Fic: Keepsake
Title: Keepsake
Fandom: D.K. Broster’s The Jacobite Trilogy (characters from The Flight of the Heron and The Gleam in the North)
Word count: 1200
Rating: PG
AN: For lukadreaming (with a respectful nod towards her grandmother) because it is her birthday and because she likes the books. I hope this makes sense - for it certainly won’t to anyone else - and doesn’t actually ruin the story for you! I’ve tried to match style and sentiment so this is something of a canon extra.
AN2: This fic is multitasking as ‘chosen family’ for trope bingo.
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KEEPSAKE
Mr Francis, Viscount Aveling, was at the stables early as Masters had known he would be. The boy was sensitive that way and had instinctively sought out the one person in the Stowe household who both understand something of his feelings and before whom he could allow himself to show emotion.
Today was Keith Windham’s birthday. It was just over a year since his death.
Lady Stowe would make a great show of being affected by the date and the consequent painful reminders of her firstborn and her remaining son would not wish to cause his mother further upset. Lord Stowe, though a good man in himself, could not be expected to grieve over-much over the death of a stepson. It was different for Francis who had always looked up to his half-brother, and for Masters, who had known Mr Keith since the day of his birth.
Tears prickled in the back of Masters’ eyes and he blinked them away fiercely concentrating all his attention on grooming the coat of the bay mare. Patience, she was called, though a less fair-tempered filly it was hard to imagine. The horse had been Keith’s mount during the rare times he was in London. She was now the property of Mr Francis although as yet considered too strong and wayward to be entrusted with carrying the heir to an earldom.
“Let me help,” said Francis, taking the curry comb from Masters’ cracked hands. Grooming wasn’t seemly work for a gentleman but Masters did not attempt to stop the young lord. A man should never be too proud to look after his own horse.
Patience settled somewhat under the regular strokes along her sides and flanks. She was a pretty creature with good even colouring and a high stepping, if wayward, gait. The horse was fickle as any woman but docile when handled right, thought Masters, with the masculine complacency of one who had never been married.
Mr Keith had had ill-luck with the ladies. Beginning with the indifference of his beautiful mother, as he’d grown into manhood, he seemed to seek out women of similar cold inclination whose pretty exteriors and honeyed words added up to nothing but empty promises. Perhaps Keith asked too much, thought Masters, with the sudden unwonted clarity of hindsight. Not that he would ever had voiced such thoughts out loud even should the opportunity have arisen. It was not his place. Keith had had a temper and would have swiftly silenced any unasked for commentary on his affairs. But over the years Masters had watched his young charge change. The boyish good humour had shaded into cynical jesting, the clear gaze hooded, and the smile twisted with self-mockery. When pressed, Keith asserted that he was not unhappy rather he refuted that such a state as happiness existed.
And yet, whatever his personal disappointments, Keith had never failed in his kindness and consideration for Masters - even going so far as to instruct Mr Francis to look out for Masters’ well-being while Keith was away with his regiment.
Her ‘sun child’ and her ‘moon child’ Lady Stowe had dubbed her children with unconscious appositeness and intending all the flattery to go to the younger boy of her second marriage. But the moon, capricious as she is, holds more of the power of enchantment than her brighter daytime sister so that those caught in her silvery toils can never quite be free. It was true that Mr Francis was affable and engaging from first meeting. And yet, Keith, who could be surly and difficult as often as not, could shine as brightly.
“I miss my brother,” remarked Francis, still working the comb rhythmically on the restive horse. His voice was breaking, now high, now low, without conscious intent or control. But just now he had sounded like Keith’s twin.
“Aye,” said Masters speaking with difficulty.
“I know you miss him too,” Francis went on. “It brings me comfort to spend this day with someone who cared for him as much as I do.”
“Aye,” said Masters again, for he did not trust his voice not to tremble with any longer speech. He must be strong for Mr Francis - both for Francis’s own and for his brother’s sake.
“I try not to dwell on Keith’s death but it grieves me that we could not bring his body home and honour him with a proper burial.”
“You did what you could,” said Masters. This was true. It was common knowledge below stairs that young Mr Francis had been passionate in his entreaties that an expedition be mounted to bring his brother’s body home from where it lay on the sands of Morar. This had not proved possible with Scotland still in such a state of unrest. In the end, Keith was buried where he fell and his family had had to content themselves with a small box of personal effects sent by Lord Albermarle from Fort Augustus.
The Windham signet ring was not included in the box. Keith had worn that ring at all times. From the moment he had inherited it from his father Master’s had not seen his finger bare. It was like a blow to Masters even now to think of the circlet of gold displayed like a hunting trophy on the finger of some Highland savage.
There was some mystery surrounding the death but where facts were not available the imagination filled the gaps. Masters knew that Mr Keith had been killed by a single stab wound and prayed that it had been a quick death and that Mr Keith’s soul had found peace. And, if his spirit wandered unquiet, then that it haunted the soft English countryside of his childhood and not some hard and alien landscape far from home.
“Your brother would be proud of you,” said Masters now laying a brief hand on Francis’ slim shoulder. He moved to fetch fresh hay to fill in the troughs at the front of the stalls.
“I hope so!” said Mr Francis, adding with a glimmer of humour. “He’ll be even more proud when I finally ride Patience. This year, for sure!”
Masters grinned. The boy had spirit. “We’ll see,” he said.
Francis’ smile faded. “I wish..” he began. “I wish I had my brother’s ring. It grieves me that I shall never know its fate. Perhaps it was buried with Keith. That would be fitting for he never took it off. I do not like to think of it adorning the hand of an enemy.”
For a moment Masters was startled that their thoughts had run on such similar tracks. These were ugly thoughts filled with futile anger and desire for revenge. He did not wish to add to the boy’s distress and made his tone light. “Perhaps Mr Keith gave it away himself, my lord, as a token. Perhaps even now his signet warms the hand of someone he loved.”
“Perhaps,” said Francis. “It’s good to think so.”
There was a small silence. The horses breathing sounded heavy in the warm stables. Outside it had begun to rain and the drops landed in steady formation against the tiled roof. Francis spoke again. “Someone he loved and who loved him in return.”
*