{fic} the mirror crack'd from side to side . part four {davenport&roger} r. 1923
.part four {davenport&roger} r. 1923
spring
p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii.
Eddison Manor
March, 1923
It went like this; the beautiful movement of souls clicking together, turning easily, caught in a loop as they ambled along, unblinking, unseeing anything but they and them. For the first month after Christmas, Roger had had little time to reflect on Davenport's kiss in the conservatory. Caught up in the confusion that was his daily life and getting well again, he almost believed that it hadn't happened. Days flickered by like the black and white turning of a zoetrope, merging and blurring into one endless breath of white landscapes and bare countryside.
But then, following the cold days of early February, Davenport came to him one night. Hidden in shadows he had found Roger's arm, then his shoulder and then, painfully, achingly slow, he'd found his cheek, then lips.
"You do want this, don't you?" he had asked Roger, like child would when needing assurance from an adult, eyes desperately searching his face for a reply. But there was nothing child-like about the way his tongue slipped against Roger's, nothing innocent in the way he cupped his hand between Roger's legs and pressed firmly enough to have him gasping in seconds. He crawled atop him, forearms resting on the mattress either side of Roger's head, hands in his hair, and leaned down to him kiss sweetly, enjoying the chance to be alone, stripped of positions and classes, until it was just them, together, bare and open for each other.
Roger had held him so tightly after that; after their bodies had fused together as only lovers could, after fumbling hands had found their meaning and given each other similar satisfaction. Davenport was still half dressed, his shirt and trousers unbuttoned, waistcoat abandoned on the floor of Roger's room. Roger had slipped his hands around Davenport's smooth waist, pressing his palms to the warm skin of his back as he pulled him closer, savouring that which he'd spent an eternity longing for. They were beautiful like this, perfect and whole together. Folding his body into the empty space beside Roger, Davenport let an arm fall over his new lover's waist and yawned against his shoulder, eliciting a wide grin from the shoulder-bearer in question.
"I'll go soon," he murmured against the bone, his nose tickling the tender skin leading to Roger's neck.
"Like hell you will. I'm not letting you go now that I've got you."
He felt Davenport laugh into his side. "Wake me early, then," he sighed, offering a kiss to Roger's chest before slipping into sleep.
They had, surprisingly, woken in time for Davenport's duties at sunrise. Roger hid his disappointment behind a bright, cheerful smile, which hadn't been to hard to conjure up, given the circumstances. Davenport had stood in the corner of the room, in front of Roger's washstand, sponging a suspicious stain on the front of his trousers, berating the uncleanliness of sex.
"You should've been naked then--" Roger whispered warmly into his ear, coming up behind him and snaking his arms around his chest, "--shouldn't you?". Davenport tipped his head back, laughing on Roger's shoulder.
"Mm. May have helped. Shall we try it again sometime?" he ventured, eyes sparkling as he turned his head to look up at Roger. Davenport's gaze flickered between Roger's lips and eyes, making a flutter of anticipation run through him.
"Oh yes, I rather think we might," he'd replied, gently pressing his lips against Davenport's, deepening the kiss until Davenport finally turned his body to face him and returned the gesture in kind.
That had been then, of course. Currently things were quite different. Watching Davenport's mood became darker each day, Roger thought he understood the feeling perfectly. They barely managed to snatch a few minutes together every day before something interrupted them. Even the nights had become to exhausting to deal with; Davenport barely had time to spend in Roger's room between waiting for the halls of the servants quarters to be clear, and finding a way to get back in time for his early wake-up call.
And that was when Roger had his idea; a brilliant, shining thing, glowing in the museum of schemes he had brooding at the back of his mind.
Davenport was in for a treat.
---
Davenport knew there was something up as soon as he saw Roger that March morning, when the bite of winter still hadn't quite left the rooms; the windows were still laced with frost, glass cold, the fabric on the settees almost damp to the touch. He was refilling the whiskey decanter in the corner of the library when Roger bounded in, an unusually light spring in his step. He grinned wide as he saw his fellow library companion, going to him immediately and kissing him deep in a uncharacteristically bold manner.
"Hello, what's this?" laughed Davenport as he broke away, arms still being held tight by Roger who was practically bursting with joy.
"I've an idea," Roger began, leaving Davenport and going behind his armchair. Leaning forward on it, two hands clasped tight into the material, he stared at Davenport with an unsettling smile. "An idea, dearest James," he continued, "that could make me the best lover you've ever had."
"Your idea has already been proved useless, dearest Roger. You see you are, in fact, just that."
"Too kind, too kind. But let me explain my mischievousness before you berate my declarations."
Amused, Davenport leaned on the sideboard and gestured with a hand for Roger to continue.
"How would you feel about a week together--?"
"--we have many--"
"--wait, a week together alone." Roger raised an eyebrow, challenging argument. When Davenport merely shrugged, unimpressed, he went on. "Just us. Not here. Away from all duties and expectations and... oh, come on, you must be thinking something..."
Silent for a moment, Davenport chose his words carefully when he finally smoke. "That sounds wonderful. And impossible."
"Ah ha, I knew you'd say that. I said to myself, 'Roger, he's going to be all adorably sceptical and confused.' I said that."
"You said that, did you?" Davenport said dryly. "Well come on then, best lover of mine, tell me how you're gonna wangle that one."
Fixing Davenport with a smirk, Roger raised an eyebrow and said, "I'm going on holiday."
Davenport blinked. "Roger, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but for two people to be together they can't exactly be apart--"
"No, no, no. I'm off on holiday with you."
Davenport looked at Roger as though their separation had finally got to him.
"No, I'm still confused," he said, much to Roger's amusement. He rubbed his hands together with impish glee.
"I'm visiting my aunt's cottage for a week. Beautiful place, centre of the woods but delightfully close to the sea. The wonderful thing about it all is that she isn't there. So I'm off for a recovery break, just to test out the leg, you know, and after a week I'll be ready to face anything. And you're coming with me."
"How?"
"I need a companion. Mother and Father are worried I'll get lost or break my leg again, or something, the point is--" he took a deep breath and sighed, "-- you and I are going away, together, no questions asked, for a week."
To be fair to Roger it was not every man that could handle another coming at him at full force, and nearly suffocating him with an embrace, but he managed remarkably well.
"Roger, you are brilliant," rasped Davenport, taking his hand and kissing it excitedly. "A week?"
"A week," replied Roger with a nod. "Yes, I know. Brilliant. That's me."
"Seven days?" Davenport checked, as though the universe had suddenly, unfairly, reduced the amount of days in a week for sheer spitefulness on their part.
"Seven whole, glorious days romping by the sea, yes," confirmed Roger, unable to keep a straight face.
Flopping down on the armchair, as though winded, Davenport looked disbelievingly about the room before holding his head in his hands. Roger knelt before him, brushing the hair out of his eyes, insanely happy to have met such a wonderful creature.
"When do we leave?"
"Saturday morning, bright and early. I'll drive us there if you can bear it. So pack your bags, my love." Davenport looked up to find Roger beaming at him. Leaning forward, he kissed him solidly on the mouth, their smiles entwining as they laughed against each others lips. "We're off to the country!"
---
The silver felt familiar now, and warm where his hands had toyed with the metal for so long. Turning the silver case through his fingers, Davenport watched the roof with bored interest, noting that the damp patch on the ceiling had grown larger since he'd last looked. He shifted in his bed, longing for the warmth of another body to press against his, knowing that it would only be one more sleep before he got his wish.
Hartley was reading a book in the other corner of the room. He'd been the one who'd first helped Davenport become more proficient in the area of literacy, going over simple stories with him until he knew each word by heart. He was fortunate to have that guiding; many of the servants employed by Lady Eddison still were unable to write, and the select few who knew basic skills were known for being preferred over those who'd had little teaching. Davenport looked over to where Hartley lay, trying to read the title and failing in the dim candlelight.
"Moby Dick," replied Hartley automatically, not looking at Davenport as he continued to read. When he saw that Davenport wasn't about to stop looking at him, he rolled his eyes, bookmarked the page and turned to face his friend. "Come on. Out with it."
"What?" replied Davenport innocently, trying to keep the smirk off his face. Hartley pretended to pick up his book again. "Alright, alright--" started Davenport, seeing a cufflink on his bedside table and throwing it at him to get his attention. Hartley grinned, throwing the cufflink back.
"You've seemed unusually chipper all day," he remarked casually. "Wouldn't have anything to do with the mysterious job as Roger's man-servant, would it?"
"It is that obvious?" Laughing at the look Hartley gave him, Davenport looked at the ceiling again. "I'm just happy to be away from the manor, that's all. I haven't even had the opportunity to go home, these past months.'
"Would you want to?" Hartley cut in, making a steeple out of his entwined fingers as he, too, stared at the water-marked stone above.
"That's not the point."
"But I'm sure Roger provides a perfectly wonderful point," pressed Hartley, still not looking at Davenport, even when he threw him a ridiculously over-dramatic look.
"Master Curbishly--"
"Master Curbishly, is it? I'm sure he loves that."
Davenport snorted softly. "What do you think of it all?" he asked, trying to seem as casual as possible. Inside his heart was beating frantically, the anxiousness of weeks without discussing anything having slowly built up.
"It's none of my business," Hartley said automatically. He turned to Davenport, saw the genuine look of concern on his friends face. "I think under any other circumstances..." He let his voice trail off and strangely, that seemed to emphasise his words even more.
"You don't approve?"
"I didn't say that. I think you're a bloody idiot, yes, but that's only because you're going to get your heart broken."
Davenport pulled a face.
"It's the truth," pressed Hartley, still looking upwards. "Men like Roger don't care who they hurt as long as it's convenient and the recipient of his favours is quiet about it all."
Silent in his thoughts, Hartley took the absence of a retaliation as moodiness. "James, I'm only saying this as a friend, but you'd do well to leave alone. I've heard things. Remember that servant of Alex's? He's in touch with one of our girls. Says that there's trouble brewing. Says--"
"Quiet, will you? Just hush." The conversation wasn't at all going the way Davenport had imagined. "I don't care what he says. I don't care what Alex says, or even you for that matter. I just wanted to know the title of your bloody book." Davenport turned his back to Hartley, blood pumping through his veins, adrenaline steadily filling him.
The candle was soon blown out, which somehow made Davenport even more uptight. Letting out a huff of annoyance, Davenport got out of his bed, feet stinging on the cold stone floor, and hastily grabbed his battered old suitcase, all ready for the imminent voyage to be made with Roger. Without saying a word he straightened his bed sheets, blind in the darkness but so accustomed to the small space that he worked effortlessly, and clutched the suitcase to his side as he opened the door to the room and slipped out into the hall beyond.
It was a cowards way out but Davenport was so happy that, for once, he didn't want an argument. It hurt that his friend didn't trust Roger, when Davenport thought him nothing but perfect. Slowly he made his way to Roger's room, barely breathing for fear of being caught. He stowed his suitcase away in an old cupboard under the stairs, filled to the brim with hunting and fishing equipment, in effort to avoid having to go back to his room come sunrise. Hopefully he and Roger could disappear from the place before he'd need to see Hartley again.
Roger barely ever locked his door at night, which made it blessedly easy to slip into his room with little fuss. Davenport closed the door behind him softly, padding over to Roger's bed with the uttermost care. By now his eyes had adjusted fully to the dark; he could see the silhouette of Roger's peacefully sleeping body framed by the light of the window.
"Psst... Roger? Roger?"
Roger made an unintelligible noise into the pillow, covering his head with his arm in a vain effort to stop the voices in his head.
"Roger, it's me!" Davenport hissed, resisting the urge to poke the sleeping body in the back. "Wake up."
"Swha oo wha--?"
Davenport rolled his eyes and sighed, deciding that force was indeed the best course of action. He pushed Roger to the other side of the bed as gently as he could, taking care to ignore the snuffling protests, before quickly slipping into the bed, enjoying the already-made warm patch. The pillow smelled of Roger as soon as his head hit it; Davenport inhaled deeply, savouring this small space where he felt, for the first time in his life, safe. He felt so comfortable beside the body next to him. Understanding why that had been was almost harder than accepting Roger as his lover.
Thinking that Roger had already fallen back to sleep, Davenport was surprised when an arm slipped around his waist and a voice said, in a brilliant moment of clarity, "Are you wearing a night shirt?"
Davenport blushed as he felt Roger's hand smoothly slide up his thigh, under his nightwear.
"Thought you were asleep," he muttered, rolling onto his back, head falling into the pillows.
"You teased me about pin-striped pyjamas and you're wearing a night shirt."
"It's the only thing I didn't pack," Davenport replied indignantly, gasping slightly as Roger absently ran his thumb over the delicate skin of his nipple. "Oi now, enough of that," he said gruffly. "I only came because..." He trailed off, not wanting to disturb Roger with his earlier conversation. "Not because of all this," he clarified. "We'll have enough of this when we're away."
They smiled stupidly at each other.
"When we're away. Aren't they such wonderful words, James?"
Davenport hummed his agreement under another gasp of pleasure as Roger ran his fingers down the line of his waist.
"Great words, yes, yes. Wonderful, yes."
Roger laughed and brought his hand away, rolling over to face the window, ignoring Davenport's small noise of protest. "Tomorrow," he replied over his shoulder, grinning at the resounding tut behind him.
"Fine." Placing an arm around Roger's waist, chin on his shoulder, Davenport listened to Roger fall slowly asleep, his heavy breathing relaxing any earlier tension Hartley had caused. Through the window, Davenport could just make out the shadow of a tree. It danced in the night's breeze, casting patterns on the glass. Tomorrow night they'd be somewhere else, far from the manor, with no fear of being caught. A whole week together, alone.
He was just dozing off when a voice startled him;
"And by the way, you're freezing," the voice muttered into the pillow next to him. Davenport innocently raised his voice;
"Oh, am I?"
Smiling contentedly to himself, Davenport closed his eyes and fell asleep.
---
As with all March days, the sun seemed to float like an illusion in the perfectly blue sky, deceiving even the cleverest of folk with it's promise of warmth, whilst secretly keeping the winter winds to itself for a few more weeks. For so early in the morning they were fortunate to get any sun at all, mused Davenport, carrying Roger's bags out to the car and placing them neatly in the small rack in the back of the car, fastening the leather straps with the uttermost care.
"I'll see you in a week," Roger was saying, his head turned towards the house whilst he strode briskly towards the car. His mother was on the doorstep, carrying a wicker basket and some flowers, clearly enjoying a spot of gardening before the household awoke. "I shan't get up to any mischief. Davenport will make sure of that," he added under his breath as he drew level to the car, looking the footman up and down with obvious approval.
"Goodbye Roger, dear!"
"Tara, mother!" Roger called, still watching Davenport, smiling when Davenport smirked at him knowingly.
Despite the chilly breeze, Roger left the top down as he and Davenport drove away from the manor and travelled along the lane leading out onto the main road. Davenport was laughing by the time they reached the next village, his hair caught in tangle disarray, styled dramatically by the wind.
"Is this real?" he shouted, still grinning wildly as Roger pushed the car as fast as it would go. "Tell me this isn't real, so that I can wake up."
"It is very much real."
Davenport leaned into Roger, nudging his shoulder playfully before leaning back on the door with his other arm. He looked exhausted with happiness, too caught up in his own world to care about anything else. Roger grinned at the sight, feeling himself already beginning to unwind. His leg ached under the strain of driving, but he didn't much notice the pain each time that Davenport pointed out something new on the horizon, or ventured bravely into the back-seat as he leaned over the small space between his and Roger's chair to reach the map.
"I know where I'm going," Roger pointed out as Davenport righted himself in the seat and began to mull over the canvas-like parchment depicting a web of brightly coloured lines, spaces patched with green and grey.
"That's not the point," he noted, with a look that indicated that much was obvious. "It's the principle, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"Yep." Davenport was too caught up in his map-reading to notice Roger's sarcasm. He tried in vain to read the splay of lines, map tangling in his grasp under the pressure of the wind, until he gave up minutes later, distracted by Roger's stifled laughter.
"I'm sorry," Roger was saying, taking a hand off the steering wheel to place it reassuringly on Davenport's knee. He got a corner of the map to the eye for his troubles and sat nursing it for ten minutes later, vaguely amused at Davenport's repetitive apologies mixed with occasional bouts of 'serves you right'. They stopped a few times, filling the car with petrol from a fuel can, regarding the fields and farmland with interest as they pointed out things to each other, laughing at the general absurdity at this change in life.
The car rumbled into deeper countryside around noon, the open fields and hedgerows giving way to dense woodland, tracks growing unsteady under the tires. It was more beautiful in the forests though, thought Roger, glancing up at the speckled light cast through the branches, the buds on the trees ready to burst with colour in only a few weeks. The puddles, gathered in the small dips of the road, had edges of ice, hinting of the spring not yet come.
Glancing at Davenport, Roger was surprised when he saw the young man asleep, resting his elbow on the door of the car, lips slightly parted as he exhaled softly. Smiling fondly, Roger stared at the road ahead. He'd sensed the unease in Davenport the night before; something unsaid had hovered in the air between them and had Roger been more awake he would've been more than determined to find out what. But now that Roger was ready to find out what troubled his lover, Davenport had decided to allow slumber to get the better of him. However, Roger was glad of that, pleased to see that he was at last beginning to unwind. After years of being looked after by the footman, it was Roger's turn to take care of him for the week.
Rolling into the lane leading to his aunt's cottage, Roger felt a pleasant shiver run through him. He was eager to show Davenport the countryside and beach, excited to be in a place where Roger could hug him freely, without having the worry of who could be lurking around the corner.
The cottage appeared through the trees like a welcome sanctuary after the long car journey. Resting his hand gently on Davenport's shoulder to wake him, Roger pulled the car into a small drive to the side of the house, in front of the large wooden doors of the garage, and switched the engine off, listening to the ticking as it cooled and the deep sigh as Davenport slowly roused.
"We're here?"
"Yes. Come on, let's have a look around. I'm desperate for a cup of tea."
Davenport stretched as he got out of the car, gazing up at the canopy of trees, which loomed so close to the house, with interest.
"Reckon you get much wildlife here?" he asked going to Roger, letting him take the lead slightly as they walked into the shadows of the porch. The roof was thatched and full of cobwebs when Davenport leaded in for a closer look. He smiled, pointing at the dew-coated web, surprised when he turned to find that Roger had already disappeared into the house. He hastily followed him, at once greeted with the warm smell of wood smoke and old wood.
The front door led directly into a living room of sorts, with more doors branching off ahead and right, with a staircase and a further door to the left. Roger wasn't in the living room which left Davenport to choose between going upstairs and opening a door.
"Roger?" he called, deciding on the door on the left door, slipping through with more than a touch of wariness. He'd chosen correctly; Roger was busy at the fireplace, striking a match and trying to light the large open grate situated in the centre of the back wall. The woodpile roared into life after a few brave stabs with a poker. Roger beamed cheerfully at the new flame, settling a copper kettle on the crudely built frame hung directly over the fire and nodding his head as though satisfied with his work.
"See? I'm proficient in the art of many things, I think you'll find. Unfortunately, Aunt isn't quite as modern as the rest of us. We're lucky to have running water. I remember finding the well awfully fascinating as a child--"
"You pulling water? I'd like to see that."
Roger's smile was more than a little wicked as he pulled Davenport into his arms and held his clasped hands low on his back, so that they were stood front to front. Davenport felt his heart begin to race. "I'm good at pulling," Roger whispered, his laugh such a beautiful contrast in volume to his words that Davenport found himself tremble with the force of it.
"I'm sure you are," he said, swallowing, eyes not quite meeting Roger's for fear of seeing something that may have forced him to push him into the wall right there. Roger seemed to sense his thoughts, smiled suggestively as his opened his hands to rest them of the top of Davenport's backside.
"Later," he promised in a low voice, the word pooling in Davenport's stomach, leaving something warm in their place. "It's time I showed you around."
Davenport felt Roger's lips on his before had time to react and then they were gone, along with their owner.
A week alone together.
Throwing his head back, Davenport closed his eyes, a thank you resting in his heart for whoever it belonged to, before going over to the fire to save the tea.
tbc
spring
p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii.
Eddison Manor
March, 1923
It went like this; the beautiful movement of souls clicking together, turning easily, caught in a loop as they ambled along, unblinking, unseeing anything but they and them. For the first month after Christmas, Roger had had little time to reflect on Davenport's kiss in the conservatory. Caught up in the confusion that was his daily life and getting well again, he almost believed that it hadn't happened. Days flickered by like the black and white turning of a zoetrope, merging and blurring into one endless breath of white landscapes and bare countryside.
But then, following the cold days of early February, Davenport came to him one night. Hidden in shadows he had found Roger's arm, then his shoulder and then, painfully, achingly slow, he'd found his cheek, then lips.
"You do want this, don't you?" he had asked Roger, like child would when needing assurance from an adult, eyes desperately searching his face for a reply. But there was nothing child-like about the way his tongue slipped against Roger's, nothing innocent in the way he cupped his hand between Roger's legs and pressed firmly enough to have him gasping in seconds. He crawled atop him, forearms resting on the mattress either side of Roger's head, hands in his hair, and leaned down to him kiss sweetly, enjoying the chance to be alone, stripped of positions and classes, until it was just them, together, bare and open for each other.
Roger had held him so tightly after that; after their bodies had fused together as only lovers could, after fumbling hands had found their meaning and given each other similar satisfaction. Davenport was still half dressed, his shirt and trousers unbuttoned, waistcoat abandoned on the floor of Roger's room. Roger had slipped his hands around Davenport's smooth waist, pressing his palms to the warm skin of his back as he pulled him closer, savouring that which he'd spent an eternity longing for. They were beautiful like this, perfect and whole together. Folding his body into the empty space beside Roger, Davenport let an arm fall over his new lover's waist and yawned against his shoulder, eliciting a wide grin from the shoulder-bearer in question.
"I'll go soon," he murmured against the bone, his nose tickling the tender skin leading to Roger's neck.
"Like hell you will. I'm not letting you go now that I've got you."
He felt Davenport laugh into his side. "Wake me early, then," he sighed, offering a kiss to Roger's chest before slipping into sleep.
They had, surprisingly, woken in time for Davenport's duties at sunrise. Roger hid his disappointment behind a bright, cheerful smile, which hadn't been to hard to conjure up, given the circumstances. Davenport had stood in the corner of the room, in front of Roger's washstand, sponging a suspicious stain on the front of his trousers, berating the uncleanliness of sex.
"You should've been naked then--" Roger whispered warmly into his ear, coming up behind him and snaking his arms around his chest, "--shouldn't you?". Davenport tipped his head back, laughing on Roger's shoulder.
"Mm. May have helped. Shall we try it again sometime?" he ventured, eyes sparkling as he turned his head to look up at Roger. Davenport's gaze flickered between Roger's lips and eyes, making a flutter of anticipation run through him.
"Oh yes, I rather think we might," he'd replied, gently pressing his lips against Davenport's, deepening the kiss until Davenport finally turned his body to face him and returned the gesture in kind.
That had been then, of course. Currently things were quite different. Watching Davenport's mood became darker each day, Roger thought he understood the feeling perfectly. They barely managed to snatch a few minutes together every day before something interrupted them. Even the nights had become to exhausting to deal with; Davenport barely had time to spend in Roger's room between waiting for the halls of the servants quarters to be clear, and finding a way to get back in time for his early wake-up call.
And that was when Roger had his idea; a brilliant, shining thing, glowing in the museum of schemes he had brooding at the back of his mind.
Davenport was in for a treat.
---
Davenport knew there was something up as soon as he saw Roger that March morning, when the bite of winter still hadn't quite left the rooms; the windows were still laced with frost, glass cold, the fabric on the settees almost damp to the touch. He was refilling the whiskey decanter in the corner of the library when Roger bounded in, an unusually light spring in his step. He grinned wide as he saw his fellow library companion, going to him immediately and kissing him deep in a uncharacteristically bold manner.
"Hello, what's this?" laughed Davenport as he broke away, arms still being held tight by Roger who was practically bursting with joy.
"I've an idea," Roger began, leaving Davenport and going behind his armchair. Leaning forward on it, two hands clasped tight into the material, he stared at Davenport with an unsettling smile. "An idea, dearest James," he continued, "that could make me the best lover you've ever had."
"Your idea has already been proved useless, dearest Roger. You see you are, in fact, just that."
"Too kind, too kind. But let me explain my mischievousness before you berate my declarations."
Amused, Davenport leaned on the sideboard and gestured with a hand for Roger to continue.
"How would you feel about a week together--?"
"--we have many--"
"--wait, a week together alone." Roger raised an eyebrow, challenging argument. When Davenport merely shrugged, unimpressed, he went on. "Just us. Not here. Away from all duties and expectations and... oh, come on, you must be thinking something..."
Silent for a moment, Davenport chose his words carefully when he finally smoke. "That sounds wonderful. And impossible."
"Ah ha, I knew you'd say that. I said to myself, 'Roger, he's going to be all adorably sceptical and confused.' I said that."
"You said that, did you?" Davenport said dryly. "Well come on then, best lover of mine, tell me how you're gonna wangle that one."
Fixing Davenport with a smirk, Roger raised an eyebrow and said, "I'm going on holiday."
Davenport blinked. "Roger, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but for two people to be together they can't exactly be apart--"
"No, no, no. I'm off on holiday with you."
Davenport looked at Roger as though their separation had finally got to him.
"No, I'm still confused," he said, much to Roger's amusement. He rubbed his hands together with impish glee.
"I'm visiting my aunt's cottage for a week. Beautiful place, centre of the woods but delightfully close to the sea. The wonderful thing about it all is that she isn't there. So I'm off for a recovery break, just to test out the leg, you know, and after a week I'll be ready to face anything. And you're coming with me."
"How?"
"I need a companion. Mother and Father are worried I'll get lost or break my leg again, or something, the point is--" he took a deep breath and sighed, "-- you and I are going away, together, no questions asked, for a week."
To be fair to Roger it was not every man that could handle another coming at him at full force, and nearly suffocating him with an embrace, but he managed remarkably well.
"Roger, you are brilliant," rasped Davenport, taking his hand and kissing it excitedly. "A week?"
"A week," replied Roger with a nod. "Yes, I know. Brilliant. That's me."
"Seven days?" Davenport checked, as though the universe had suddenly, unfairly, reduced the amount of days in a week for sheer spitefulness on their part.
"Seven whole, glorious days romping by the sea, yes," confirmed Roger, unable to keep a straight face.
Flopping down on the armchair, as though winded, Davenport looked disbelievingly about the room before holding his head in his hands. Roger knelt before him, brushing the hair out of his eyes, insanely happy to have met such a wonderful creature.
"When do we leave?"
"Saturday morning, bright and early. I'll drive us there if you can bear it. So pack your bags, my love." Davenport looked up to find Roger beaming at him. Leaning forward, he kissed him solidly on the mouth, their smiles entwining as they laughed against each others lips. "We're off to the country!"
---
The silver felt familiar now, and warm where his hands had toyed with the metal for so long. Turning the silver case through his fingers, Davenport watched the roof with bored interest, noting that the damp patch on the ceiling had grown larger since he'd last looked. He shifted in his bed, longing for the warmth of another body to press against his, knowing that it would only be one more sleep before he got his wish.
Hartley was reading a book in the other corner of the room. He'd been the one who'd first helped Davenport become more proficient in the area of literacy, going over simple stories with him until he knew each word by heart. He was fortunate to have that guiding; many of the servants employed by Lady Eddison still were unable to write, and the select few who knew basic skills were known for being preferred over those who'd had little teaching. Davenport looked over to where Hartley lay, trying to read the title and failing in the dim candlelight.
"Moby Dick," replied Hartley automatically, not looking at Davenport as he continued to read. When he saw that Davenport wasn't about to stop looking at him, he rolled his eyes, bookmarked the page and turned to face his friend. "Come on. Out with it."
"What?" replied Davenport innocently, trying to keep the smirk off his face. Hartley pretended to pick up his book again. "Alright, alright--" started Davenport, seeing a cufflink on his bedside table and throwing it at him to get his attention. Hartley grinned, throwing the cufflink back.
"You've seemed unusually chipper all day," he remarked casually. "Wouldn't have anything to do with the mysterious job as Roger's man-servant, would it?"
"It is that obvious?" Laughing at the look Hartley gave him, Davenport looked at the ceiling again. "I'm just happy to be away from the manor, that's all. I haven't even had the opportunity to go home, these past months.'
"Would you want to?" Hartley cut in, making a steeple out of his entwined fingers as he, too, stared at the water-marked stone above.
"That's not the point."
"But I'm sure Roger provides a perfectly wonderful point," pressed Hartley, still not looking at Davenport, even when he threw him a ridiculously over-dramatic look.
"Master Curbishly--"
"Master Curbishly, is it? I'm sure he loves that."
Davenport snorted softly. "What do you think of it all?" he asked, trying to seem as casual as possible. Inside his heart was beating frantically, the anxiousness of weeks without discussing anything having slowly built up.
"It's none of my business," Hartley said automatically. He turned to Davenport, saw the genuine look of concern on his friends face. "I think under any other circumstances..." He let his voice trail off and strangely, that seemed to emphasise his words even more.
"You don't approve?"
"I didn't say that. I think you're a bloody idiot, yes, but that's only because you're going to get your heart broken."
Davenport pulled a face.
"It's the truth," pressed Hartley, still looking upwards. "Men like Roger don't care who they hurt as long as it's convenient and the recipient of his favours is quiet about it all."
Silent in his thoughts, Hartley took the absence of a retaliation as moodiness. "James, I'm only saying this as a friend, but you'd do well to leave alone. I've heard things. Remember that servant of Alex's? He's in touch with one of our girls. Says that there's trouble brewing. Says--"
"Quiet, will you? Just hush." The conversation wasn't at all going the way Davenport had imagined. "I don't care what he says. I don't care what Alex says, or even you for that matter. I just wanted to know the title of your bloody book." Davenport turned his back to Hartley, blood pumping through his veins, adrenaline steadily filling him.
The candle was soon blown out, which somehow made Davenport even more uptight. Letting out a huff of annoyance, Davenport got out of his bed, feet stinging on the cold stone floor, and hastily grabbed his battered old suitcase, all ready for the imminent voyage to be made with Roger. Without saying a word he straightened his bed sheets, blind in the darkness but so accustomed to the small space that he worked effortlessly, and clutched the suitcase to his side as he opened the door to the room and slipped out into the hall beyond.
It was a cowards way out but Davenport was so happy that, for once, he didn't want an argument. It hurt that his friend didn't trust Roger, when Davenport thought him nothing but perfect. Slowly he made his way to Roger's room, barely breathing for fear of being caught. He stowed his suitcase away in an old cupboard under the stairs, filled to the brim with hunting and fishing equipment, in effort to avoid having to go back to his room come sunrise. Hopefully he and Roger could disappear from the place before he'd need to see Hartley again.
Roger barely ever locked his door at night, which made it blessedly easy to slip into his room with little fuss. Davenport closed the door behind him softly, padding over to Roger's bed with the uttermost care. By now his eyes had adjusted fully to the dark; he could see the silhouette of Roger's peacefully sleeping body framed by the light of the window.
"Psst... Roger? Roger?"
Roger made an unintelligible noise into the pillow, covering his head with his arm in a vain effort to stop the voices in his head.
"Roger, it's me!" Davenport hissed, resisting the urge to poke the sleeping body in the back. "Wake up."
"Swha oo wha--?"
Davenport rolled his eyes and sighed, deciding that force was indeed the best course of action. He pushed Roger to the other side of the bed as gently as he could, taking care to ignore the snuffling protests, before quickly slipping into the bed, enjoying the already-made warm patch. The pillow smelled of Roger as soon as his head hit it; Davenport inhaled deeply, savouring this small space where he felt, for the first time in his life, safe. He felt so comfortable beside the body next to him. Understanding why that had been was almost harder than accepting Roger as his lover.
Thinking that Roger had already fallen back to sleep, Davenport was surprised when an arm slipped around his waist and a voice said, in a brilliant moment of clarity, "Are you wearing a night shirt?"
Davenport blushed as he felt Roger's hand smoothly slide up his thigh, under his nightwear.
"Thought you were asleep," he muttered, rolling onto his back, head falling into the pillows.
"You teased me about pin-striped pyjamas and you're wearing a night shirt."
"It's the only thing I didn't pack," Davenport replied indignantly, gasping slightly as Roger absently ran his thumb over the delicate skin of his nipple. "Oi now, enough of that," he said gruffly. "I only came because..." He trailed off, not wanting to disturb Roger with his earlier conversation. "Not because of all this," he clarified. "We'll have enough of this when we're away."
They smiled stupidly at each other.
"When we're away. Aren't they such wonderful words, James?"
Davenport hummed his agreement under another gasp of pleasure as Roger ran his fingers down the line of his waist.
"Great words, yes, yes. Wonderful, yes."
Roger laughed and brought his hand away, rolling over to face the window, ignoring Davenport's small noise of protest. "Tomorrow," he replied over his shoulder, grinning at the resounding tut behind him.
"Fine." Placing an arm around Roger's waist, chin on his shoulder, Davenport listened to Roger fall slowly asleep, his heavy breathing relaxing any earlier tension Hartley had caused. Through the window, Davenport could just make out the shadow of a tree. It danced in the night's breeze, casting patterns on the glass. Tomorrow night they'd be somewhere else, far from the manor, with no fear of being caught. A whole week together, alone.
He was just dozing off when a voice startled him;
"And by the way, you're freezing," the voice muttered into the pillow next to him. Davenport innocently raised his voice;
"Oh, am I?"
Smiling contentedly to himself, Davenport closed his eyes and fell asleep.
---
As with all March days, the sun seemed to float like an illusion in the perfectly blue sky, deceiving even the cleverest of folk with it's promise of warmth, whilst secretly keeping the winter winds to itself for a few more weeks. For so early in the morning they were fortunate to get any sun at all, mused Davenport, carrying Roger's bags out to the car and placing them neatly in the small rack in the back of the car, fastening the leather straps with the uttermost care.
"I'll see you in a week," Roger was saying, his head turned towards the house whilst he strode briskly towards the car. His mother was on the doorstep, carrying a wicker basket and some flowers, clearly enjoying a spot of gardening before the household awoke. "I shan't get up to any mischief. Davenport will make sure of that," he added under his breath as he drew level to the car, looking the footman up and down with obvious approval.
"Goodbye Roger, dear!"
"Tara, mother!" Roger called, still watching Davenport, smiling when Davenport smirked at him knowingly.
Despite the chilly breeze, Roger left the top down as he and Davenport drove away from the manor and travelled along the lane leading out onto the main road. Davenport was laughing by the time they reached the next village, his hair caught in tangle disarray, styled dramatically by the wind.
"Is this real?" he shouted, still grinning wildly as Roger pushed the car as fast as it would go. "Tell me this isn't real, so that I can wake up."
"It is very much real."
Davenport leaned into Roger, nudging his shoulder playfully before leaning back on the door with his other arm. He looked exhausted with happiness, too caught up in his own world to care about anything else. Roger grinned at the sight, feeling himself already beginning to unwind. His leg ached under the strain of driving, but he didn't much notice the pain each time that Davenport pointed out something new on the horizon, or ventured bravely into the back-seat as he leaned over the small space between his and Roger's chair to reach the map.
"I know where I'm going," Roger pointed out as Davenport righted himself in the seat and began to mull over the canvas-like parchment depicting a web of brightly coloured lines, spaces patched with green and grey.
"That's not the point," he noted, with a look that indicated that much was obvious. "It's the principle, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"Yep." Davenport was too caught up in his map-reading to notice Roger's sarcasm. He tried in vain to read the splay of lines, map tangling in his grasp under the pressure of the wind, until he gave up minutes later, distracted by Roger's stifled laughter.
"I'm sorry," Roger was saying, taking a hand off the steering wheel to place it reassuringly on Davenport's knee. He got a corner of the map to the eye for his troubles and sat nursing it for ten minutes later, vaguely amused at Davenport's repetitive apologies mixed with occasional bouts of 'serves you right'. They stopped a few times, filling the car with petrol from a fuel can, regarding the fields and farmland with interest as they pointed out things to each other, laughing at the general absurdity at this change in life.
The car rumbled into deeper countryside around noon, the open fields and hedgerows giving way to dense woodland, tracks growing unsteady under the tires. It was more beautiful in the forests though, thought Roger, glancing up at the speckled light cast through the branches, the buds on the trees ready to burst with colour in only a few weeks. The puddles, gathered in the small dips of the road, had edges of ice, hinting of the spring not yet come.
Glancing at Davenport, Roger was surprised when he saw the young man asleep, resting his elbow on the door of the car, lips slightly parted as he exhaled softly. Smiling fondly, Roger stared at the road ahead. He'd sensed the unease in Davenport the night before; something unsaid had hovered in the air between them and had Roger been more awake he would've been more than determined to find out what. But now that Roger was ready to find out what troubled his lover, Davenport had decided to allow slumber to get the better of him. However, Roger was glad of that, pleased to see that he was at last beginning to unwind. After years of being looked after by the footman, it was Roger's turn to take care of him for the week.
Rolling into the lane leading to his aunt's cottage, Roger felt a pleasant shiver run through him. He was eager to show Davenport the countryside and beach, excited to be in a place where Roger could hug him freely, without having the worry of who could be lurking around the corner.
The cottage appeared through the trees like a welcome sanctuary after the long car journey. Resting his hand gently on Davenport's shoulder to wake him, Roger pulled the car into a small drive to the side of the house, in front of the large wooden doors of the garage, and switched the engine off, listening to the ticking as it cooled and the deep sigh as Davenport slowly roused.
"We're here?"
"Yes. Come on, let's have a look around. I'm desperate for a cup of tea."
Davenport stretched as he got out of the car, gazing up at the canopy of trees, which loomed so close to the house, with interest.
"Reckon you get much wildlife here?" he asked going to Roger, letting him take the lead slightly as they walked into the shadows of the porch. The roof was thatched and full of cobwebs when Davenport leaded in for a closer look. He smiled, pointing at the dew-coated web, surprised when he turned to find that Roger had already disappeared into the house. He hastily followed him, at once greeted with the warm smell of wood smoke and old wood.
The front door led directly into a living room of sorts, with more doors branching off ahead and right, with a staircase and a further door to the left. Roger wasn't in the living room which left Davenport to choose between going upstairs and opening a door.
"Roger?" he called, deciding on the door on the left door, slipping through with more than a touch of wariness. He'd chosen correctly; Roger was busy at the fireplace, striking a match and trying to light the large open grate situated in the centre of the back wall. The woodpile roared into life after a few brave stabs with a poker. Roger beamed cheerfully at the new flame, settling a copper kettle on the crudely built frame hung directly over the fire and nodding his head as though satisfied with his work.
"See? I'm proficient in the art of many things, I think you'll find. Unfortunately, Aunt isn't quite as modern as the rest of us. We're lucky to have running water. I remember finding the well awfully fascinating as a child--"
"You pulling water? I'd like to see that."
Roger's smile was more than a little wicked as he pulled Davenport into his arms and held his clasped hands low on his back, so that they were stood front to front. Davenport felt his heart begin to race. "I'm good at pulling," Roger whispered, his laugh such a beautiful contrast in volume to his words that Davenport found himself tremble with the force of it.
"I'm sure you are," he said, swallowing, eyes not quite meeting Roger's for fear of seeing something that may have forced him to push him into the wall right there. Roger seemed to sense his thoughts, smiled suggestively as his opened his hands to rest them of the top of Davenport's backside.
"Later," he promised in a low voice, the word pooling in Davenport's stomach, leaving something warm in their place. "It's time I showed you around."
Davenport felt Roger's lips on his before had time to react and then they were gone, along with their owner.
A week alone together.
Throwing his head back, Davenport closed his eyes, a thank you resting in his heart for whoever it belonged to, before going over to the fire to save the tea.
tbc