. Even that sound reverberated in his head, and he was only about to snap at whoever had dared disrupt him in the early morning when he was already in a foul mood, when the door opened and Pip walked in.
Robert's words caught in his throat. Pip's hair was tousled, as though he'd been running an anxious hand through it. His cheeks were rosy and despite the early morning, his eyes were bright, the same spark of energy lighting him like an ever-burning flame.
Pip crossed the distance between them, pulled a familiar book out of his coat, and dropped it on the desk with a hard thump. He looked irritated. Robert could feel the exasperated complaint, I've been looking everywhere for you! on his tongue. Instead of saying it, however, Pip merely straightened his shoulders, sniffled once indignantly, and turned again to stand at the door, his hands folded neatly behind his back.
Robert raised a brow at the book. The rose had been moved to the next chapter. So Pip had read ahead. He smiled.
"I'm assuming you didn't like it?"
Pip did not answer.
"Pip?" he tilted his head. "Aren't you going to tell me what you thought?"
Pip's cheeks turned a darling shade of red, making Robert's heart beat heavily in his chest, but then Pip's expression turned outraged for just a moment before he visibly forced it down.
When he spoke, his voice was calm. "Good morning, my lord."
Robert hummed, regarding Pip with narrowed eyes, and Pip cast him a glare before looking away.
"Are you all right?"
"Perfectly."
"Then what's wrong with you?"
"You're the one who spent the night in the library," he snapped before seeming to realize who he was speaking to. He added a curt, "My lord," and returned to staring at the wall.
Robert watched him a moment longer. His migraine was returning.
"Are you upset with me for something?"
"What would I have to be upset about, my lord?" he said.
Robert stood, taking the book Pip had given him and tapping the cover. "I don't understand," he said. "Have I done something wrong?"
"What could you have done wrong, my lord?" he said in the same tone.
Robert huffed. "Well, all right, don't tell me," he said edgily. "I've no spirits to humour you today, and I've got plenty enough to concern myself with."
He walked past Pip and out the open door. He kept waiting for Pip to say something about the weather, the morning, Robert's agitation, but he said nothing. He remained behind Lord Westcott.
An hour later, his gaze only softened when Oliver walked into the dining room. Robert's eye twitched and he rubbed it. Damned migraine, he thought.
Oliver did not seem to be as soft towards Pip. "I want to speak to you," he said at once, foregoing the greeting to his brother who he seemed to be avidly ignoring as well.
Robert glanced at Pip. He did not seem surprised at Oliver's anger. And Robert knew it was foolish, but he wanted to refuse. He wanted to command that Pip stay at his side, but there was no need for it. Lord and Lady Hewitt entered the dining room and Oliver glanced once more at Pip before forcing himself into his seat.
"My goodness," said Lord Hewitt with a curl of his lip that seemed permanent. "All those birds, how irritating! You don't find such ruckus in the city, I must say!"
Robert refrained from shutting his eyes against Lord Hewitt's nasally voice. He was a colleague of Robert's father; pleasantries and respect must be maintained.
"Indeed," he said as Lord and Lady Hewitt sat down across from Oliver in Isolde and Helen's usual seats. "Very irritating."
"I wonder, Robert," said Lord Hewitt as a servant set his napkin on his lap and another filled his teacup. "Did you hear from Weston? Will he be joining us today?"
Robert, however, wasn't paying him much attention. Instead, his eyes were on Oliver who was meeting Lady Hewitt's stares with daring eyes. He hardly glanced back at Pip, and saw his own eyes were on the floor.
Robert stared. What was wrong with Oliver? Didn't he realize how much he was hurting Pip? Robert knew he wouldn't do such a thing. The only person he cared to look at was Pip, the only person he cared to listen to was Pip. He wouldn't disrespect Pip as Oliver was doing—
"Robert," said Lord Hewitt, rousing him from his thoughts. "Are you listening to me?"
"Hm? Oh, er, yes, my lord, of course I am," he said, running a hand over his face. "Apologies, I've had a restless sleep. But yes, word to Lord Garrick has been sent. He may very well join us by today. Or tomorrow morning, at the latest."
"Mm," said Lord Hewitt stiffly. "Very well. I assume you've prepared the proper documents to begin work immediately upon his arrival?"
"Certainly," said Robert. And they went into a discussion about cotton and journeys across the Atlantic and costs that had become instinct to Robert. There were conversations to be had with other tradesmen, negotiations to be made.
Oliver was leaning an elbow on the table, moving the eggs on his plate with his fork. "Oh?" His smile did not reach his eyes. "And who, pray tell, is going to listen to either of you?"
Lord Hewitt raised himself in his chair. "I beg your pardon?"
"Well, forgive me, Lord Hewitt, but isn't a negotiator meant to have some sense of charm?"
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
He blinked innocently. "I would've thought my intention was very clear."
Lady Hewitt giggled briefly at his jest, and Oliver gave her an indulgent wink. Robert could feel Pip tense behind him.
"Are we eating already?" exclaimed Helen as she and Isolde walked in, cutting off whatever Lord Hewitt was going to say next.
"Haven't you heard?" said Oliver with his arms spread out. "The schedule has officially been removed. We are now free to breakfast when we please, and not at the order of a pocket watch."
"Oh, Oliver," Isolde rolled her eyes as she and Helen took the seats beside him, clearly eager to be away from the guests.
"Well," Lord Hewitt nodded his head once to the women, his eyes casting sharp glances at his wife. "Good morning, Miss—"
"I'm here, I'm here, I'm here!" called Jane, running in. She sat in her chair with Amelia fussing behind her. Jane blinked at the scene before her. "Am I late?"
"No one will ever be late again!" said Oliver happily.
"Yes," said Robert, rubbing his temple. "It's all very grand. Now sit down and eat, Jane."
Jane's smile fell as her eyes met Robert's and she looked down immediately, her face red.
"What turned you so quiet?" said Oliver, but Jane only murmured incoherently and moved her chair closer to Helen and hid her face in Amelia's arm.
Isolde, concerned, looked to Robert as though expecting him to explain, but the problem was not something Robert could discuss in front of their guests. He glanced at Pip, expecting him to insist that Robert tend to his sister immediately, but Pip's eyes were only on Jane, his fists clenched at his sides, as though it was taking everything in him to keep from commenting.
Oliver had no such qualms. With a low chuckle, he said, "Well, clearly, our dear Robbie has done something to upset her."
"Enough, Oliver," warned Robert.
Lord Hewitt rolled his eyes. "She's a child," he said, as though Jane was not there. "Children get upset over nothing and they recover on their own. We had the same trouble with our three sons, all grown now and in flourishing businesses. Isn't that right, dear?"
Lady Hewitt only scowled, clearly not wanting to be reminded that she was a mother to three grown men.
"Well," Oliver shrugged. "That's all fine and good, Lord Hewitt, but in this house, we attempt to care for our own family instead of leaving them to the servants." He smirked at Robert. "Well, most of us do, in any regards."
"All right," said Robert, standing. "Come with me, Oliver, I want to speak to you."
Oliver glanced at Pip, and Robert sighed through grit teeth. "Pip, you come as well. I'll need you."
Pip looked startled, but nodded, his eyes on Oliver. "Yes, my lord."
The three went upstairs to Robert's chambers with Oliver in the lead. Once Pip closed the door, Oliver turned and shrugged, his arms held up.
"Well, you have us here, Your Highness," he said, grinning humourlessly. "What would you like now?"
"Why are you acting this way?" demanded Robert, grabbing Oliver's arm and attempting to hold him still. "Are you drunk?"
Oliver yanked himself free of his brother's grasp, glaring. "Don't touch me."
"What's gotten into you?" he said. "Are you still upset about yesterday?"
He scoffed. "Believe it or not, brother, your opinion is not so precious to me." He pointed at Pip. "It's him I care about."
Robert did not turn around to see Pip's reaction. "And you think making a fool of yourself and insulting whoever walks through our door is helping him, do you?"
Oliver's expression darkened. "Pip loves me no matter what I do," he said, and Robert's eye twitched again. "Don't you, Pip?"
"Stop it," said Robert, holding up a finger. "Don't answer him, Pip, he's not thinking straight."
"I'm not drunk!"
"Well, that would be a first, wouldn't it?"
"Why?" said Oliver. "Why do you talk to me like that?"
"Because you give me no choice!" he snapped. "If you want me to talk to you like an adult, then act like one!"
"My lord—"
"And that'll be enough?" scoffed Oliver. "What of Isolde? Wasn't she an adult? Or Jane? Wasn't she enough? Is that going to be your excuse the next time you leave us for one of your little adventures? I wasn't mature enough?"
Robert stilled. The air in the room became cold and silent. There was a pounding against Robert's skull.
The next time he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You know I never wanted to go on that blasted trip. You know I have as much control over my world as you do yours."
"Excuses, excuses," spat Oliver. "That's all you have, is excuses. And now you find any excuse to keep Pip at your side, even when you know what he is to me!"
"Oliver—"
"No, I don't know," argued Robert, his headache rendering his words without filter. "What is he to you, Oliver? A toy? A filthy secret you have to hide away? Do you know what he said about you, Pip, when he discovered that Andrew could've harmed you? He said you would've been fine if left alone."
"Stop talking," Oliver grit out.
"He abandoned you," he went on mercilessly, his eyes only on his brother. "You talk about excuses, Oliver, then I must've infected you. Because there's always an excuse to keep Pip hidden, isn't there? Why? Because he's a servant? Embarrasses you, does he?"
"Please," Pip sounded, his voice broken, and Robert fell silent. He realized, with horror, what he'd said, and turned to find Pip with tears in his eyes. "Please stop it."
"Pip," Robert breathed, covering his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't . . ."
Pip sniffled, and angrily wiped at his face. Oliver attempted to move towards him, but Pip only shook his head, moving further against the wall as though afraid of them, and he opened the door.
"May I go work on the gardens now?" he said, and before Robert could answer, he left and closed the door behind him.
Robert stared at the door for a long time. What had he just said?
Oliver did not seem so distraught, but there was an anger in his eyes that unnerved Robert.
He went to the door, and caught his brother's eyes. With more venom than Robert ever knew he was capable of, he said, "D'you know what, Your Royal Highness? We were better off without you."
It was the cruellest thing Robert had ever heard him say, but only a confirmation to what he'd already always suspected. Oliver left him alone in his chambers with an ache in far more than just his head.
*
Pip's arms burned in the winter chill, but he didn't care. It was a welcome distraction from everything else. To his right, Lord Westcott and the others sat for morning tea, the cold seemingly no trouble as they dressed in furs and layers. Pip, on the other hand, had abandoned his waistcoat and was shovelling away beside a tree, preparing the roots for an upcoming flood.
The clouds blanketed the sky and Pip knew it would not be long before the snow began to fall and working outside would be harder than usual.
"What is he to you, Oliver? A toy? A filthy secret you have to hide away?"
Pip clenched his jaw as he dug. He glared at Lord Westcott who seemed not to notice him at all, but was instead caught in his conversation with Lord Hewitt. Misses Westcott and Bradley were attempting to hold Lady Hewitt's attention, but Oliver was looking at Pip.
Pip wished he could revel in Oliver's eyes on him, but something in him refused to see it as anything more than guilt. Guilt because Lord Westcott had been right. Oliver had abandoned him to Mr. Colton for the sake of preserving his image to the public.
The quiet chatter and delicate laughter carried through the soft breeze, and Pip was agitated with every voice. The gardens were his home. He didn't give the Lord and Lady Hewitt permission to be here. He didn't want them here, he didn't want Lady Hewitt's eyes on Oliver, he didn't want Oliver only holding onto him now because he was afraid of his brother's words. He was afraid of the truth.
Pip dropped his shovel, staring at the hole he'd dug.
This was Lord Westcott's fault. He put these doubts in Pip's head. "He's the one who's doing this," he panted. "It's all his fault."
But even as he said it, the words felt like a lie. Lord Westcott had not been here two years ago when Oliver had first told Pip that their love would be a secret. He was not here when the Lady Westcott had forced Pip to speak of his family and Oliver had left him at the mercy of her cruelty. He was not here when Pip had been forced to stand in the snow for hours as punishment or under the pouring rain without a meal. It was Miss Westcott who had argued against her mother for him, it was Miss Bradley, it was even Jane. It was Mrs. Mary who'd snuck him food, and Charles who'd kept him warm, and Sebastian who'd made him laugh, and Emily who'd tended to him when he was ill. It was always everyone else. But never Oliver.
The birds fluttered above, and caught Pip's attention. He followed them as they flew towards the forest. Pip's heart longed for the stream. To lie beside the water and listen to its soft music. He inhaled deeply.
And why shouldn't he go? Because Lord Westcott had claimed it? Well, he was too late! He had gone and Pip had stayed, and Pip had declared it his special place the day he'd arrived. And Oliver's, he reminded himself. His and Oliver's. He would not be frightened away now. Lord Westcott's words troubled Pip enough. It would not extend to the stream.
Puffing out his chest, Pip stomped over to Lord Westcott.
"My lord," he said, and Lord Hewitt looked away with immediate disgust. Lady Hewitt scowled and dusted off her sleeve, as though worried Pip had dropped dirt or sweat on her. Pip ignored them.
Lord Westcott grunted, barely sparing him a glance.
Pip clenched his jaw. "I'd like to go collect herbs."
"You'd like?" said Lord Hewitt, outraged. "You'd like?"
Without a word, Pip turned, leaving his waistcoat behind as he made his way towards the forest. He could hear Lord Hewitt's calls to him, to "get back here!" but it was as though the gardens were carrying his scolding away from Pip, refusing to let them hurt him.
Pip walked and walked and walked despite the suffocating weight in his chest, keeping him from breathing. The sweat on his brow froze quickly, and by the time he was amongst his tree friends, his breaths had turned even quicker and shallower.
Why? Why? Why?
Why couldn't any of this be easier? Why couldn't it just be Pip and Oliver and no one else? No one watching, no one judging, no one to claw their way to his heart and mind and conflict him so.
He'd arrived to the stream and kicked a rock across the water, letting out a frustrated scream. "It's so unfair!" he ranted. "I didn't do anything, I didn't want to be his servant to begin with! I didn't want him to get involved with my affairs, I thought he didn't care! Why is it he's so concerned with me? Why can't he just stay out of it? It's not my fault I fell in love with his brother, and it's not my fault that I've fallen in love with—"
Pip stopped with a gasp, covering his mouth with his hands. "No," he breathed, his eyes wide. He slowly came down to a crouch. "No no no, I didn't mean that. I didn't mean that, I'm not . . . I'm not . . ."
The water rushed past Pip, but it couldn't have been running faster than his heart.
"I didn't mean that," he muttered. "I'm not . . . I can't be . . ."
The branches rustled in the wind, which was blowing harder now, getting colder. Pip buried his face in his knees, hugging his legs tightly to his body. It didn't mean anything. He was speaking without thought, as he always did. He wasn't in love with . . .
He couldn't repeat it. It had been a mistake. Simply a mistake.
The stream seemed to be attempting to comfort Pip, but as the hours passed, Pip could not move, could not think anything aside from; I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it.
"Not much longer now," he whispered, his fingers growing numb with the cold. "Not much longer now. I didn't mean it. Nothing much longer now—I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it."
"Didn't mean what?"
Pip looked over his shoulder and fell from his crouch, onto the earth. Lord Westcott tilted his head at him, letting the dead leaf he'd been holding between his fingers flutter to the ground and dusting his hands off.
A small, humourless smile tugged at his lips. Just like his brother's. "Tell me, Pip. What was it that you didn't mean?"