Chapter Text
Maurice’s perspective:
I feel sick. Sick of myself, sick of these desires that are supposedly so wicked. Sick of the reverend and his sly digs, always voicing an odd concern for me - as if I am some sort of sinner.
Buggar. That’s the most wretched part. I suppose I am sort of sinner. If I am to reference the teachings of the church, the teachings of my school master all those years ago.
I think of Scudder. The way his soft expression juxtaposes his rough hands. And the butterfly wings that crash against my ribcage when he smiles at me from across the grounds of Pendersleigh. The forbidden warmth I feel for him in the pit of my stomach. The nights when I dream of him in ways I know I shouldn’t, envisioning his strong frame buried in my arms. All those years of physical (and emotional) refusal from Clive have left me with a lurking hunger for returned affection. In some ways it horrifies me. In other ways, I desire it more than anything else in the world.
In this moment, I’m grateful that thoughts are private. And can’t be overheard in fragments, by a passing maid, in the way that spoken words can. If anyone was to hear my thoughts right now, I’d be locked in a dark room for sure. Branded sick in the head. Or mad.
~
I bed plan to bed early, feigning a weak excuse to Mrs Durham. Anne and Clive are away for a few days and, whilst she means well, the latter’s mother is not great company - especially when my head in spinning as it is this evening.
But, upon arrival in my room, I am restless. The superstitious of the few would label me possessed. It is though I am overcome with a rage, at myself, and a need that cannot be sustained. I want to shake myself, give myself a talking to. Why can’t I just snap out of this? The hypnotist in London seems just as stumped as I am. Perhaps I am incurable.
Sleep finds me eventually, although broken and disturbed, wrought with snippets of dreams. There is Alec, as there usually is, his expression thoughtful. I reach out to him but the scene ripples like water and I am back at home with my mother and sisters. Mother is crying. The scene ripples again. And I am alone, in an unfurnished room. The room is cold. I am isolated. The walls are closing in.
I awake, jolted.
It feels as though I am in some feverish state, as I drift down the hallway, down the stairs - floating almost. My mind is still buzzing with thoughts, crackling like flames. I intend to dampen the fire.
I’m cautious of lurking maids, perhaps carrying out their own mischief in these early hours. But it becomes apparent that I am entirely alone in the downstairs part of the house.
In the shabby sitting room (Clive really should get this place repainted) my clumsy fingers stumble upon the liquor cabinet. I am already damned - what would be the harm in damning myself further?
~
I drink from the brandy bottle in great, greedy gulps, as though it is spring water and I am parched. Each sip seems to fill my head with cotton wool instead of thoughts - a welcome change.
By the time I have edged my way out of the kitchen door, slippered feet making contact with damp grass, I have overindulged.