{fic} the mirror crack'd from side to side . part five a {davenport&roger} r. 1923
.part five a {davenport&roger} r. 1923
summer
p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii.
Eddison Manor
June, 1923
The shadows stretched long across the grounds, exchanging sunlight for cool shelter from the heat. Davenport stretched luxuriously in the shade of a tree, enjoying the sensation of the stream pooling around his feet, circling his ankles, pulling him into the bliss of a Summer's day. Sounds from the house drifted down through the garden, the lazy Sunday whisper of a family searching for lost books which they intended to read, and the laughing, reminiscent chatter of a faux pas by the vicar in their morning sermon.
Curling his hand, Davenport gently found the head of his comrade. His fingers twisted in Roger's hair as he gently scratched the nape of his neck. Rolling over, Roger lay in the curve of Davenport's side, Davenport holding him in place with an arm pressed between the cool grass and Roger's warm body. Davenport enjoyed this spot. It was almost as valuable a place in their mission for privacy as the rooftop. Beside the stream, hiding them with a wall of reeds and long grass, the two friends had all the time and secrecy they needed. Added with the fact that Davenport had got the day off, it meant that no-one would be looking for them until at least late evening.
"--and then he said something quite ridiculous about his lawn needing a weed. I swear, I was positively bursting. I had to hide behind Mrs Hestletine's hat just to ensure he wouldn't see me."
Davenport chuckled softly, enjoying Roger's burst of laughter. "Did you learn anything other than the ins and outs of the Vicar's secret love of horticulture?"
"Mrs Hestletine's hat has not one, but two small apples atop it."
"Incredible. I'm sure St Peter will enjoy that anecdote whilst you're pleading your way into heaven."
Roger rolled onto his back once more, staring up at the blue sky with an unbelievable amount of serenity in his features. "Isn't that beautiful?" Roger gestured towards the twisting branches above, the bursting greens of every individual leaf. Davenport snatched Roger's hand and pointed it playfully towards himself. "Yes, yes, and that," agreed Roger, smiling dutifully.
"I should jolly well think so," Davenport replied, affecting Roger's usual manner of well-spoken gaiety.
Roger swatted his chest. "That's enough of that," he exclaimed. Tracing the folds in his shirt with his fingers, Roger absently contented himself with listening to the quiet sounds around them. "I've a confession," he admitted, after a time. Davenport looked over at him, squinting his eyes in the evening sun.
"Oh yes?"
Giving a small sigh, Roger lifted himself by the elbows, sitting up in the most uncomfortable way. "Alex is coming to stay."
Not knowing what to say, Davenport chose to say nothing. It was a wise talent, taught to him by the best of staff. When you don't know what to say, say nothing at all. The truth was that he wanted to say a lot. Choruses of, 'why always him?' and 'why do I care?' echoed in his mind, but he didn't know which to ask first.
"Hm." Davenport thought a 'hm' was diplomatic and suggestive of nothing. A perfect choice, when you thought about it. And he had.
"I'm gathering you don't mind?" Venturing into brave waters, Roger casually glanced at his lover. Davenport shrugged.
"It wouldn't matter if I did."
Pursing his lips, Roger nodded, rather violently if the sharp spasm in the back of his neck was anything to go by. Of course it didn't matter what Davenport thought. He was beneath Roger in almost every way possible. Yet still Roger was overcome with the infuriating want for Davenport to tell him everything was fine. He scowled comically.
"Well, no. It wouldn't," he added with more attitude than he'd have thought possible. "Right. So everything is... right."
"Right," agreed Davenport.
"Good. Right. Fine." Roger stood up hastily, ignoring the black spots which swum in front of his eyes, punishment for straightening up too quick. He didn't catch the rolling of eyes which Davenport gave him, didn't hear the exasperated sigh of his friend as he strode away.
Funnily enough, Davenport knew it was exactly what he wanted to say.
"Pillock," he muttered ungraciously, a slither of affection working its way through the annoyance. Laying back on the cool grass, Davenport left Roger to his sulking. Sometimes even words couldn't solve their problems.
He wasn't sure that he wanted them to.
---
Alex came to the house two days later. Davenport wasn't surprised when he saw the irritatingly familiar car pull into the drive. He even managed to ignore the over-enthuastic greeting Roger offered Alex in lieu of his and Davenport's earlier exchange of words. Davenport went with it, knowing that Alex couldn't stay forever, knowing that Roger would eventually get tired of his games and wanderings alike. Still, he couldn't quite deny the pool of jealousy that sometimes heated his stomach, nor quench the desire to burst into a room whenever he knew Roger and Alex were in there alone together.
Roger ignored him during this time, playing with him as much as he played with Alex. Davenport half enjoyed this petty tableau, vaguely admired the way in which Roger could behave so perfectly nonchalant in Davenports presence. This was a play for Alex as much as it was for Davenport; Roger acted his part well. Deep down, Davenport knew that Roger's plan to dissuade Alex from believing Roger had a lover in the form of a servant was a clever and well-needed one.
But nor did he want Alex to believe that he had a chance.
Still, Roger seemed to know what he was doing. He danced around questions of love, knowing which replies to give each question that Alex offered as though he were reading off a script. Now and then he'd catch Davenport's eye by accident; Davenport could see him, challenging him, promising, until the footman broke, until his resolve crumbled and his indifference evaporated.
And then one evening, when dusk was approaching and he caught sight of Roger and Alex alone in the conservatory together, too close, too intimate, Davenport had an idea.
Davenport thought he'd play a game of his own.
---
Dinner was served at six that evening. Davenport had purposefully set Alex and Roger opposite each other. Each time Davenport watched Roger, Alex would be just in front of him, unaware of the looks cast over his shoulder at the person on the other side of the table. At each end, Colonel Curbishly and Lady Eddison were seated. Davenport stoically ignored their part in this. They were unneeded, uninvolved, merely extras in a scene of three.
The first half of the meal was spent in relative silence, the vague attempt at conversation lost in the enjoyment of good food. Davenport took advantage of this time, staring at Roger through narrow eyes, a smile turning the edge of his mouth up in a smirk. Roger replied in kind, testing him, hardly noticing when Alex made a stab at true conversation.
Davenport should've known what was coming, should've known that Alex was too clever to have ignored their private conversation of expressions.
"I met Graham Felter the other day." The table went quiet at once. Roger slowly turned his head, regarding his friend.
"Did you?" The name obviously meant something to Roger, but Davenport could tell that it wasn't the person who had his friend intrigued.
"Yes. He was saying that one of his servants recently invested in land. And that got me wondering..."
Across the table, Roger looked tense. His mouth had thinned, and lines gathered at the corners of his eyes as they narrowed. "Hm."
"--wondering how one servant could manage the cost. It surely isn't the pay, is it?"
"Perhaps he's a wise investor," Roger replied, voice monotone, unfaltering. Alex pressed on, sensing Roger's resolve.
"And then I thought, there's a reason for servants having little. It's not because they're slothful. They haven't a chance to better themselves, have they? And they never will."
Saying nothing, Roger continued eating. He wasn't looking at Alex. He wasn't even looking at Davenport. He was staring at the seafood in front of him with such ferocity that Davenport wondered if the prawns had wronged him in some way.
"Of course, it's all to do with breeding. If you're born into squalor than what chance have you of gaining entrance into the higher societies? I pity the poor."
"How gracious of you," muttered Roger, ignoring the look his father gave him.
"I mean, imagine a man of poor background to become a lawyer, or a physician. It isn't done."
Alex turned his head suddenly, eyes meeting Davenport's, and Davenport knew that this was the beginning of the end.
"I mean--" Alex began, "--could you imagine Davenport here ever making something of himself. Picture him in the suit of a barrister. The result is something quite humorous, I assure you."
"I could imagine it," Roger said slowly, his game suddenly taking a turn for the worst. Davenport willed him to say nothing more, felt his heart beat more quick when he realised nothing was left to say.
"What say you, Davenport?"
Turning a spiteful smile towards the footman, Alex regarded Davenport with cold eyes. Davenport felt the gaze of both his master and mistress also fall upon him.
"I think that I'm where I'm contented to be," he replied softly. "I'm where my place is." His voice sounded harsh to his own ears, lacking the pronunciation and accent of Alex, amplifying the mans point even while Davenport's words contradicted him. He was of a lower bearing, of a lower standard of life. Ruined, said a hateful voice in his head.
"Enough of this. Enough of it."
Everyone looked sharply at Roger who was scowling at his friend. Davenport curled his fingers together behind his back. Roger had finally found the right words to say.
"This is pointless. Foolishness. Who's to say that one man is better than another? Davenport's heart is larger than yours, Alex, make no mistake. In our world, that should count for more than it does."
"Well said, m' boy!" Lord Curbishly's voice boomed across the table. At a glance from his wife, the man blushed and hid himself in his glass of bourbon once again.
"I hear your views, Roger." Alex's voice was soft, dangerously so, as he placed his own glass on the table after taking a sip of wine. "I find it surprising you've voiced them now after so many years of disregarding the needs of servants." He said this last word like it was something dirty, repulsive. "Dare I wonder what or who has changed your perspectives on the lower classes?"
"Enough," repeated Roger, and Davenport suddenly realised, with more than a little surprise, that it was the most angry he'd ever seen his lover.
"I say... the prawns. Really, they are most delightful."
The table turned to Lady Eddison who held a prawn aloft on her fork, as though waving a flag of surrender. One by one each dinner guest returned to their meal, the ripple of conversation stilted, uneasy, but still slowly repairing the empty gap which Roger's words had caused. Taking his place by the door, Davenport fell into that marble like statue he was meant to be, natural, unthinking.
His place.
Raising his chin, Davenport spread his feet slightly apart and stood solemnly, remembering Roger's look of anger.
If this was his place, then he could think of worse.
---
Roger didn't like it when Davenport dimmed himself down for Roger's benefit, when he played the part of a servant as best he could. He didn't like that character, that servitude, which was so unlike the true Davenport. And effecting an air of stupidity and unintelligance did little more than annoy him. Roger waited until the table had relaxed once again, until his mother had blessedly used her words to calm the conversation and draw it away from her son. Roughly, Roger pushed himself from the table, excusing himself briskly, caught Davenport's eye and left the room, ignorant of whether Alex and his parents were watching. Seconds later, Davenport joined him. He hovered nervously in the half-light of the doorway, flinched slightly as Roger tugged him by the wrist down the passageway and led him into a small, dark alcove.
"Why the hell do you let him treat you like that?" was the first thing that came to mind, as Roger leaned over Davenport, hands placed by the side of his head. Davenport eyes flickered either side of Roger's face, looking for escape, seeing nothing but the fury and hurt marked in deep lines around eyes reflecting his. The corridor seemed darker than Davenport remembered it, coloured dimmed slightly by the heat in Roger's eyes. He shrunk against the wall, trying to get as far away from Roger as he could in the small space he'd been offered.
"That's my job, is it not? Sir." Davenport threw the word at Roger, tormenting him with the sarcasm and disgust.
"Don't. Don't let him."
"Is that an order?"
Roger hit his palm against the wall, wiping the smirk off Davenport's face in an instant.
"Bloody stubborn man," he whispered, eyes blazing.
"Me?" Davenport hissed back, trying to push Roger away and failing. "You're the one who brings your old lover--"
"You're my lover now," replied Roger, not letting Davenport finish. The younger man sagged against the wall, refusing to look at his superior. "You're more than him," Roger whispered intimately against the side of Davenport's neck. Davenport at once felt a wave of something wash over him, something electric which quickened his heart and made his breath catch suddenly. "You're more than me," he added with a breathless chuckle, tracing his nose over a raised vein in Davenports throat.
Davenport felt dizzy. Clutching Roger for support, he wasn't surprised when he felt the delicious, insistent push of Roger's lips against his, the perfect alignment of two people destined to meet, to be. His back arched under the curled of Roger's hand around his waist, the insistent smoothing of fingers in the hollow of his spine, the warm of his hand so perfect as it slipped under his jacket and rested on his shirt. A strip of light, a sliver of evening sun which had crept through the door beyond, illuminated the fine, gold threads of Roger's hair as he turned slightly, pressing Davenport further into the alcove, hiding them.
"He goes. Tomorrow. Tonight. I don't care. He goes. Perhaps that'll let you know..."
Roger didn't finish his sentence. Davenport was moving against him, lips softly letting him know that he was forgiven.
"We're in this together now," whispered Roger.
He didn't return to the dining room that night.
Curiously, nor did Davenport.
---
The day after, Alex left. Davenport stood on the drive, watching the car disappear and wondering if it would be the last time he ever saw the man. He knew Roger was thinking the same, looking down from his bedroom window over the grounds, eyes following the Bentley down the gravel path, until the hedgerows hid the metal from sight. The back of Davenport's shirt was already damp with the heat. He pulled absently at his collar, looking through silted eyes at the sun above. In his mind, pictures flickered of the night before, whispered words rippled through his head. Roger's promises. No more playing games.
It was going to be a hot summer.
summer
p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii.
Eddison Manor
June, 1923
The shadows stretched long across the grounds, exchanging sunlight for cool shelter from the heat. Davenport stretched luxuriously in the shade of a tree, enjoying the sensation of the stream pooling around his feet, circling his ankles, pulling him into the bliss of a Summer's day. Sounds from the house drifted down through the garden, the lazy Sunday whisper of a family searching for lost books which they intended to read, and the laughing, reminiscent chatter of a faux pas by the vicar in their morning sermon.
Curling his hand, Davenport gently found the head of his comrade. His fingers twisted in Roger's hair as he gently scratched the nape of his neck. Rolling over, Roger lay in the curve of Davenport's side, Davenport holding him in place with an arm pressed between the cool grass and Roger's warm body. Davenport enjoyed this spot. It was almost as valuable a place in their mission for privacy as the rooftop. Beside the stream, hiding them with a wall of reeds and long grass, the two friends had all the time and secrecy they needed. Added with the fact that Davenport had got the day off, it meant that no-one would be looking for them until at least late evening.
"--and then he said something quite ridiculous about his lawn needing a weed. I swear, I was positively bursting. I had to hide behind Mrs Hestletine's hat just to ensure he wouldn't see me."
Davenport chuckled softly, enjoying Roger's burst of laughter. "Did you learn anything other than the ins and outs of the Vicar's secret love of horticulture?"
"Mrs Hestletine's hat has not one, but two small apples atop it."
"Incredible. I'm sure St Peter will enjoy that anecdote whilst you're pleading your way into heaven."
Roger rolled onto his back once more, staring up at the blue sky with an unbelievable amount of serenity in his features. "Isn't that beautiful?" Roger gestured towards the twisting branches above, the bursting greens of every individual leaf. Davenport snatched Roger's hand and pointed it playfully towards himself. "Yes, yes, and that," agreed Roger, smiling dutifully.
"I should jolly well think so," Davenport replied, affecting Roger's usual manner of well-spoken gaiety.
Roger swatted his chest. "That's enough of that," he exclaimed. Tracing the folds in his shirt with his fingers, Roger absently contented himself with listening to the quiet sounds around them. "I've a confession," he admitted, after a time. Davenport looked over at him, squinting his eyes in the evening sun.
"Oh yes?"
Giving a small sigh, Roger lifted himself by the elbows, sitting up in the most uncomfortable way. "Alex is coming to stay."
Not knowing what to say, Davenport chose to say nothing. It was a wise talent, taught to him by the best of staff. When you don't know what to say, say nothing at all. The truth was that he wanted to say a lot. Choruses of, 'why always him?' and 'why do I care?' echoed in his mind, but he didn't know which to ask first.
"Hm." Davenport thought a 'hm' was diplomatic and suggestive of nothing. A perfect choice, when you thought about it. And he had.
"I'm gathering you don't mind?" Venturing into brave waters, Roger casually glanced at his lover. Davenport shrugged.
"It wouldn't matter if I did."
Pursing his lips, Roger nodded, rather violently if the sharp spasm in the back of his neck was anything to go by. Of course it didn't matter what Davenport thought. He was beneath Roger in almost every way possible. Yet still Roger was overcome with the infuriating want for Davenport to tell him everything was fine. He scowled comically.
"Well, no. It wouldn't," he added with more attitude than he'd have thought possible. "Right. So everything is... right."
"Right," agreed Davenport.
"Good. Right. Fine." Roger stood up hastily, ignoring the black spots which swum in front of his eyes, punishment for straightening up too quick. He didn't catch the rolling of eyes which Davenport gave him, didn't hear the exasperated sigh of his friend as he strode away.
Funnily enough, Davenport knew it was exactly what he wanted to say.
"Pillock," he muttered ungraciously, a slither of affection working its way through the annoyance. Laying back on the cool grass, Davenport left Roger to his sulking. Sometimes even words couldn't solve their problems.
He wasn't sure that he wanted them to.
---
Alex came to the house two days later. Davenport wasn't surprised when he saw the irritatingly familiar car pull into the drive. He even managed to ignore the over-enthuastic greeting Roger offered Alex in lieu of his and Davenport's earlier exchange of words. Davenport went with it, knowing that Alex couldn't stay forever, knowing that Roger would eventually get tired of his games and wanderings alike. Still, he couldn't quite deny the pool of jealousy that sometimes heated his stomach, nor quench the desire to burst into a room whenever he knew Roger and Alex were in there alone together.
Roger ignored him during this time, playing with him as much as he played with Alex. Davenport half enjoyed this petty tableau, vaguely admired the way in which Roger could behave so perfectly nonchalant in Davenports presence. This was a play for Alex as much as it was for Davenport; Roger acted his part well. Deep down, Davenport knew that Roger's plan to dissuade Alex from believing Roger had a lover in the form of a servant was a clever and well-needed one.
But nor did he want Alex to believe that he had a chance.
Still, Roger seemed to know what he was doing. He danced around questions of love, knowing which replies to give each question that Alex offered as though he were reading off a script. Now and then he'd catch Davenport's eye by accident; Davenport could see him, challenging him, promising, until the footman broke, until his resolve crumbled and his indifference evaporated.
And then one evening, when dusk was approaching and he caught sight of Roger and Alex alone in the conservatory together, too close, too intimate, Davenport had an idea.
Davenport thought he'd play a game of his own.
---
Dinner was served at six that evening. Davenport had purposefully set Alex and Roger opposite each other. Each time Davenport watched Roger, Alex would be just in front of him, unaware of the looks cast over his shoulder at the person on the other side of the table. At each end, Colonel Curbishly and Lady Eddison were seated. Davenport stoically ignored their part in this. They were unneeded, uninvolved, merely extras in a scene of three.
The first half of the meal was spent in relative silence, the vague attempt at conversation lost in the enjoyment of good food. Davenport took advantage of this time, staring at Roger through narrow eyes, a smile turning the edge of his mouth up in a smirk. Roger replied in kind, testing him, hardly noticing when Alex made a stab at true conversation.
Davenport should've known what was coming, should've known that Alex was too clever to have ignored their private conversation of expressions.
"I met Graham Felter the other day." The table went quiet at once. Roger slowly turned his head, regarding his friend.
"Did you?" The name obviously meant something to Roger, but Davenport could tell that it wasn't the person who had his friend intrigued.
"Yes. He was saying that one of his servants recently invested in land. And that got me wondering..."
Across the table, Roger looked tense. His mouth had thinned, and lines gathered at the corners of his eyes as they narrowed. "Hm."
"--wondering how one servant could manage the cost. It surely isn't the pay, is it?"
"Perhaps he's a wise investor," Roger replied, voice monotone, unfaltering. Alex pressed on, sensing Roger's resolve.
"And then I thought, there's a reason for servants having little. It's not because they're slothful. They haven't a chance to better themselves, have they? And they never will."
Saying nothing, Roger continued eating. He wasn't looking at Alex. He wasn't even looking at Davenport. He was staring at the seafood in front of him with such ferocity that Davenport wondered if the prawns had wronged him in some way.
"Of course, it's all to do with breeding. If you're born into squalor than what chance have you of gaining entrance into the higher societies? I pity the poor."
"How gracious of you," muttered Roger, ignoring the look his father gave him.
"I mean, imagine a man of poor background to become a lawyer, or a physician. It isn't done."
Alex turned his head suddenly, eyes meeting Davenport's, and Davenport knew that this was the beginning of the end.
"I mean--" Alex began, "--could you imagine Davenport here ever making something of himself. Picture him in the suit of a barrister. The result is something quite humorous, I assure you."
"I could imagine it," Roger said slowly, his game suddenly taking a turn for the worst. Davenport willed him to say nothing more, felt his heart beat more quick when he realised nothing was left to say.
"What say you, Davenport?"
Turning a spiteful smile towards the footman, Alex regarded Davenport with cold eyes. Davenport felt the gaze of both his master and mistress also fall upon him.
"I think that I'm where I'm contented to be," he replied softly. "I'm where my place is." His voice sounded harsh to his own ears, lacking the pronunciation and accent of Alex, amplifying the mans point even while Davenport's words contradicted him. He was of a lower bearing, of a lower standard of life. Ruined, said a hateful voice in his head.
"Enough of this. Enough of it."
Everyone looked sharply at Roger who was scowling at his friend. Davenport curled his fingers together behind his back. Roger had finally found the right words to say.
"This is pointless. Foolishness. Who's to say that one man is better than another? Davenport's heart is larger than yours, Alex, make no mistake. In our world, that should count for more than it does."
"Well said, m' boy!" Lord Curbishly's voice boomed across the table. At a glance from his wife, the man blushed and hid himself in his glass of bourbon once again.
"I hear your views, Roger." Alex's voice was soft, dangerously so, as he placed his own glass on the table after taking a sip of wine. "I find it surprising you've voiced them now after so many years of disregarding the needs of servants." He said this last word like it was something dirty, repulsive. "Dare I wonder what or who has changed your perspectives on the lower classes?"
"Enough," repeated Roger, and Davenport suddenly realised, with more than a little surprise, that it was the most angry he'd ever seen his lover.
"I say... the prawns. Really, they are most delightful."
The table turned to Lady Eddison who held a prawn aloft on her fork, as though waving a flag of surrender. One by one each dinner guest returned to their meal, the ripple of conversation stilted, uneasy, but still slowly repairing the empty gap which Roger's words had caused. Taking his place by the door, Davenport fell into that marble like statue he was meant to be, natural, unthinking.
His place.
Raising his chin, Davenport spread his feet slightly apart and stood solemnly, remembering Roger's look of anger.
If this was his place, then he could think of worse.
---
Roger didn't like it when Davenport dimmed himself down for Roger's benefit, when he played the part of a servant as best he could. He didn't like that character, that servitude, which was so unlike the true Davenport. And effecting an air of stupidity and unintelligance did little more than annoy him. Roger waited until the table had relaxed once again, until his mother had blessedly used her words to calm the conversation and draw it away from her son. Roughly, Roger pushed himself from the table, excusing himself briskly, caught Davenport's eye and left the room, ignorant of whether Alex and his parents were watching. Seconds later, Davenport joined him. He hovered nervously in the half-light of the doorway, flinched slightly as Roger tugged him by the wrist down the passageway and led him into a small, dark alcove.
"Why the hell do you let him treat you like that?" was the first thing that came to mind, as Roger leaned over Davenport, hands placed by the side of his head. Davenport eyes flickered either side of Roger's face, looking for escape, seeing nothing but the fury and hurt marked in deep lines around eyes reflecting his. The corridor seemed darker than Davenport remembered it, coloured dimmed slightly by the heat in Roger's eyes. He shrunk against the wall, trying to get as far away from Roger as he could in the small space he'd been offered.
"That's my job, is it not? Sir." Davenport threw the word at Roger, tormenting him with the sarcasm and disgust.
"Don't. Don't let him."
"Is that an order?"
Roger hit his palm against the wall, wiping the smirk off Davenport's face in an instant.
"Bloody stubborn man," he whispered, eyes blazing.
"Me?" Davenport hissed back, trying to push Roger away and failing. "You're the one who brings your old lover--"
"You're my lover now," replied Roger, not letting Davenport finish. The younger man sagged against the wall, refusing to look at his superior. "You're more than him," Roger whispered intimately against the side of Davenport's neck. Davenport at once felt a wave of something wash over him, something electric which quickened his heart and made his breath catch suddenly. "You're more than me," he added with a breathless chuckle, tracing his nose over a raised vein in Davenports throat.
Davenport felt dizzy. Clutching Roger for support, he wasn't surprised when he felt the delicious, insistent push of Roger's lips against his, the perfect alignment of two people destined to meet, to be. His back arched under the curled of Roger's hand around his waist, the insistent smoothing of fingers in the hollow of his spine, the warm of his hand so perfect as it slipped under his jacket and rested on his shirt. A strip of light, a sliver of evening sun which had crept through the door beyond, illuminated the fine, gold threads of Roger's hair as he turned slightly, pressing Davenport further into the alcove, hiding them.
"He goes. Tomorrow. Tonight. I don't care. He goes. Perhaps that'll let you know..."
Roger didn't finish his sentence. Davenport was moving against him, lips softly letting him know that he was forgiven.
"We're in this together now," whispered Roger.
He didn't return to the dining room that night.
Curiously, nor did Davenport.
---
The day after, Alex left. Davenport stood on the drive, watching the car disappear and wondering if it would be the last time he ever saw the man. He knew Roger was thinking the same, looking down from his bedroom window over the grounds, eyes following the Bentley down the gravel path, until the hedgerows hid the metal from sight. The back of Davenport's shirt was already damp with the heat. He pulled absently at his collar, looking through silted eyes at the sun above. In his mind, pictures flickered of the night before, whispered words rippled through his head. Roger's promises. No more playing games.
It was going to be a hot summer.