Chapter Text
THEN
***
Breakfast was the closest thing to torture he’d ever experienced.
Set in the main house, the table was rich with dry meats, and fruits, and cheeses, but Fabien couldn’t bring himself to swallow more than a few bites of the fresh honey bread. In the familiar setting, Mother’s empty chair and her hollows eyes staring at him from up on the painted wall were bad enough, but her presence made it almost unbearable.
She wasn’t even showing just yet. She was early, and it was in bad form to speak of, and yet, she had an army of servants fussing over her, with his father as their enthusiastic general. Never mind she was young enough to be his daughter. Never mind it was in poor taste to remarry this fast, as though to show the world he was rich enough now to take a wife he actually liked. Never mind she’d been busy enough over the last couple of months, apparently, erasing all signs of Mother’s presence on the estate. The lady was, also, expecting. One had to wonder when she’d found the time.
Fabien lifted his eyes from the plate, stealing a glance at her. It still felt unreal that this girl, with her flaxen curls, her red ribbons and frills, was now the mistress of the house, and the complete focus of his hate.
She caught his glance, and smiled oh-so-sweetly.
“Are you alright, Fabien?
“Perfectly, lady. Why?”
“You’re not eating,” she observed, tilting her head to look up at him with her huge, vestal eyes. “You’re not still angry with me, are you? It was the smell, you see. I cannot stand it, in my state. I did not imagine a man would care for such things. I wouldn’t have touched the roses, had I known.”
Fabien wisely steeled himself against lashing out. When she’d first moved on the estate from the capital, Mother had felt she was moving to the end of the world. To cheer her up, Grandfather had sent a gift one day: twelve rose bushes, and a gardener to look after them. Mother had spent a great deal of her time grooming the blooms: scented tea shrubs, cooper blossoms, fifty-petal peach climbers, and huge, purple and red grandifloras, enveloping the house in a swoon of fragrance. The garden had only grown once Fabien had left for the university. And yesterday, the new lady had ordered them cut off.
“Of course, not, lady. You wouldn’t.” Fabien mirrored her earlier smile. If only this were his table, and his house, but they weren’t. He owned half of the estate now, and while the situation was still legally complicated, his share did not include the mansion, which had been built by his father. “I could never be angry with you.”
“See, Ellia, you worry for nothing,” the lord intervened. If anything, he looked pleasantly surprised. “And you know you shouldn’t, now, dear. Even though, in truth, Fabien, you did cause quite a scene.”
He’d had. Having waken up to noise, and gushing water, and the strong scent of roses and crushed leaves, he’d stumbled to the window, only to witness the devastation: Wide circles had been dug around the bushes, and pruned blooming branches covered the dump earth, already crumpled and wrinkled in the heat. Fabien stormed out of the house in a fit of rage, throwing insults and threats at the man he saw there with the spade in his hands. When his screaming attracted the overseer, the explanation that it was by the lady’s order only fuelled his rage.
“I want them moved.” He forced his teeth to unclench, just enough to spit out the words. “By the old cottage. Whatever can be saved. And once it’s done, that –”
He waved his hand in the vague direction of the gardener, who waited, frozen in place in the middle of the disaster he’d caused. “He goes on the post, for those which cannot. Six lashes, for each damaged bush.”
The overseer had gone pale. “Lord, that’s very harsh. Perhaps deadly. I would -”
“Good.” He suddenly craved pain, and blood, suffering – Ellia’s, but since he couldn’t have that, at least, someone else’s, as long as it was different from his.
“But he’s valuable, lord, educated. Please, will you -”
“Shall I make it twelve?” Fabien barked. “You wish to join him, maybe?”
The man had no longer tried to plead with him after that. He’d just stood there, by his side, as Fabien rubbed the back of his hand over his burning eyes, telling himself it was sweat he was wiping away. He’d missed Mother’s funeral. He was too far away, and the epidemic was still raging; and, so, he’d been a coward, keeping his distance until it was safe to come back again.
Now, the rose garden looked just like a grave: all damp earth and dug-up mud worms, twisting and crawling in a futile attempt to escape sunlight. He vengefully crushed one under the sole of his boot, and his empty stomach protested at the sight of the reddish, slimy pulp. Fabien closed his eyes against the wave of nausea. Was this place he’d called home only one of ruin and rot? He bit into his lips, and forced his eyes open. He caught movement to the side, and turned on instinct. And then, Fabien saw – really saw – the gardener.
He stood tall, and bare-chest, surrounded by a halo of dark curls, holding his spade like a god-sent messenger of chaos. His handsome face, all sharp lines and high cheekbones, was entirely expressionless, as though the discussion did not concern him in the least, or Fabien hadn’t just sealed his fate. Only his eyes smouldered, flaks of gold floating in a sea of complete darkness, so arresting it took Fabien a moment to realize he was more of a boy, around his age or, perhaps, a year of so older. Almost instantly, those eyes fell away from his, and the gardener resumed working, his fingers curling tightly around the spade. He moved with precision, lean muscles shifting and tensing with effort under an expanse of golden skin. His arms and hands, Fabian noted, were scratched by the thorns, and drops of blood oozed lazily from the puncture wounds.
“Well, Fabien?”
His father’s voice no longer sounded pleased. Lost inside his mind, his answer had taken too long. “I apologize,” Fabien said quickly. “I overreacted. They’d woken me up, and I was in a bad mood.”
“Quite a lot of those lately, Fabien.”
“I’m sorry, sir. May I be excused? I’m not really hungry. I stayed up reading last night, and had a late dinner.”
The lord searched his face closely, but Fabien held his gaze, innocently.
“Reading? Are you returning to the university?”
“Not this year, sir. Perhaps in the spring, after everything is resolved.”
“What is there to resolve?” The lord’s brows went up, and then down again, over freezing blue eyes that were very much like his. “Or are you thinking of splitting the estate?”
“I’m not thinking anything, sir,” Fabien said, which, for once, was true. Yet. “Enjoy your meal, lady. Lord.”
He left them, pretending not to notice the ever-deepening frown on his father’s face. He’d never been happy over Fabien’s studies, insisting to make a landlord out of him, for Fabien to taughen up and lern the hard way the things required to properly ran an estate. But Father had not been able to stand up to Mother and Grandfather, who’d championed for a carrier in law and, later on, politics. It was ironic that, with both of them out of the way, currently his only interest in Fabien was seeing him gone. He had another child coming, and, surely, he was hoping for a son. The disappointment was no longer required. His only worry now was that perhaps Fabian might decide on selling off his share.
He had that option; or, he could leave things as they were, and go back. Father would manage things, and he would receive his yearly share of gold, and carry on with his life in the capital, with the work he enjoyed, and the parties, and the occasional lovers. If only he would make up his mind, but something was holding him back. It wasn’t just the weeks-long trip; but, rather, a strange feeling that, were he to leave now, there’d be no more “home” to come back to. Maybe there was no longer one, already; but, at least, he wasn’t lost, all alone out there, in the world.
He didn’t care to dwell on the feeling, but it still kept him up at night. He had lied about reading. Everything was lies, lately, and this sense he couldn’t shake that he’d been suddenly left anchorless. He could not afford a false step with his father now, hence, he could not afford antagonizing Ellia. He had no other link to his past. So, he’d stayed up late, thinking about all that; and his mother’s roses, and the black-eyed boy.
He’d waited in the sun yesterday, watching him as he worked, carefully taking out the remaining bushes and preparing them to be moved. He’d hoped for a reaction – to the harsh heat, to the harsher work, to Fabian’s gratuitous malice, or to Fabien himself, but there had been none.
Nothing at all to give him an excuse, not even when the other boy’s moves had turned sluggish, losing some of their perfunctory grace. In the end, Fabien had given up, instructing the overseer to provide water, and order breaks.
“You were right, he knows what he’s doing. Just see that he gets the work done, and let him be after that.”
That should have fixed it. Still, he could not sleep. He could not eat. It was as if he couldn’t think – of anything else. Fabien walked out of the house, rushed without looking through the tranches were the rose garden had been, and headed towards the old cottage, almost in spite of himself.