{fic} the mirror crack'd from side to side . part ten {davenport&roger} pg-13. 1924
.part ten {davenport&roger} pg. 1924
autumn
![]()
p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii. ix.
Eddison Manor
October, 1924
A crack of thunder set the plates rattling in the library as Roger sat in his chair, reading King Lear and wondering if Edmund really knew what he was letting himself in for. One woman had always proved too much for Roger; two seemed nightmarish. Glancing out of the window, Roger stared dolefully at the rain streaking the windows grey. The weather was apt for the British summertime, certainly not for the crisp Autumn which he had predicted, and with vague dread he wondered when at last the misty mornings of winter would steal in.
A bedraggled figure in the distance caught Roger's eye. With a fluid movement he placed his book on the arm of his chair and walked deftly over to the windowsill. Leaning against the wall, Roger narrowed his eyes; through the window of rain he could see a man walking up the drive, holding himself awkwardly. Frowning slightly, Roger left the window to move towards the entrance hall, surprised when the door suddenly opened and the drenched creature stumbled in, the lights of the hall making his shadow flicker madly on the wall behind.
"Hullo?" Roger said slowly, then again upon realising who it was; "Hullo, you! Are you alright?"
"Bloody wet," came the muffled response of Davenport as he unwrapped himself from the mackintosh clinging to his wet skin.
"What on earth have you been doing?"
Roger's question was answered with a thrust of string beans to his abdominal region. Giving a little "oof" of surprise, Roger held the vegetables as Davenport shook his hair like a wet dog.
"I'm sure I'm not meant to be doing this," he muttered under his breath. "Only cook's in a foul mood with me after turning up late yesterday morning."
"Sorry about that," Roger replied, with a grin that didn't look the least bit apologetic.
"Davenport!"
"Oh hell!" Snatching the beans from Roger's limp grip, Davenport stood to attention as Miss Chandrakala came bustling into the hall. "See you later? Twelve, usual place," Davenport managed to whisper, just before Chandrakala's voice boomed through the entrance hall.
"Have you got the--?" She paused abruptly, noticing the dripping raincoat slung over Davenport's arm. "You're getting the wood floor soaked, boy! Use your head, use your head! Into the kitchen with you!" As if only just noticing Roger, the housekeeper suddenly paused her tirade to offer a nod to her master.
"Good evening, Sir. I'm sorry about the--"
"It's alright, Miss See. I was just chatting to Davenport here. Is it really his duty to--?"
"Begging your pardon, Sir. I have to get to the kitchen." Taking a chance, Davenport cast a warning look at his friend and left the hall for the coldness of the lower levels. Roger felt his cheery smile slowly disappearing to that place where all cheer disappeared whenever he felt pain for his lover. He'd been foolish, trying to protect the young man. One day his gentlemanly nature would get them both in trouble.
"I'm sorry, Sir. I'll get this sorted."
"Really, it's no bother. If I'd come in I would've made three times the mess."
Eyeing Roger warily, Chandrakala turned away towards the kitchens. Silently, Roger cursed his own enthusiasm. Tongues did wag, especially below stairs, and the last thing Davenport needed was gossip spreading behind his back. He could see it now; "The Curbishley son is ever-so fond of that footman..." As he returned to the library his only thought of consolation was Davenport's promise of a meeting. Twelve o'clock, he had said. Glancing at the grandfather clock, standing proud and tall in the corner of the room, Roger counted the six hours until they could finally be alone. It was with that thought in mind that Roger settled down in his chair and began to read his book once more.
His eyes scanned the pages, but by the end of the chapter Roger realised he hadn't read a word.
---
The overpowering scent of woodsmoke, a bonfire left to flicker out nearby, permeated through the drizzle as Roger leant against the mossy wall and inhaled a drag of his cigarette. He'd placed a oil-lamp on the windowsill; the light it cast bounced oddly on the roof outside, illuminating the light rain which fell against the dark canvas of midnight. He waited silently, enjoying the refreshing coolness on his face, the crisp, warmth of the house slowly washing away from his skin.
"Psst? Roger?"
Roger turned with a smile, throwing his cigarette down on the wet gravel of the roof. Taking Davenport's hand, Roger went to the window and helped his friend crawl room the small space, out into the wide expanse beyond.
"Didn't know if you'd be here. I went to check in your room, before remembering that ma'am is coming in late from one of her meetings."
"Oh yes, mother did say something about that. Don't worry, she'll be in by now." Roger grinned and pulled Davenport into his arms, placing a solid kiss on his lips. "Hello."
"Alright?" Davenport replied, pressing his lips against Roger's once more. "How's you?"
"Wonderful." Pulling Davenport into the shelter of an overhanging gutter, Roger buried his hands into his pockets and drew out a cigarette case, putting two in his mouth and lighting them with a match. Flicking the match to the ground, Roger withdrew one of the cigarettes from his parted lips and handed it to Davenport, smiling at the relief on the young man's face.
"Thanks," he replied, leaning against the wall and exhaling sharply.
"How are you, more to the point? Did cook hang, draw and quarter you?"
"Almost. At least she didn't ask me to go out into the rain again."
"Yes, I only feel half bad about you being here with me now." Smile caught in shadows and the light of the lamp, Roger leaned in and kissed Davenport's neck tenderly. His breath was warm against the skin of his throat; gently his tongue sought the taste of salt and rain, teeth lightly scraping Davenport's earlobe as he pulled away.
"Bloody hell, Roger. Do that again and I'll never complain about a day again."
The taste and smell of smoke mingled with the rain and bonfire as the two men slid against the wall, shoulders resting against each other as they sat on the damp tiles. Throwing his coat over their knees, Roger drew his arm around Davenport's shoulders and held him to his side as they talked about their days. The rain came and went in waves, light patches making it easy to forget how soaked through they were. It was worth it, Roger reasoned to himself, for the small space of time which belonged to solely them.
He tried not to feel too guilty each time he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Davenport sniff heartily. Roger could feel him shivering against his chest, the wetness of their shirts barely noticeable. Kissing his damp hair, Roger pulled away from Davenport as he stood up, and offered a hand in a gesture for Davenport to do the same.
"I miss the summer," Davenport said a little sleepily, hugging Roger goodnight before going for the window. Unable to resist, Roger caught his hand and turned him around, backing him against the window so that his rear rested on the frame. Slowly, Roger stole another kiss from wet lips, enjoying the feel of Davenport's smile against his lips, the feel of his groin against Roger's thigh.
"I miss freedom," Roger muttered, his hand running through Davenport's curling hair.
"Get Perkins to invite us somewhere then. He knows what the score is, he'll understand."
"Oh, will he now?" Roger's eyebrow was raised in a neat arch, his mouth curved in wry amusement.
"Yeah." Davenport's smile suddenly faded, the oil-lamp making his features look harsh, guarded. "I really do wish every day was like that week we went to Devon."
Kissing the bridge of Davenport's nose, Roger nodded thoughtfully. "Hm. It would be delightful. Here's to the future, my love, and that which seems unobtainable at present."
"This ain't unobtainable though, is it?" A hand went to Roger's thigh, further up, until his breath caught.
"James, you're going to make us catch our death out here," he whispered, voice low yet surprisingly steady.
Slipping his hands around Roger's waist, Davenport pulled his closer and threw his head back, grinning upwards into the rain before looking at Roger.
"Oh--" he said softly. "It'll be worth it."
---
It seemed strange for Davenport not to be at breakfast, stranger still that he didn't appear for morning tea, and lunch in the conservatory. Roger did his best to look nonchalant as he eyed the room over his newspaper. He frowned upon not seeing the footman, wondering what had happened between their night-time tryst and morning light. Folding the paper over and placing it in his lap, Roger glanced out at the garden, such a change from the weather of the day before, to the dying tulips and the sun-dappled grass beneath the trees. All of it seemed dull somehow, as though the day had no right in being cheerful when Roger was certainly and most utterly not.
"Have you noticed a distinct lack in numbers in the servant department?" he remarked to his mother, reaching for a plate of sandwiches and hurrying one into his mouth in a distinctly vulgar fashion. He chewed moodily, taking out his wrath on the tuna and cucumber.
"Pardon?"
"One of the footman, you know the one. Davenport," Roger added, trying to sound as though the name wasn't as familiar to him as his own.
"Oh yes, Davenport. He's not serving today, darling."
When she didn't offer him further information, Roger put down his sandwich (fear of getting the furniture dirty, one which stemmed from months of scowling looks from Davenport, had left Roger with the sense to place food down when feeling unsteady) and prompted his mother to continue with a look.
"Why not?"
"He has a cold."
Roger regarded the heat coming through the conservatory windows, wilting the potted begonias, and felt his brow crease in confusion. "A cold?"
"Yes, dear."
"Well, he's no right in getting a cold."
"Roger, dear, I do think you're being a little unreasonable on the boy," his mother said, long-suffering as usual. "He was out in the rain all day yesterday. He was bound to get ill sooner or later. As long as he stays to himself I say we leave the boy recover, don't you?"
"Ill? Are you sure?" Sighing, and suddenly not feeling much like sandwiches, Roger stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm going for a walk," he announced, striding out of the room without a backwards glance, barely hearing the vague acknowledgement of his mother behind him.
He tapped his leg nervously as he walks down the corridors which connect the main house to the servants quarters, barely noticing any of the servants who happen to be in his way. When he got to Davenport's room he gave a sharp rap of the knuckles on the door before bursting inside without so much as a welcome.
"What's all this I hear about you being ill? Why are you ill? How bad are you? What--" Roger paused when he saw Davenport curled into himself, his held tilted back to gain some relief from the blocked nose which he suffered.
"Will you be quiet?"
"Oh God, are you dying? Shall I fetch someone?" Hurrying to the bedside, Roger sat on the edge and took Davenport's fingers in his - he was promptly shaken off as Davenport reclaimed his hand with an indignant scowl.
"Did you not hear the quiet bit? My head is thumping and I don't need you coming along and making it-- Roger, Roger what are you doing?" Davenport eyed Roger's hand warily as it came closer and closer to his forehead. "Roger?"
"I'm checking your temperature," Roger explained, placing his palm on the clammy skin of Davenport's forehead. After a few seconds of no reaction, Roger's shoulders dropped in defeat. "I don't know what you should feel like," he admitted sheepishly. "Probably slightly cooler than you are, though. Mind you, it's a sunny day outside. You should come and see it. I think you should get well now."
"If it worked like that don't you think I'd be outside already?" Davenport blew his nose into a well-used tissue and fell back into the pillows again with a soft thump. "God, I feel rotten."
"Do you need a doctor? I can get you a--"
"Roger. Shh." Davenport weakly placed his fingers on Roger's lips and shook his head. "Quiet, remember?"
"I told you to not stay outside without a coat. Didn't I tell you--?"
"Roger, I hardly think I'm going to listen to anything you say when you've got me pressed against a rooftop wall." Davenport smiled half-heartedly, remembering the damp evening before. "It was worth it."
Suppressing a grin, Roger smoothed his hand through Davenport's hair, rubbing a thumb over his eyes. Crumbs of sleep fell from his eyelashes.
"Let me stay with you," Roger whispered soothingly, shifting slightly on the bed.
"Nah, you can't. It'll look odd, won't it?" Trying in vain to control a wracking cough, Davenport sat a little more upright and sniffed. "Wish you could," he mumbled, the admission of wanting someone close startling Roger into a panic once more.
"I can! I will," he replied quickly. "Yes, I'll--"
"Roger. Please. I'm not dying. I'm pretty sure I'm going to live passed the age of twenty-five. So if you don't mind--" Davenport pointed toward the door and smiled weakly. "Thanks alot."
Roger was torn; if he stayed if would mean trouble for the both of them, if he left it would be trouble for his sanity. He chose the latter over the former, figuring that Davenport had enough to be getting on with, without disgrace to his reputation.
"I'll be back later." Letting some of the resentment he felt slip into his voice, Roger stood up. "I will. You better be well by the time I get back or--"
Looking down, Roger saw that Davenport's mouth was parted slightly, his breath rasping but still sounding like the unmistakable sound of one who is asleep. Smiling softly to himself Roger bent over and kissed Davenport on the forehead, pulling the covers over his chest and tucking the edges in around his sleeping body.
"Night, James," he murmured. "Get well soon."
autumn
p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii. ix.
Eddison Manor
October, 1924
A crack of thunder set the plates rattling in the library as Roger sat in his chair, reading King Lear and wondering if Edmund really knew what he was letting himself in for. One woman had always proved too much for Roger; two seemed nightmarish. Glancing out of the window, Roger stared dolefully at the rain streaking the windows grey. The weather was apt for the British summertime, certainly not for the crisp Autumn which he had predicted, and with vague dread he wondered when at last the misty mornings of winter would steal in.
A bedraggled figure in the distance caught Roger's eye. With a fluid movement he placed his book on the arm of his chair and walked deftly over to the windowsill. Leaning against the wall, Roger narrowed his eyes; through the window of rain he could see a man walking up the drive, holding himself awkwardly. Frowning slightly, Roger left the window to move towards the entrance hall, surprised when the door suddenly opened and the drenched creature stumbled in, the lights of the hall making his shadow flicker madly on the wall behind.
"Hullo?" Roger said slowly, then again upon realising who it was; "Hullo, you! Are you alright?"
"Bloody wet," came the muffled response of Davenport as he unwrapped himself from the mackintosh clinging to his wet skin.
"What on earth have you been doing?"
Roger's question was answered with a thrust of string beans to his abdominal region. Giving a little "oof" of surprise, Roger held the vegetables as Davenport shook his hair like a wet dog.
"I'm sure I'm not meant to be doing this," he muttered under his breath. "Only cook's in a foul mood with me after turning up late yesterday morning."
"Sorry about that," Roger replied, with a grin that didn't look the least bit apologetic.
"Davenport!"
"Oh hell!" Snatching the beans from Roger's limp grip, Davenport stood to attention as Miss Chandrakala came bustling into the hall. "See you later? Twelve, usual place," Davenport managed to whisper, just before Chandrakala's voice boomed through the entrance hall.
"Have you got the--?" She paused abruptly, noticing the dripping raincoat slung over Davenport's arm. "You're getting the wood floor soaked, boy! Use your head, use your head! Into the kitchen with you!" As if only just noticing Roger, the housekeeper suddenly paused her tirade to offer a nod to her master.
"Good evening, Sir. I'm sorry about the--"
"It's alright, Miss See. I was just chatting to Davenport here. Is it really his duty to--?"
"Begging your pardon, Sir. I have to get to the kitchen." Taking a chance, Davenport cast a warning look at his friend and left the hall for the coldness of the lower levels. Roger felt his cheery smile slowly disappearing to that place where all cheer disappeared whenever he felt pain for his lover. He'd been foolish, trying to protect the young man. One day his gentlemanly nature would get them both in trouble.
"I'm sorry, Sir. I'll get this sorted."
"Really, it's no bother. If I'd come in I would've made three times the mess."
Eyeing Roger warily, Chandrakala turned away towards the kitchens. Silently, Roger cursed his own enthusiasm. Tongues did wag, especially below stairs, and the last thing Davenport needed was gossip spreading behind his back. He could see it now; "The Curbishley son is ever-so fond of that footman..." As he returned to the library his only thought of consolation was Davenport's promise of a meeting. Twelve o'clock, he had said. Glancing at the grandfather clock, standing proud and tall in the corner of the room, Roger counted the six hours until they could finally be alone. It was with that thought in mind that Roger settled down in his chair and began to read his book once more.
His eyes scanned the pages, but by the end of the chapter Roger realised he hadn't read a word.
---
The overpowering scent of woodsmoke, a bonfire left to flicker out nearby, permeated through the drizzle as Roger leant against the mossy wall and inhaled a drag of his cigarette. He'd placed a oil-lamp on the windowsill; the light it cast bounced oddly on the roof outside, illuminating the light rain which fell against the dark canvas of midnight. He waited silently, enjoying the refreshing coolness on his face, the crisp, warmth of the house slowly washing away from his skin.
"Psst? Roger?"
Roger turned with a smile, throwing his cigarette down on the wet gravel of the roof. Taking Davenport's hand, Roger went to the window and helped his friend crawl room the small space, out into the wide expanse beyond.
"Didn't know if you'd be here. I went to check in your room, before remembering that ma'am is coming in late from one of her meetings."
"Oh yes, mother did say something about that. Don't worry, she'll be in by now." Roger grinned and pulled Davenport into his arms, placing a solid kiss on his lips. "Hello."
"Alright?" Davenport replied, pressing his lips against Roger's once more. "How's you?"
"Wonderful." Pulling Davenport into the shelter of an overhanging gutter, Roger buried his hands into his pockets and drew out a cigarette case, putting two in his mouth and lighting them with a match. Flicking the match to the ground, Roger withdrew one of the cigarettes from his parted lips and handed it to Davenport, smiling at the relief on the young man's face.
"Thanks," he replied, leaning against the wall and exhaling sharply.
"How are you, more to the point? Did cook hang, draw and quarter you?"
"Almost. At least she didn't ask me to go out into the rain again."
"Yes, I only feel half bad about you being here with me now." Smile caught in shadows and the light of the lamp, Roger leaned in and kissed Davenport's neck tenderly. His breath was warm against the skin of his throat; gently his tongue sought the taste of salt and rain, teeth lightly scraping Davenport's earlobe as he pulled away.
"Bloody hell, Roger. Do that again and I'll never complain about a day again."
The taste and smell of smoke mingled with the rain and bonfire as the two men slid against the wall, shoulders resting against each other as they sat on the damp tiles. Throwing his coat over their knees, Roger drew his arm around Davenport's shoulders and held him to his side as they talked about their days. The rain came and went in waves, light patches making it easy to forget how soaked through they were. It was worth it, Roger reasoned to himself, for the small space of time which belonged to solely them.
He tried not to feel too guilty each time he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Davenport sniff heartily. Roger could feel him shivering against his chest, the wetness of their shirts barely noticeable. Kissing his damp hair, Roger pulled away from Davenport as he stood up, and offered a hand in a gesture for Davenport to do the same.
"I miss the summer," Davenport said a little sleepily, hugging Roger goodnight before going for the window. Unable to resist, Roger caught his hand and turned him around, backing him against the window so that his rear rested on the frame. Slowly, Roger stole another kiss from wet lips, enjoying the feel of Davenport's smile against his lips, the feel of his groin against Roger's thigh.
"I miss freedom," Roger muttered, his hand running through Davenport's curling hair.
"Get Perkins to invite us somewhere then. He knows what the score is, he'll understand."
"Oh, will he now?" Roger's eyebrow was raised in a neat arch, his mouth curved in wry amusement.
"Yeah." Davenport's smile suddenly faded, the oil-lamp making his features look harsh, guarded. "I really do wish every day was like that week we went to Devon."
Kissing the bridge of Davenport's nose, Roger nodded thoughtfully. "Hm. It would be delightful. Here's to the future, my love, and that which seems unobtainable at present."
"This ain't unobtainable though, is it?" A hand went to Roger's thigh, further up, until his breath caught.
"James, you're going to make us catch our death out here," he whispered, voice low yet surprisingly steady.
Slipping his hands around Roger's waist, Davenport pulled his closer and threw his head back, grinning upwards into the rain before looking at Roger.
"Oh--" he said softly. "It'll be worth it."
---
It seemed strange for Davenport not to be at breakfast, stranger still that he didn't appear for morning tea, and lunch in the conservatory. Roger did his best to look nonchalant as he eyed the room over his newspaper. He frowned upon not seeing the footman, wondering what had happened between their night-time tryst and morning light. Folding the paper over and placing it in his lap, Roger glanced out at the garden, such a change from the weather of the day before, to the dying tulips and the sun-dappled grass beneath the trees. All of it seemed dull somehow, as though the day had no right in being cheerful when Roger was certainly and most utterly not.
"Have you noticed a distinct lack in numbers in the servant department?" he remarked to his mother, reaching for a plate of sandwiches and hurrying one into his mouth in a distinctly vulgar fashion. He chewed moodily, taking out his wrath on the tuna and cucumber.
"Pardon?"
"One of the footman, you know the one. Davenport," Roger added, trying to sound as though the name wasn't as familiar to him as his own.
"Oh yes, Davenport. He's not serving today, darling."
When she didn't offer him further information, Roger put down his sandwich (fear of getting the furniture dirty, one which stemmed from months of scowling looks from Davenport, had left Roger with the sense to place food down when feeling unsteady) and prompted his mother to continue with a look.
"Why not?"
"He has a cold."
Roger regarded the heat coming through the conservatory windows, wilting the potted begonias, and felt his brow crease in confusion. "A cold?"
"Yes, dear."
"Well, he's no right in getting a cold."
"Roger, dear, I do think you're being a little unreasonable on the boy," his mother said, long-suffering as usual. "He was out in the rain all day yesterday. He was bound to get ill sooner or later. As long as he stays to himself I say we leave the boy recover, don't you?"
"Ill? Are you sure?" Sighing, and suddenly not feeling much like sandwiches, Roger stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm going for a walk," he announced, striding out of the room without a backwards glance, barely hearing the vague acknowledgement of his mother behind him.
He tapped his leg nervously as he walks down the corridors which connect the main house to the servants quarters, barely noticing any of the servants who happen to be in his way. When he got to Davenport's room he gave a sharp rap of the knuckles on the door before bursting inside without so much as a welcome.
"What's all this I hear about you being ill? Why are you ill? How bad are you? What--" Roger paused when he saw Davenport curled into himself, his held tilted back to gain some relief from the blocked nose which he suffered.
"Will you be quiet?"
"Oh God, are you dying? Shall I fetch someone?" Hurrying to the bedside, Roger sat on the edge and took Davenport's fingers in his - he was promptly shaken off as Davenport reclaimed his hand with an indignant scowl.
"Did you not hear the quiet bit? My head is thumping and I don't need you coming along and making it-- Roger, Roger what are you doing?" Davenport eyed Roger's hand warily as it came closer and closer to his forehead. "Roger?"
"I'm checking your temperature," Roger explained, placing his palm on the clammy skin of Davenport's forehead. After a few seconds of no reaction, Roger's shoulders dropped in defeat. "I don't know what you should feel like," he admitted sheepishly. "Probably slightly cooler than you are, though. Mind you, it's a sunny day outside. You should come and see it. I think you should get well now."
"If it worked like that don't you think I'd be outside already?" Davenport blew his nose into a well-used tissue and fell back into the pillows again with a soft thump. "God, I feel rotten."
"Do you need a doctor? I can get you a--"
"Roger. Shh." Davenport weakly placed his fingers on Roger's lips and shook his head. "Quiet, remember?"
"I told you to not stay outside without a coat. Didn't I tell you--?"
"Roger, I hardly think I'm going to listen to anything you say when you've got me pressed against a rooftop wall." Davenport smiled half-heartedly, remembering the damp evening before. "It was worth it."
Suppressing a grin, Roger smoothed his hand through Davenport's hair, rubbing a thumb over his eyes. Crumbs of sleep fell from his eyelashes.
"Let me stay with you," Roger whispered soothingly, shifting slightly on the bed.
"Nah, you can't. It'll look odd, won't it?" Trying in vain to control a wracking cough, Davenport sat a little more upright and sniffed. "Wish you could," he mumbled, the admission of wanting someone close startling Roger into a panic once more.
"I can! I will," he replied quickly. "Yes, I'll--"
"Roger. Please. I'm not dying. I'm pretty sure I'm going to live passed the age of twenty-five. So if you don't mind--" Davenport pointed toward the door and smiled weakly. "Thanks alot."
Roger was torn; if he stayed if would mean trouble for the both of them, if he left it would be trouble for his sanity. He chose the latter over the former, figuring that Davenport had enough to be getting on with, without disgrace to his reputation.
"I'll be back later." Letting some of the resentment he felt slip into his voice, Roger stood up. "I will. You better be well by the time I get back or--"
Looking down, Roger saw that Davenport's mouth was parted slightly, his breath rasping but still sounding like the unmistakable sound of one who is asleep. Smiling softly to himself Roger bent over and kissed Davenport on the forehead, pulling the covers over his chest and tucking the edges in around his sleeping body.
"Night, James," he murmured. "Get well soon."