Chapter Text
Around the fifth round of praise for one, Billy Gibson, Charles finds himself unable to handle any more.
“I’m going to ask Mr. Pilkington to teach me Chinese.” He shouts, rather reticent to say anymore at the reproachful look from his governor, Mr. Alexander McDonald.
Mr. Morfin, Billy’s father, pays the comment no real mind.
Instead, he responds, “Do you think Billy could read Chinese? I-no. I’m most certain he could. Billy can be equal to anything. Did I mention he is halfway through his list of reading almost 100 titles?”
Charles shares a small, knowing smile with Mr. McDonald and feigns a yawn.
Mr. Morfin continues talking about Billy and Charles continues to pretend to listen, wishing to be in the afternoon sun once more.
Upon his return home, Charles is pleased to see Mr. Pilkington waiting in the study and his usual and most favorite chair.
He sighs as though the weight of the world were put upon him. “I suppose you’re here to scold me about Mr. Morfin.”
Mr. Pilkington bites his lip.
“I had heard about that, yes.”
“I’m sure Mr. Morfin wasn’t upset,” Mr. Pilkington looks up at Charles at last, “but you should…”
“Be nice to him, yes, yes, I know.”
Charles throws himself onto the couch with the grace of a stone being thrown into a lake.
“That’s what Mr. McDonald keeps telling me.”
Mr. Pilkington makes a noise of approval, while Charles’ tone changes to something frustrated.
“Billy is an orphan and Mr. Morfin has had ill fortune and I try, William, honestly I do.”
He sighs.
“It is only that every week he seems to have another letter from Billy detailing all the new and varied accomplishments he has achieved. And then Mr. Morfin insists on coming here every week to tell us about them.”
Mr. Pilkington stands from his chair then.
“Then, you would do well, Charles, to remember your good fortune whenever you are with Mr. Morfin.”
He leaves then, and it leaves Charles feeling punished despite believing he did nothing wrong.
The feeling passes with ease and he looks at the books on the shelves of their library for a long moment.
“Charles! What are you doing?”
Charles smiles from behind the book in his hand.
“I’m reading, of course. I promised to read 101 titles, so that the next time Billy Gibson writes, I may not seem so lowly in education.”
Mr. Pilkington’s jaw clenches and his eyes roll in fond annoyance.
Charles ignores it.
“See, I have started.”
He moves to stand next to Charles and the book is investigated with mild interest, hands brushing over the title.
“Milton.” Their eyes meet, and Charles looks so excited at the comment.
But Mr. Pilkington shrugs, “Impressive.”
Charles frowns. “It’s only the first on the list. You will see.”
A loud shriek from the gardens behind them pulls their interest.
At once, Charles closes the book with a laugh.
“There they go again. I swear Frederick and Graham are impossible.”
Mr. Pilkington bangs on the window to gain their attention, but his efforts are in vain.
Charles waltzes back toward the couch with a proud smile.
“I am certain that Billy Gibson is not even remotely good at the things I do with proficiency. He may excel at words and music and titles, but people…” He sighs, “… their desires and wants and ambitions. That is my expertise. That is what I would write to father about if I were to ever leave.”
“Really?” Mr. Pilkington asks, voice higher in disbelief, “I doubt you could even tell me if I’ve any hopes and dreams.”
Charles giggles, “You? Not you, silly, you’re not a romantic, William.” He turns to look where Frederick and Graham were now standing much closer. “But my brother and yours?”
He gestures to them with a tip of his head.
“Frederick and Graham?! Absolutely not. They are just close friends.”
“Absolutely yes! Closer and closer. I’ve been cultivating their romance for six months now.”
“Cultivating? Your gardening skills need work, Charles. They have known each as long as you and I. Longer, even.”
“Exactly!” Charles shouts in triumph, “So you can imagine how little pushing in the right direction was needed.”
Charles watches with joy as the man beside him becomes more annoyed.
“If,” he eventually says, “if they like one another. I mean enough to consider marriage. It will only be their wishes, not yours.”
He sighs and turns toward Charles with a smirk.
“But of course, there will be no marriage. You are mistaken, as is the usual case.”
Charles sticks his tongue out in response as the laughter from the garden grows closer.
“I, Frederick Des Voeux, take thee, Graham Gore, to be my wedded husband.”
Charles fights every urge to not to look smug when he meets Mr. Pilkington’s eyes, but he fails.
He walks by his father lamenting, sobbing on and on about how Graham and Freddie were moving all the way to London.
“Might as well be the moon!” He shouts and Charles takes pity on him.
“Please, father, let them go off,” He shares a smile with the newlyweds, “I will look after you like always.”
His father seems to calm then, “Besides, imagine all the fun we will we have without him!”
There is laughter shared among the group and Charles almost misses it as Mr. Pilkington passes him a whisper.
“Lucky guess.”
Charles follows him immediately with a skip in his step.
“Nothing lucky about it, William. Nothing but the purest of talent and knowhow.”
“One can only wonder who will be next.” Mr. Pilkington remarks with disinterest.
Charles opens his mouth to reply exactly who he had his eyes on because not two weeks after he made plans for Frederick and Graham, did he begin making plans for Mr. McDonald and Mr. Blanky who were both far too lonely and too kind to remain without company. Their near constant need to begin conversation once in each other’s presence also gave Charles a hefty clue. Still, his plans were not fully in motion. More work needed to be done.
However, he is interrupted.
“Good Morning, Mr. Best, Mr. Pilkington.”
“Mr. Little!” He tries to hide his reluctancy to talk to the man, but remains polite as is expected, “What a lovely service you provided. We were all very impressed. Weren’t we, Mr. Pilkington?”
Mr. Pilkington just nods beside him and Mr. Little pays him no mind.
“I-I was quite wondering what your favorite parts were, Mr. Best.”
Charles stammers a bit before recovering, “Oh, it was all so lovely. Please! Don’t dare to make me choose.”
He doesn’t miss the knowing smirk from Mr. Pilkington beside him, but doesn’t acknowledge it either.
“One day, I just might!” Mr. Little remarks before Mr. Morfin calls him away.
He sighs, “Duty calls,” and nods at them both in departure.
Charles turns to his friend to continue their conversation when Mr. Blanky approaches them.
“Mr. Best!” He smiles, “Oh, and Mr. Pilkington, one always seems to find one with the other nowadays.”
Charles laughs, “Dear William, is unable to part with my company, though I am happy to add yours. You are far more accepting of my disposition than he.”
“Is that so, Mr. Pilkington? What of Mr. Best’s disposition is such an attack against you?”
There is laughter bubbling up from Charles’ chest at the sudden attention and reddening cheeks of the older man.
It bursts forth into the humid spring air and Mr. Pilkington rolls his eyes before bowing to his own departure without another word.
Mr. Blanky joins in and turns to Charles once Mr. Pilkington is gone.
“Oh, thank you Mr. Blanky. I must assure you. I mean no harm, but Mr. Pilkington makes it far too fun to pull his leg.”
“I rather enjoy it as well. For a reason I cannot place, Mr. Pilkington seems to be intimidated by me.”
Charles laughs again. To think Mr. Blanky was ever intimidating, too humorous to let pass by.
Mr. Blanky grabs his left hand with both of his own.
“No matter, I came to inform you of the developments on the Estate.”
There is a moment of silence.
“Well? Do not leave me in suspense, it is cruel.” Charles demands.
“I have finally secured its purchase!”
“Oh! Congratulations!” Charles pulls the man into a sudden embrace and smiles. “It is such a fine, grand place! And to think we will be neighbors! What does your son think of this news? Surely, this news will bring one, Mr. Cornelius Hickey, home?”
Charles watches Mr. Blanky’s bright smile fall, and he has a moment of regret for letting his perpetual curiosity about Mr. Hickey get the better of him.
“I have written to him already.” It’s sad and a bit dismissive, but Charles takes no offence.
Thunder rumbles around them.
“Oh, come now, Charles, I depart prepared for such things, doubly so for the uncertainty of spring weather.”
“Charles! We must go!” Mr. McDonald shouts from where raindrops have already begun to soak his clothes.
He smiles.
No better time than the present moment to tend to his garden.
“Come, Alexander! Mr. Blanky has brought umbrellas for the walk home!”
Mr. McDonald looks both relieved and uncertain, but quickly dashes over near them where both Mr. Blanky and he have opened their umbrellas.
Mr. Blanky attempts to hand over his, but an idea strikes Charles.
“Oh, no! Mr. Blanky, I will not allow the man who so generously brought two umbrellas to get drenched. Surely you and Mr. Alexander can fit under your larger umbrella. I will return your smaller one upon arrival at Beechey.”
He expressly ignores the reproachful glare from his governor and smiles warmly at the sudden nerves of Mr. Blanky.
“Oh, yes. Oh, that will do. If Mr. McDonald does not object?”
A smile forms in an instant and Charles knows it is reserved only for when Mr. McDonald has Mr. Blanky’s full, undivided attention.
“An objection of your company is one I could never make, Mr. Blanky.”
A blush, ever slightly, dances along Mr. Blanky’s cheeks as the two depart, enmeshed in conversation in an instant.
“It would be my greatest honor to have you at Cornwallis, Mr. McDonald. It is a grand estate and I would much like your opinion about it.”
Charles watches them go with a renewed pride in himself that they would be engaged, if not married, before summer’s end.
Lightning crashes nearby and he hurries himself home before his father would begin to worry he had caught his death.
“No, no! First your brother and now Alexander!” Cries Sir John as Charles sits solemnly against the window.
He was caught in a mess of his own making. Charles wanted nothing more than for Alexander to find love and fortune and happiness. He merely forgot in all the matchmaking that he would lose his friend in the process. For once, he shared his father’s lamenting and dramatics.
“Seventeen years, Charles. Seventeen! He has been with us since you were a boy. After your mother died.”
“Mothers die. A fact no one can refute, father.” He snaps, still uncomfortable after all these years of her mention.
“No, of course,” his father sighs, “But it is a grave misfortune done to him.”
“Misfortune?” Charles laughs. “A husband to love and be loved by? A grand, beautiful house? A chance at a family of his own? If Alexander’s marriage is misfortune, then I am loathed to marry even more, for no greater fortune can be amassed.”
“Good….good,” Mr. Franklin sighs. “I don’t think my heart could bear another loss.”
There is a long silence and Charles sighs against the window but smiles when the rain finally clears and the sun shines on the flowers in his garden.
The wedding is a hot but gorgeous day in early June and even as sweat beads against his temple and Mr. Little looks a moment away from fainting with all his vestments on; it is a most joyous occasion.
“Suppose you think this was your doing, Charles?” Mr. Pilkington whispers from beside him.
Charles smiles, “No.”
Mr. Pilkington’s brow raises.
“I know this was my doing. Orchestrated the entire thing from the moment I saw Mr. Blanky had two umbrellas when Freddie and Graham were wed. It was all set from my insistence they walk together.”
Mr. Pilkington rolls his eyes and says nothing else.
Charles is the first to stand and cheer when the newlyweds share their first kiss as husbands.
“I do worry about Alexander, don’t you, Graham?” Frederick asks as they all stand in a bit of shade for respite.
“What makes you say that?” Charles responds, wishing he did not sound so defensive so quickly. Frederick had never been as close to Alexander as Charles was, and it shows in their difference in devotion to him.
“Well, Alexander is not necessarily young and uprooting his life and moving, leaving you and father, is a concern for all involved.”
Charles crosses his arms, prepared to fully begin an argument with his brother, when Graham states, “Well, you moved all the way to London, dear. Mr. McDonald is only going half a mile. It is scarcely a brisk walk.”
“Of course,” Frederick waves a dismissive hand, “but I never would have left unless Charles was there to leave in charge of Beechey and father. Now there is no one left to tend to Charles.”
Charles rolls his eyes with a heavy, put-upon sigh.
“Wait,” Graham, “So, Charles must never marry?”
Frederick and Charles both share in laughter, “He has no wish to. Further, he has no need to.”
Charles nods as his brother continues, “A spouse might expect to tell him what to do and no one has been able to accomplish such a task. Not Alexander or me or even father. He is far too busy marrying everyone in Somerset together. I half expect to return at Christmas to find Mr. Morfin engaged.”
“Uncle Will! Uncle Will!” Small voices ring out and Charles turns to find Mr. Pilkington laughing playfully as his nieces and nephews tackle him to the ground near the cake.
“Oh Graham, we must stop them before they topple the entire thing over. You know Will has no sense when it comes to them.”
They abandon Charles in a rush to scoop up their daughters and sons and he watches as their parents chase them around the garden.
The newlyweds join him in his observation.
“Never in my life would I have thought Frederick would have four children,” Alexander remarks.
“Well, I would have believed my influence as a younger brother was more than enough to deter his adoption of so many, with rumors of a fifth soon to join them.”
Alexander laughs, good-natured as he’d known them both since they were boys.
Charles turns to Mr. Blanky, “I am so sorry Mr. Hickey could not make it. He has missed a most wonderful day and an even more wonderful cake if it does not melt.”
It was a genuine remark, but Charles watches Mr. Blanky’s smile falls just ever so slightly.
“Yes, my boy. He was terribly sorry to miss today, but with his uncle’s health, he could not be spared.”
Charles sees the sadness in both their eyes as he talks of Cornelius and tries to rectify his comment.
“It makes him all the more mysterious, no? I think he does so with purpose. After all this time, he has not returned? We here in Somerset can only be more and more fascinated by each missed chance and it should make when we do meet that much more special in nature. I am sure he will be present before the leaves begin to change. Absolutely sure.”
Mr. Blanky’s frown gradually turned to a wide, warm smile and he nods in agreeable excitement.
“Come, Thomas. I do believe the little ones might expire if we do not share the cake.”
Charles watches them go, hand in hand, and feels a sudden melancholy that overwhelms him. A most joyous occasion, yet his heart breaks as he watches Alexander begin his new life, the one Charles fought to get him. He’d known, of course, what would happen, but the actual loss of his best friend was something that he never fully realized.
A moment as bittersweet as the chocolate adorning the piece of cake Mr. Pilkington brings him.
“Why the long face, Charles? Finally realizing your actions have consequences?”
It is a petty comment and affects Charles horribly. Still, nothing makes him happier than causing Mr. Pilkington to suffer.
He takes a rather large amount of cream from the slice in his hand and smears it across the smug mouth of his friend beside him.
He holds his laughter, but not his smile, “And what, pray tell, is the consequence for that?”
Cheeks red with anger, Mr. Pilkington storms off. Charles has a sinking feeling he had crossed a line he did not know existed between them, when he notices his friends conspiring quickly with his nieces and nephews.
It is not one moment later he is giggling and shouting, “No please,” as they cover nearly his entire head with cake.
The weight on his hearts lifts, even as the cake melts into his hair.
“Mr. Bridgens, I must say, every time I visit, your library grows.”
The schoolmaster smiles kindly, “An indulgence for both me and the boys here, Mr. Best. One of the few we have. It is good for them to learn as much while they are with us.”
Charles nods, watching as the boys of varied ages mill about the gardens with a slew of different activities, one catching his eyes. Roughly close to Charles age, and not one he had seen when he had last visited in winter.
“Who is that boy, there?” He asks, unafraid to be so bold, especially among Mr. Bridgens who had a reputation to be a bit of a gossip.
“Oh, our dear Mr. Chambers. Some of the boys call him Georgie. Born out of wedlock, parentage unknown to, well everyone we have asked. He has no more an idea of his heritage than I do.”
Charles watches as George reads happily as other, younger boys play a made up game around him. He is handsome, a bit to giddy but altogether pleasant, and an idea strikes Charles.
“Mr. Bridgens, you must join us for dinner tomorrow. It has been far too long and with Mr. McDonald gone, we are in far need of a joyful presence.”
After he agreement to attend, Charles adds, “And do bring Mr. Chambers. It would be lovely to meet him in a proper setting.”
He does not speak of whom else he planned to invite, but all in due time.
“What is this dinner your father demands I attend?” Mr. Pilkington burst in through the garden doors and takes his normal seat next to his father’s empty one.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a meeting of the minds more than anything.” Charles tries to be aloof, forgetting that it works with nearly everyone, except William.
“Oh? Pray tell, what minds would be in attendance, Charles?” He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.
“You and I, father, Mr. Bridgens, Mr. Peglar, Mr. Chambers, Mr. Morfin, and Mr. Little,” he shrugs, “No one of particular importance.”
“Who is Mr. Chambers?” He asks and Charles curses Mr. Pilkington’s attention to detail.
He goes with a half-truth, “An occupant at Mr. Bridgens’. I believe he would make a companion for myself as so many are set to remind me I have lost mine with Alexander’s marriage.”
“So the presence of Mr. Little?”
Charles narrows his eyes, “Is to round the number of attendees, now if you will excuse me. I have a house to prepare.”
He nods at his departure and skips toward the kitchen to begin the menu.
“…And you know, I told them that Billy’s skills of the pianoforte could be of some great use there, if he ever returns, but he could teach you as well, Mr. Best.”
Charles nods with a polite smile but rolls his eyes once the others’ are off him. Well, all but Mr. Pilkington’s who shakes his head in disapproval.
As conversation grows, Charles ignore Mr. Pilkington and finds simple, but pleasant conversation with Mr. Chambers.
“I quiet like reading and writing when I am not helping the others at Mr. Bridgens’. Do you like to read?”
Mr. Pilkington begins to choke on his wine and had Charles not known the reason was to undermine his own reading prowess, he would have been concerned.
“When I find the time, I do. Managing Beechey and all that I do for the village keeps me quite busy,” He smiles before asking a burning question, “I hope you do not mind my asking, but you have hardly touched your dinner. I hope you have found everything to your satisfaction?”
Mr. Chambers opens his mouth to reply but is cut off by the man in front of him and beside Charles.
“Oh, quite, Charles. I do believe this is the finest meal I have had in quite some time.”
Charles nods, smile widening as he begins his plan.
“Mr. Little, with your late arrival, I don’t believe you had a chance to meet Mr. George Chambers, a new and special friend of mine.”
Mr. Chambers, looks both pleased and shocked.
“George will be joining me in my weekly visit to the poor, perhaps we will see you.”
“Oh yes, Charles. You always know where to find me.”
Charles smiles, “Maybe you can show George all the inner workings of the church, I do not think he has had the chance to attend yet.”
Mr. Chambers blushes and shakes his head in confirmation.
“I would be delighted to show such beauty, such beauty.” Mr. Little laughs, a bit pathetic, but George giggles, flattered.
Charles smiles with pride that his next match might come to fruition much more quickly than he imagined.
“Now,” he turns back to George, “tell me what was unsatisfactory so I may never serve it again.”
“Oh it was all wonderful, Charles. Just wonderful. Though I do think the cashews would have upset Billy’s stomach. He is not fond of them. At least that is what I remember. You know what? I will write to him and ask and then I will tell you what he says!”
Charles bites his lips then smiles without showing his teeth, “Delighted to hear an answer in the coming weeks, Mr. Morfin.”
“It is not the food," George whispers, "I-I am not sure what fork I was meant to use.”
Charles turns to George again, his chest fluttering in an odd sense of protection or care for George, not unlike he felt for Alexander.
He quietly hands George the proper fork with a small, reassuring smile.
George’s plate is the only one clear of each crumb by the end of the night.
“You would do best to resist playing your little games again, Charles.” Mr. Pilkington remarks as the fire dies and long after his father had retired for the night.
Over the book he had not been reading for the better part of an hour, Charles looks up.
“No games, Will. Just certainty.”
Mr. Pilkington’s book snaps shut with a bang in the quiet room.
“I meant it Charles. You are not aware of the people you are toying with this time. It is no longer you who is the only one getting hurt.”
Charles stands suddenly.
“I do not know what you mean, Will, and whenever I misunderstand you, it means I am more than prepared to rest for the night. If you will excuse me.”
He leaves just as Mr. Pilkington stands to continue arguing.
He sighs, determined to get more support of this situation brewing. For all their sakes.
As they walk away from town, George suggests they cut through a field and Charles agrees. The sun far too aggressive in the late morning.
Charles is in the middle of explaining the providence of Mr. Little when a sudden squeal escapes George and he hurries toward a man approaching a retaining wall.
Confused, Charles approaches them slowly where George is beaming and laughing amiably with a sturdy farmer, if his attire were any indication.
“I really should visit again, Mr. Bryant. You sisters have yet to best me.”
“I would quite like that, Mr. Chambers,” the man turns to Charles as he reaches them, “Hello, sir.”
“Hello,” Charles nods, stiff, “I am Charles Best.”
“Oh Mr.Best! This is my, uh, this is Mr. Bryant.” George stammers, cheeks flush with either heat or romance, Charles can’t tell. What he can tell is that there is an adoration among them and that would not do well, for George or for Charles’ plans for him.
“Mr. Bryant,” he nods, polite as he can be, and pulls George toward him, “Terribly sorry, but we must be off. This heat, you are aware, I am sure.”
Mr. Bryant looks reluctant, but nods to their departure still.
“I look forward to your return one day soon, Mr. Chambers,” he turns to Charles stiffly, “Mr. Best, a pleasure.”
They leave as quickly as Charles can scurry them off.
After George’s last look back, Charles’ curiosity takes over, “Who on Earth was that, George?”
“Oh, before I met you, I had been spending my summer at the Bryant’s farm.” George states plainly, though the infatuation is as clear as the flush in his cheeks and Charles stops walking.
“I thought the Bryant’s were a middle-aged couple with two daughters?”
George laughs heartily, “Oh no, no Mr. Best. There is no older Mr. Bryant. David, I mean the younger Mr. Bryant runs the farm. I must admit, I’m surprised you have not met before now. He is quite close to Mr. Pilkington and visits often. I am sure he knows of you.”
It makes sense to Charles then, “Oh yes, it would work that way. He would know me, but I’m not sure why I would know a farmer or need to know one.”
George nods and Charles enjoys that Mr. Pilkington was not there to lecture him for the comment.
They begin walking again, moving toward a more shaded path as they grow nearer to Mr. Little when curiosity overcomes Charles again.
“George, why did you refer to him as your Mr. Bryant?”
This time, George stops walking. Charles has a moment where he thinks they may never make it to their destination, but then his friend responds.
“I-I meant to say my friend Mr. Bryant.”
“But you did not, I am your friend here George, you can be honest with me,” he offers, genuine, “and please call me Charles, George. All my friends do.”
“Charles, thank you.” He nods, smiling and doesn’t answer him, but instead asks his own question.
“Do you think him plain, Charles?”
It takes Charles not a moment’s consideration to respond.
“He is remarkably plain, though one could not expect so much from a farmer.”
The blonde nods, looking wary so Charles tries to clarify.
“I mean, he is not so civilized as a real gentleman, but I thought that now you have been in the presence of well-bred, well-educate men at Somerset, you would realize how other men, men like your Mr. Bryant might be unfavorable for someone of your possible standing.”
George nods, like a child would to a teacher, even though his brow furls in confusion.
Charles feels pride in showing George the error of his ways, determined once more to see his match through.
“Come now, I will prove as such upon our arrival.”
As they approach the poorhouse, Charles instills another lesson on his new friend.
“Now, George, you must be kind when we visit the less fortunate. If you are to be a man of society, your virtues must not only be pure but also public. That is why we did our shopping in town and made sure to take a long walk through the village, so that all may see the good we are doing.”
George nods, eyes wide as though he were learning a great deal.
Charles nods with a smile, “Now Mr. Little gives me a bit of free reign to help as I see fit. I will set everything up, while he shows you the church. He did seem quite so interested to do so.”
He nudges George with his arm not ladened with a basket full of food and treats.
George giggles, “I would not presume to know the thoughts of such a gentleman, Mr. Best.”
“Oh, Mr. Best! Mr. Chambers!” Mr. Little shouts from the top of the hill, rushing to meet them.
“Good Morning, Mr. Little, I see you are working on the grounds. A smart idea indeed as it is to become quite sweltering today.”
“Your observation is astute, as always Charles. I am hoping to finish before the afternoon.”
Charles nudges George forward with ease, “I do hope you have not forgotten your promise to George here about the tour of the church?”
Mr. Little acknowledges a blushing George, “Of course not. I would be more than delighted. Though I am sure that your presence will diminish the beauty of our church.”
George giggles and accepts the proffered arm of guidance.
“I will be at the kitchens, if I am needed.”
“Oh,” Mr. Little drops George’s arm, “Surely you must join us, Charles. No one else is able to describe the art as you.”
Charles smiles and makes a shooing motion with his hands, “You will do simply fine Mr. Little as when you showed me. Besides, I would not like to keep the cooks waiting.”
He doesn’t wait for answer, merely takes the basket from George’s arm, and walks away with a mischievous smile.
He considers their trip a success when Mr. Little or George do not once bother him, though he is a bit concerned when Mr. Little kisses his hand and not George’s. Though he assigns it more to respect than desire.
As they take their leave, Charles reminds George of their mission, “I hope your time with Mr. Little has shown you of the type of gentlemen you should strive for, George. Certainly no farmer would favor you’re the way, say, Mr. Little might.”
“It was quite a nice visit,” George smiles, cheeks tinged pinks, “but I do wonder.”
“What is it?” Charles asks, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Well, you…I had suggested a book to Mr. Bryant over the summer. A romance. I do wonder why he did not mention it.”
“Simple, he is far too concerned with the works of the farm to have considered it. If he cannot remember a book, George, how can he ever remember you? What kind of man is that for a companion?”
“Oh.” George sighs, voice small.
“If he is like that now at four and twenty, just think of an older Mr. Bryant still concerned with profit and loss more than the love and joy of one George Chambers.”
“He did not remember the book, Charles!” George stomps lightly on the ground and Charles feels for the heart he knows is breaking inside, but if his match is to come forth, then some ties must be cut.
“Of that I am certain, George, now come, let us have tea at the house and we can discuss all that Mr. Little told you of the church and compare our experiences.”
George puts his arm in Charles and together they head back toward town.
It is only when they stop in the middle of town for more apples, that a cloud attempts to rain on his day. That cloud is one Mr. Morfin, shouting from his room in the middle of town.
“Oh Mr. Best! Mr. Best!”
Charles rolls his eyes for only George to see, then turns with a smile.
“Yes, Mr. Morfin? What is the issue this afternoon?” He asks, hoping this was a mere stop to say hello than an actual conversation.
“No issue!” He shouts, “We have just received another letter from Billy! Won’t you and Mr. Chambers step inside for some tea while I read it you?”
“We would love to!” George shouts and Mr. Morfin makes a noise of triumph.
Charles does his best to hold his annoyance inside.
“Yes,” he steps in front of George and his earnest smile, “we would love to, but unfortunately my father needs me home at once. We will come and listen tomorrow, during our usual visit. If that is agreeable? Perhaps I will have some news to share with you as well.”
It is a testament to the frequency of this encounter that no one in town stops to wonder at their shouting or even acknowledge it.
“Very well, Mr Best! I will prepare my best reading voice for you.”
“Good then!” He shouts, trying to end the conversation as politely, but as quickly as possible.
As he turns his back, he lets out a groan.
“That was a most fortunate escape.”
George giggles, “Why?”
“Mr. Morfin is the particular sort whose need for conversation never quite matches his ability to entertain with it. I hope that I should never bore a single soul about my own kin as Mr. Morfin seem intent on doing about Billy Gibson.”
He bites his lip harshly, annoyance fully affecting him now.
“I grow ill at the very mention of the name Billy Gibson, with all his accomplishments one would think he would be more than his station,” he knows he sounds petulant, but he still does not stop, “every one of those letters is read nearly forty times over and Mr. Morfin takes ages to read it, stopping to comment here and there. It is insufferable.”
He sighs, “The worst of it all is how mysteriously bound I am to him and he and I to Cornelius Hickey.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Charles stops in his tracks, at once confused and saddened. He was confused because everyone in town knew of their connection, but Charles had forgotten how new George was. Then he is saddened because he open the conversation and must know speak of the most dreadful topic.
He pulls George close so that he may speak softly and so that George cannot look him in the eyes while he relates the tale.
“The summer we were all but of three years or so, great tragedy struck our lives and forever bound us to one another in our loss.”
George is quiet and Charles silently begs for him to change the topic of conversation.
Instead, he kindly and softly replies, “It is okay, Charles.”
He looks anywhere, but at his friend and continues.
“Three lives were lost that summer, mine in May, Billy’s in June, and Frank’s in July,” he sighs, “With my mother’s death, father became quite protective and superstitious,” Charles laughs, bittersweet, “he has since passed it onto my brother, Frederick, who will not let his daughters but five steps ahead of him or into any possible dangerous fun that children should get into.”
George laughs, kindhearted as always.
“With that loss, Billy was orphaned. Mr. Morfin, his uncle, had done his best, but with his own fortune so low, he sent Billy to live with and be educated alongside his late father’s military companion, Mr. James Clark Ross.”
He straightens his back from where he was slouched, much easier to discuss other’s tragedies than his own.
“I have only since heard of Billy from the letters he writes to Mr. Morfin and those are more than sufficient to keep our bind intact.”
“And of, uh, Mr. Hickey? What of him?”
Charles smiles, flattered that George’s curiosity and interest were genuine and not from a gossiping perspective.
“Well,” Charles laughs, placing a hand on his chest, “Mr. Hickey is quite the lost boy, seemingly never to return to Somerset, least of all for his own father’s wedding.”
“He did not attend? Why?”
“The going story is that his uncle, with whom he has lived since the passing of his mother, is gravely ill and Cornelius must be at his side to tend to the estate and his uncle.”
“You do not believe this?” George asks with a mischievous smile and Charles is proud that he has chosen so clever a person to befriend so.
“I do not. Well, not entirely. I do know that Mr. Stanley is ill, but to the extent that Mr. Hickey could not attend the wedding? Not quite. I believe that there is slight animosity on Mr. Hickey’s part for his father’s sending him to his uncle. But Mr. Blanky has done everything shy of stealing him away in the night to bring Mr. Hickey back to Somerset.”
“Why does he not visit him on his own? Surely, Mr. Blanky could do so.”
Charles shakes his head, “I assume he does not feel it his place anymore to command Mr. Hickey in one way or another.”
Home arrives as the reach the summit of a hill and Charles feels the weight of the conversation lift from him at its sight.
“Nevertheless, Mr. Hickey will return home just when he is meant to. I am sure of it.”
He drops his arm and grabs Charles’ hand to pull him toward the house.
“Come now, let us have tea before we send you back to Mr. Bridgens’. We are in dire need of it.”
George giggles and follows right behind him.
A day shy of a week later, and Charles implements his second step of his plan for see George matched with a man of proper standing.
They are painting in the gardens, Charles guiding George with faux seriousness that has the devolving into fit of giggles every time he tries to speak again, unaware they are being watched.
Alexander sips his tea, relaxing in his favorite chair in the entire estate, with a small, proud smile as he watches Charles laugh and smile in a way only true friendship can bring about.
Mr. Pilkington, who stands at the window, grimacing, makes a noise that pulls him from his observations.
“I quite remember, once upon a time, you and Charles painting in such a way, easels in nearly the same position as they are now. You, guiding his hand and trying to teach him as though he would do as you said.”
“I was as much a fool then as I am now in thinking that Charles would ever truly listen to a word of guidance I had to give.”
Alexander laughs, tea bubbling from where the cup was held against his lip.
“I suppose things must change and priorities be made,” Mr. Pilkington sighs, looking toward his wringing fingers then back out the window, “and I believe Charles has great potential, if he would only change his.”
Alexander sighs, a sound that can only be made from someone who has had the same conversation more times than necessary, as he has had with Mr. Pilkington.
Loud laughter is heard from the garden and he smiles.
“I think Charles’ friendship with George is the best thing for him right now. I have only just departed this house after seventeen years by his side., You are quite busy, Will, you yourself cannot expect to be by his side always,” he coughs awkwardly when Mr. Pilkington suddenly glares at him, “and I know you would not want him so lonely that he wished to be elsewhere.”
Mr. Pilkington scoffs, straightening the deep blue jacket he was sporting, despite the warm summer weather and his compulsory need to walk everywhere.
“Elsewhere? Charles? Impossible. He would never. Who would run the house or look after his father?”
Alexander recognizes the bit of hysterics in Mr. Pilkington’s questions, but does not remark on it to save him the embarrassment.
Instead, Alexander stands and places a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Will, Charles is no longer a child but a fine and established young man. I am no longer his governor and you are no longer his mentor; he is free to do as his chooses,” Alexander watches as Mr. Little arrives, feeling the tension settle in Mr. Pilkington’s shoulders at his sight, “Even if those choice end up as mistakes, he must make them and learn on his own. It will not deter me from being his friend…or yours.”
Mr. Pilkington meets his gaze with smile that does not reach his eyes.
“Do be quite composed, George. Mr. Little approaches,” Charles laughs then quickly stands proper and studious as he paints.
He watches from the corner of his eye as Mr. Little directly approaches George, his chest nearly touching the blonde’s back and Charles tries to maintain his excitement.
“How accomplished young men are in,” Mr. Little meets George’s eyes over his shoulder, “all areas these days.”
Charles’ smile turns proud in satisfaction, “You flatter us too much, Mr. Little. Think of our modesty, please.”
“I do not think modesty has ever suited you, Mr. Best.” He nods in respect and Charles giggles at his friend’s jest.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Little glides over to his easel, “you have tried quite so to capture the light and flowers, so delicate,” he turns to Charles, “yet resilient.”
Charles nods, proud, “Quite so,” he sigh, “Though I must admit I grow weary of painting this garden time and time again.”
“Oh! Perhaps a change of scenery will refresh your creative endeavors. A h-human form, maybe?” Mr. Little swallows harshly, his throat bare in the hot sun.
Charles bites his lip to keep from smiling as Mr. Little walks right into his plan.
“Oh, yes! Your genius is unmatched! I think a watercolor of Mr. Chambers would be perfect. Do you not agree Mr. Little?”
A gasp.
“Quite so, Mr. Best. Watercolor would be the most attractive choice. I can think of nothing greater and with you at the end of the brush, it will be nothing short of a masterpiece,” Mr. Little’s smile widens, “Oh! I must be off unfortunately, short visit only to thank you, both of you,” he looks between George and Charles, “for all your help. Mr. Chambers?”
George lets out a small squeak but meets Mr. Little’s eyes.
“For your generosity towards the parish, one of my very own, freshly grown lemons.” He bows with the offer of the fruit and Charles has to nudge a confused, but flattered George to grab it.
“Mr. Best, Mr. Chambers, until next time.” He nods his hastened departure and once he is out of sight does Charles celebrate.
“Oh, oh George, it has gone so well. I knew he would love you and one of his cherished lemons, too! Oh you will be married by New Year, I am sure of it.”
George laughs with him but Charles misses the confusion and apprehension in his furrowed brow.
“But, what of Mr. Bryant?”
Charles scoffs, “What of him, indeed. Not to remark there, George. Now come, we must figure a pose for your portrait.”
George follows him, but the problem of Mr. Bryant weighs heavily on his mind.
“You are certain this must be done now? This very day?” Mr. Pilkington remarks as he folds his arms across his chest.
“Quite sure, sir.” Mr. Bryant responds, voice firm but quiet.
“And you are certain this is the most practical choice?”
“I am.”
Mr. Pilkington sighs heavily, arms dropping to the desk in front of him.
“David, despite how sound the plan seems, I have known you for too many years to know you to ever put the farm at risk.”
Mr. Bryant just holds his gaze.
Mr. Pilkington’s shoulders fall with another sigh.
“Are you sure that your sensibilities are aligned? Would it not be most prudent to consider this at another time?” He tries to be delicate, given the nature of this decision, but it must sound to harsh to his friend.
“Mr. P-William, you have always been kind and friendly towards me and my family, so please allow me to be candid.”
Mr. Pilkington smiles and nods, appreciating the passion that Mr. Bryant always kept close.
“Thank you. To be quite honest, I do not wish to waste my life waiting for the opportune moment to achieve happiness or love. There is no reason to delay such things in my mind. And my mind is set. This is the right choice, and I would rather not delay.”
He nods, “With such determination, I am surprised that you still came to me with your thought of expansion. You are aware my permission is not strictly needed.”
Mr. Bryant laughs, a grin of relief forming, “I must admit that my visit was more social than business and that the advice I sought was more from a friend than a businessman.”
Mr. Pilkington laughs, warm and happy, as he stands to embrace his friend.
“Best of luck, David.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They part, both feeling a different sense of nervousness overcome them.
“No! George, you must remain as still as possible, like a true conqueror.”
George sighs but holds his posture steadier when he poses again, holding a rather large rifle against his delicate shoulder.
“Yes,” Mr. Little comments from behind Charles, where he has remained most the afternoon staring at George, to Charles’ delight, “You must not move a fraction, Mr. Chambers. Your grace must be captured just so.”
Charles meets George’s eyes with a giddy smile and continues painting, doing his very best to capture his friend in a strong manner.
Mr. Little and George leave before he finishes, but Charles assures them that it will be completed in the coming days.
He fears any longer will cause a disruption in his plan.
The red and black smears of paint on his hands linger for days.
Two days pass and Charles is reading, or at least feigning to do so, on a rather dreary, dark morning to signify autumns rapid approach, when sudden loud commotion is heard from the entry hall.
“Charles! Mr. Best!” The familiar voice of George shouts as he comes barreling into the study with wet shoes, red cheeks, and a bright smile.
The sight of his friend in such a state makes him laugh as he steadies his friend.
“Careful, careful George, such excitement will cause you to faint. Come sit and tell me what has you so happy.”
George steps away from him uncharacteristically and holds out a slightly damp, though neatly folded parchment out for Charles to take.
Charles takes it hesitantly and unfolds it to read his possible doing in.
It is a letter.
No.
A love letter.
From one Mr. David Bryant to Mr. George Chambers, ending with a proposal of marriage!
“Oh!” Charles squeaks out, unable to quite process a proper response.
“A proposal, Charles!” George giggles, joy evident, “At least I believed it to be one when I read it. It is a most joyous letter, is it not, Charles?”
Charles falls into Mr. Pilkington’s chair with little grace.
“I am sure….I….I do not know.” He responds finally after a moment, though his lack of excitement does not deter his friend one bit.
“It is such a surprise! I had thought he did not remember the book or our time together, but he did. Quite well if the letter is to be believed. He writes as though he loves me very much!”
Charles remains silent, trying to figure out a way to keep his plan in tact. Surely, George could not marry Mr. Bryant. Not when Mr. Little was very much interest in him. Love was surely close to follow and if George were to marry Mr. Bryant, he would then be on…a farm. No, for both their sakes, Charles had to fix this.
“Charles? Is it a good letter?” Doubt seeps from George’s voice and Charles thinks it his best time to attempt to fix this, “Or is it too short?”
“It is a good letter.” He’s honest even as he lets out a dramatic sigh, “Good enough, I am certain he did not write it himself, but it is better than I would have expected from a farmer.”
George bounces on his heels, that dampness making an unusual squeak, “Well? What should I do, Charles?”
Still lost in his own thoughts, Charles asks quickly, “Do? Regarding what? What do you mean?”
He watches George’s smile fade to confusion as he tilts his head to the side not unlike a young dog.
“Oh, in regard to the letter? Well of course you must answer it and straight away!”
George claps happily and moves quickly to sit at the writing desk against the wall.
Quill in hand, George falters, “Oh dear, I-I am not sure what to say. What would you write, Charles?”
Charles hides a smirk behind his hand knowing that George would look to him for guidance and like a good friend he would be there to steer him back on course.
“George, the wording of this must be your own or else Mr. Bryant may think you insincere. It must sound like you if you are to be clear and precise of the pain you are to cause him.”
George nods, leaning over to write once more before pulling back and turning to Charles, ink dripping onto his black boots.
“Pain?” George questions, “You think I ought to refuse him?”
“Ought to?” Charles feigns shock, “Oh George, I thought you had come here for advice as to the wording. You actually want to marry David Bryant?”
He makes sure to put forth the appropriate and accurate aloofness so as not to insult George’s honest, if not naïve, nature Charles was trying to change.
“Do you want to actually accept the proposal?” He adds when George remains silent.
It is a long moment until his friend replies.
“I…I don’t know.”
Another minute, “I do.”
A few breaths, “I do not! Charles, help me please!”
Charles smile inwardly but keeps his face neutral and shakes his head, “I cannot have anything to do with your decision or your heart, George. You must know your own feelings and let them guide your decision.”
He turns his back to look out the window, unable to bear looking at George’s desperate face one more moment.
“I really did not think he liked or loved me so very much, though. My mind and my heart will not help me. Oh, I do not know what to do.” George groans, dramatic, and throws himself onto the writing desk, head laying on the paper, soaking it with the little water left on his blonde locks.
Charles finally takes pity and lays a calming hand on George’s back as he advises gently, “I think that if you are in any sort of doubt as to whether or not to accept, then refusal is necessary. You do not want to enter into this hastily and find out you do not truly feel the same as he as you stand in the church.”
George’s eyes widen and he begins to nod frantically.
“Although,” Charles has a moment where he considers abandoning his plan if it was causing his friend so much trouble, “I do not want to influence you.”
George turns suddenly, holding Charles’ hands in his own, “No do, influence me please. I trust you wholly, Charles.”
Charles looks to blank paper, decision weighing in his mind. This was not anticipated and he needed time to think that he did not have.
George settles then though and picks up the quill once more, getting as far as writing Mr. Bryant’s name.
“Charles, I am determined. I….yes, I am. I will…refuse? Mr. Bryant,” George turns to him for approval still and Charles smiles kindly, “Is that right?”
He nods, glad his friend made the right choice on his own and that he would not lose his friend so soon after he arrived.
“Absolutely.”
George nods once, twice before laughing, “Oh yes, oh alright!”
He stands then, hugging Charles suddenly who, in relief, returns the embrace.
“Oh, when while you lingered in suspense, I had to keep my own feelings disguised but now that you have decided, I can be honest! Thank goodness! I will not lose my friend! I could have never been to visit the farm, can you imagine? Having tea while chickens roam about? No! And now I am assured of my best friend forever.”
George join Charles’ excitement, “Oh, Charles, I do not think I could bare to part with your friendship for anything or anyone in the world!”
Charles smiles, still holding George’s hands in his.
“Though I am to reject him; I do think Mr. Bryant quite amiable and kind and his love for me is clear. I do think you would see this is you were to properly converse.”
Charles shakes his head furiously, “Come! You must write immediately before you are ill-advisedly swayed.”
George nods, quill once again in hand.
“It would be cruel to delay your refusal.”
Charles’ heart finally begins to calm once George begins marking the page. It would all work out perfectly. He would be sure of it.
Several days later, and Charles has a tentative plan in mind. He invites George to a day of testing his painting skills on the same day an eligible, and appropriate, match is sure to visit.
They spent the better part of the morning setting the scene for which George agreed to be the subject.
“May I inquire as to why we are doing this?’ George asks, voice light from the fit of giggles he’d been in the moment before.
“You are a subject worthy of art, my dear friend and as such I will challenge my artistry to capture you so.” Charles smiles when George blushes, all the better for the painting they are trying to recreate.
“Now if you’d just lean a little more,” he moves his hand to the left and lower, “and perfect!”
He spends the afternoon doing his level best to mimic real artist, hoping the years of tutorage that McDonald had insisted upon would find their fruition in this one piece.
George laughs whenever Charle admonishes him for moving, but for the most part he remains a perfect subject. His father, however, remains constantly worried for George’s health.
“Should he not wear a coat? It is quite drafty today.”
Charles smiles when George meets his eyes over the canvas.
“Father it is quite warm outside, will you not venture out for your walk today?”
“I sneezed this morning, Charles. You know I cannot do my walk when that happens. I could further the illness that plagues me.”
Charle rolls his eyes and concedes the point.
“You youth these days, always with the unnecessary risks.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Pilkington comments from where he stoically and solemnly read one of the many novels in the study. He only looked up once to slyly comment that Charles’ lines were unstable. He was so mad; he nearly threw the palette at the man just to see that stern grimace change into something else.
George giggles suddenly, open undershirt shifting in the process. He rights the garment and looks to Charles in apology.
Charles’ finger and wrist ache from the prolonged use, sighing against the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows when it seems a visit from the prospective match is not going to happen.
Then suddenly, with the grace and aplomb of a storm at sea, Mr. Little arrives in the makeshift art space.
“Oh! Hello! Sir John,” he bows, out of breath, toward the man who waves, eyes gazing toward the garden, “Mr. Pilkington, Mr. Best,” another bow and then his bow immediately rightens when he sees, George, “oh and Mr. Chambers.”
If the blush on both mens’ cheeks were not enough to satisfy Charles, their prolonged staring was.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Little, what brings you to us today?” Charles smiles, focusing back on the painting before him.
“Oh well, I was here to see…” Mr. Little stops for a moment, “…no matter. May I have your permission to look upon what is certainly a masterpiece?”
Charles laughs, polite, “Of course. I could use guidance that is not a suggestion to cover the subject with a coat.”
He turns to his father who rolls his eyes in exasperation.
Mr. Little approaches with a nervous look and Charles smiles inwardly at his plan working without flaw.
“Oh,” he gasps, “Well, despite the verisimilitude in your father’s wisdom, I must say that I cannot find fault in this piece and cannot see room for improvement. You’re captured the charming, Mr. Chambers here, to perfection.”
Charles, pleased beyond measure, nods in confirmation, and hope the next step goes accordingly.
“Thank you, Mr. Little. With your confidence, I should like to get this framed properly,” he turns to his father then with a put upon feigned wistfulness, “We should have Graham and Charles take it with them to London when the next visit.”
“Won’t be for weeks now, Charles, the good child, is cautious with the baby when travelling.” His father admonishes, but Charles just rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue at Mr. Pilkington who had the nerve to look smug.
He had no competition any longer with Frederick, not even because they shared a given name that the eldest forewent as soon as his younger brother was born. No competition nor jealousy lay between them, even if his brother got to see other parts of the world, the seaside.
“Might I offer my services?” Mr. Little asks quietly, still staring at the painting, “I could easily ride to town and back in as little as a day for such a…precious task.”
Charles watches George’s over the easel and does not miss the fluttering eyes focused solely on the dark-haired man.
He smiles, satisfied, “That would be most gracious, Mr. Little. I believe Mr. Chambers and I would be most indebted to you.”
Mr. Little waves a hand as his cheeks redden, “Think nothing of it, Charles. It is my honor.”
In the bright, warm sun, Charles watches his father move about the garden with a bittersweet fondness.
“Charles, be a dear and help me adjust my scarf! I can never get the damn thing to stay like you.”
He laughs, dashing to his eccentric father who was, heartbreakingly so, perpetually terrified of draft and freezing weather. Rather than force him into reality, Charles leans into it and indulges him, knowing the reason why he is so, even if other don’t understand. Losing one’s spouse can do horrible things to their minds, and if the harmless way it has affected his father and to an extent, through osmosis, Charles, then so be it.
“There, set and settled.” He smiles as he father’s discomfort eases.
“Should I finish my walk, you think?”
Charles nods, “Yes, yes, routines keep us from insanity father.”
He turns with a smile and begins his rounds again.
A few moments later a familiar shape stride through the fields and to the entrance.
“Oh! Hello, Mr. Pilkington! Do forgive me, but I must finish my walk and cannot stop or else Charles may not let me have pudding tonight. Will you be sufficed with just Charles for company? Because I possibly…”
Charles, who had been watching the exchange over a book he was pretending to read, narrows his eyes when they meet Will’s.
“Do no stop for one minute, father.”
Mr. Pilkington smiles, “Oh, I think I can manage with Charles for a bit. Take your walk, Sir John.”
Charles feigns interest in the woes of the main character and steadfastly ignores the man as he approaches, knowing it annoys him.
“No Mr. Chambers today then? No plans to paint him among the roses?” He smirks and Charles, not for the first time, fights the urge to slap him.
“I thought he’d become a fixture among the other statues in the garden.”
His anger must show because Mr. Pilkington is quick to pull his chair, as he so declared one summer’s eve, to sit beside Charles.
“I apologize, Charles. I’m not teasing you or Mr. Chamber. He is quite pretty if not somewhat simple, though I am inclined to say his character has improved since our first meeting,” Mr. Pilkington stops and Charles watches the way his face shifts as he thinks, “And I will admit that his improvement is most likely due to your influence.”
Shock fills Charles and he does little to hide it, much to Mr. Pilkington’s dismay, then he smiles rather sweetly, daring to lay a hand on the man’s arm.
“Thank you. Seeing as how you never show me praise unless you absolutely must, I will accept that as a compliment.”
Glee takes over as he watches My. Pilkington huff in annoyance and pulls his arm from Charles’ grasp.
He laughs, “At any rate, he shall be along presently, should he ever escape the gossiping maw of Mr. Bridgens.”
“He never tires of it, does he?” Mr. Pilkington remarks, surprising Charles as he rarely speaks ill of anyone undeserving of it, nose scrunch in a way that makes him look remarkable younger.
“It is possible others, like Mr. Chambers, don’t tire so quickly of people as you do.”
That earns him a smirk.
“Or perhaps he is delayed for a far more enjoyable reason.”
“Really?”
Mr. Pilkington full turns to him then, “Quite. I have it on good authority that your dear friend will be the recipient of some rather good news. And, despite your efforts, this news will appeal to you as well.”
“How would good news for George not mean good news for me? I only wish for him to be happy.”
Mr. Pilkington regards him for a moment, “Then I will tell you. Mr. David Bryant is dreadfully in love with your friend, Mr. George Chambers, and means to marry him.”
There is surprise on his face, yes, but not in the manner the other man believes.
“Hah! I have surprised you for once. He came to discuss it with me and, despite my obvious reservations about the match, I gave my advice and blessing. This was only a few days prior to today. I am surprised your Mr. Chambers has been able to keep the news to himself. He seems the giddy sort and I am certain Mr. Bryant would have stated his intentions as soon as he was able.”
Charles hides a smile at Mr. Pilkington’s thinking he had bested him.
“How did you know that Mr. Bryant did not yet voice his thoughts?”
“It was not an absolute, Charles. I was under the impression Mr. Chambers has spent the last few days here in your company.” Brows furrow in concern and confusion.
Charles smiles then, more smug than sweet, “Now I will tell you something. Mr. Bryant did in fact state his intentions, that is, he wrote, and he was refused.”
A moment passes and Charles observes as confusion, surprise, understanding, and outrage filter through the usual impassive face on the man beside him. It delights him.
“Then he is even more simple than I could have imagined!”
Taking offense, Charles crosses his arms, “Of course, as though anyone could refuse an offer of marriage, even one with such a high approval as yours.”
“For the party tasked with making the proposal, it is not an imagined outcome! One would not enter such a decision unless they were certain of the proper consequence!”
“Then perhaps Mr. Bryant should broaden his imagination!” He fights not to stomp his foot, anger rising in only the way Mr. Pilkington can bring about. So steadfast and resilient in his opinion and justification.
“It’s madness. There is no…perhaps you are mistaken. In the relatively fleeting time we have known him, you and I know very well how Mr. Chambers can be unclear when his emotions take hold.”
“I saw his answer. Nothing could have been clearer.”
Mr. Pilkington looks to him suddenly, suspicious.
“You saw his answer?”
Knowing he has been caught, rather than lie, he remains silent.
Mr. Pilkington groans, “You wrote it! You persuaded him to refuse Mr. Bryant!”
Charles cannot meet the fiery dark eyes he knows are studying him.
“Charles, look at me!”
He looks up after a longer moment, unable to hide any longer and knowing the other man would not relent.
Slender fingers point at him in accusation, “This is your doing. Your meddling. Of this one thing, I am certain.”
He smiles when Charles’ gaze turns toward fidgeting fingers of a child caught in trouble.
When he looks up once more, a softer smile but no less bright eyes meet him.
Then softly, “You could never lie to me with any success.”
Despite the sudden hammering of his heart, Charles crosses his arms once again, “While Mr. Bryant is quite respectable, as I trust your opinion Will, I will not agree that he is at all George’s equal.”
Mr. Pilkington scoffs, “No, no of course not.”
Charles begins to smile, thinking he’s won.
“He is far superior.”
“Ha!” Charles laughs, though it is bitter and angry.
“George Chambers is the natural son of nobody knows whom. Unlike you, he is not a sensible person and has not been taught anything that can be considered of use. No experience, little wit. He is pretty, good-natured, but that is all, and it is far too late to change such things.”
Cheeks hot under the admonishment, Charles is speechless.
My. Pilkington continues, “And in my wisdom of such things, I felt that Mr. Bryant could do no worse than George Chambers.”
Charles open his mouth to speak, perhaps scream, but is again cut off. This time by a calmer, more insistent voice.
“But he was so in love with him. He is so in love with him that he could not be reasoned with or deterred from his intention.”
Voice angry again, “And as he described his devotion and plans for marriage, I thought of you! I thought, surely, even Charles will think this a good match! Will not interfere with two people who do so love one another and, as such, are a good pair!”
At this, Charles takes offense, “I cannot believe, after all these years, you know so little of Charles to even say such a thing.”
He scoffs, “A farmer? A good match? For my dearest friend? It would be a disgrace.”
“A disgrace?” Mr. Pilkington cries, wrath returning, “For illegitimacy and ignorance to be married to a respectable, intelligent farmer?”
Charles crosses his arm, “There can scarcely be any doubt that he is the son of a gentleman, and one of good fortune. He has not envied for anything. Why should the child pay for the offences of others?”
At this, Mr. Pilkington’s lips draw to a thin line.
“George is a gentleman’s son and as such, he associates with gentleman’s sons. Therefore, he remains superior to your David Bryant.”
Warm, strong hands suddenly wrap their way around Charles’ arms as the older man pleas, “Charles, Charles, we live in the real world. A world in which children, unfortunately, do pay for the offence of their parents. As such, George’s parents do not appear, in any way, to be planning on introducing him into their society, whoever in the world they may be.”
The hands grip tighter, but not unpleasantly so, Charles notes, captivated so by his friends insistence, heart racing.
“But we live here, in Somerset, where we treat people with the respect and courtesy they deserve.” Charles replies, faux sincerity clear.
A small shake, as though trying to clear him of any other thought, Mr. Pilkington speaks, “George’s people, whoever they may be, considered Mr. Bridgen’s boarding school and the company therein to be good enough for him. And George also thought it good enough until you so rashly encouraged him to think above his station.”
Charles could only stare at the impassioned, lengthy outburst from his oldest friend, and as his eyes fall to where they were currently connected.
Hands quickly release as though Mr. Pilkington had touched the tea kettle too soon.
“He was as happy as possible with the Bryants this last summer. And David has no vanity. He is at the end of vanity, even. He would not have come to me. He would not have proposed if he thought, at all, that George did not favor him. At the very least, he had to have encouraged him. David is not one to come about these things on his own.”
The implication rouses Charles into action.
“Well, then, let us live in the real world, as you put it, where men of your station, of course, always seem to reject those with a pretty face in favor of one with an educated mind.” It’s bitter, harsh and Charles’ voice cracks toward the end. He ignores it.
Mr. Pilkington steps back, offended, “What?”
Charles pays no mind to the offense, “Oh, no, no. I bow to your clear superior knowledge on the subject, your eight years more experience. You clear know best. George, with his pretty looks and good nature will be last pick in the line of suitors when it comes to choosing a mate.”
They glare at one another, until Charles, impish, declares, “Now that we have both made our argument, it would be foolish to quarrel.”
Fists tighten at Mr. Pilkington side and he groans in frustration, “Mmm! Charles, it is much better to be without wits than do utilize them as you do.”
“There! Ha! Do you not see how you have just strengthened my own argument? Men like you do not like spouses who argue.”
Charles bites his cheek in annoyance then clicks his tongue, turning to watch his father finish his turns in the garden, still he fights.
“George is just the sort of man everyone wants. He ensnares their sense and feed the inherent need, in men like you, that they are always correct. Were you to ever marry,” he laughs when Mr. Pilkington rolls his eyes, “He would be just the sort of man for you.”
“Ha!” Mr. Pilkington laughs though it sounds fraught with nerves and defiance.
“Mark my words, William,” he intones, serious and firm, “George can pick and choose as he sees fit. He is here, at the beginning of a life full of possibility. Would it make sense to accept the first offer he receives? I certainly find no fault in his sensibilities. I would not accept the first offer that came to me.”
It’s quiet for a long moment, the silence lengthening and all that can be heard are the mumblings of Sir John to the flowers in the garden.
Mr. Pilkington is discreet, though no less fervent when he speaks, “It seems reason cannot be found with you,” he turns to Charles then, eyes cold, unforgiving, “but tread with caution on this path. Matters of the heart, ones you know nothing of, are not to be trifled with.”
“As though you’ve the experience to speak of such things? I see no ring on your finger.”
His friend opens his mouth to speak when Charles lets out a sudden squeal of glee as Mr. Little approaches, “Excuse me.”
Quick to retrieve the item, he ignores Mr. Pilkington to dash to meet the new guest, missing the odd, almost begrudged look on the man’s face.
From the open windows a conversation drafts in.
“Thank you so much Mr. Little,” Charles coos, “George will be so generously grateful.”
Mr. Little’s gaze shifts from the rolled painting in hand to Charles’ face in delight, voice low, “Well then, how can we wait a single moment longer than needed to this masterpiece framed and hung proper for all of Somerset to see?”
Charles giggles, always fond of the way Mr. Little spoke.
The other man lingers for a moment, just staring at Charles and leaning quite close. Charles catches Mr. Pilkington’s glare from the window, judging and calculating always when it came Charles’ life and choices.
“Well…goodbye then, Mr. Little,” when the man makes no inkling to move, Charles bids farewell again, “Safe journey.” It is more toward the painting than the man.
Mr. Little lingers another far too long instant before moving slowly from Charles, eye never leaving his own in an awkward departure.
Excited at his plan coming to the next step, he skips back into the house, closing the front door and leaning against it with a giddy smile and sigh.
“That man is so full of himself, I can hardly believe he is able to stay on that horse.”
There’s a small smirk in the corner of Mr. Pilkington’s mouth and the sudden, though no less true, barb make Charles burst into laughter.
His friend turns on his heel, profile facing Charles.
“I thought it a poor friendship for you, Charles. Now that I consider it, though, I believe it worse for Mr. Chambers.”
Charles’ ire renews. He fixes a cold glare towards the other man as he passes him to return to the study.
Mr. Pilkington follows suit, not resting his voice for a moment.
“Men of sense, of standard, do not want childish spouses. In fact, most men of proper family will be far more frightened of the disgrace that follow if and when his parentage is discovered. If you encourage him to marry David Bryant he will be respected, well cared for, and happy for his lifetime,” hands tighten at his sides, “If you encourage him to set his sights higher, out of reach, he may end up at Mr. Bridgens’ for the rest of his life!”
Charles had heard enough, he knew the risks and he knew his chances of success outweighed them. Mr. Little wouldn’t do such a task if he did not care for George as such.
“It seems that our opinions on this differ so vastly that I insist we stop conversing about it.”
Still, there is a possibility, always was, for Mr. Little’s not playing his unknown part.
He sighs, “And as for my letting him marry David Bryant, it’s impossible. George refused him and must know abide by his choise. I do not pretend to have any influence, as his friend it will always be there, but only a little. I did not force his hand and if I am being honest, which with you I somehow must always be, his appearance and manner were so impolite that, now, if George were previously in favor of him, he is no longer.”
“What idiocy!” Mr. Pilkington declares, right to Charles face.
With nothing but offense and polite manners to guide him, Charles ignores it all.
“I really do think we should call for tea now. Do you think I should let Father linger a while longer? He does get dreadfully warm despite the idea he never is.”
He walks toward the garden doors, hoping to bring in the distraction of a man, but alas he is still speaking among the roses.
Mr. Pilkington unceremoniously throws himself into his chair and sighs.
“Well, I suppose it is no terrible loss, then. For Mr. Bryant, that is. He will get over George soon then. I hope.” It is the feeble tone that draws Charles’ eyes back to his friend.
The man, who never let Charles do anything without comment or critique, stands again and approaches him.
“I know you Charles. Your desire for matchmaking is proof that you are to have more to do with this tragedy that you, currently, so honestly, deny.”
Charles sneers, “So, that is the true reason you are so annoyed and argue so valiantly.”
He steps close to the other man, delights in the way he holds himself taller, stronger at his approach.
“I gave my advice and you gave yours. However, it was mine that prevailed and you, in all your infinite wisdom, do not want to admit I am right.”
For his response, Mr. Pilkington’s eyes roll and he sighs as though Charles was his life’s greatest burden and one he had to carry alone.
He leaves then, straight through the garden doors with no farewell or wave.
Uncertain why it irks him so, Charles throws himself on to the settee in a huff.
Panting, his outrage turns to joy when he hears familiar footfalls on the gravel returning to him.
He turns quickly, hoping to settle their disagreement aside, “I’m so happy you’ve come back. I will always be your friend, Will.”
The man stops short, eyes steadfastly ignoring Charles.
“N-No I came back to only say this, Charles.”
Eye meet his and behind the fury of frustration, there is disappointment.
His breath stops in his throat.
“As you do little to hide your intentions of matchmaking, I assume you would not have so thoroughly discouraged the marriage if you had not already had another suitor in line.”
Charles smiles then, always delighted, and disparaged, at each turn, that Mr. Pilkington knew him as well as he did.
“As your friend, I will do just as little hiding to tell you that if Little is the man you’ve picked, he will not do.”
The smile falls as Mr. Pilkington’s voice turns dark.
“He knows he is a handsome man, one worthy of options, and he will never marry cheaply. In fact, at every turn amongst his peers, I have heard him speak, with great vigor of a rather large family of young options who all have 20,000 apiece.”
His heart falls and Mr. Pilkington show no sign of relenting his barrage of scolding.
“George and David are not pieces on a chessboard. They are not yours to manipulate and move about as you see fit. They are flesh and blood! They are complex and full of emotions you cannot control! They are human!”
He voices resounds against the multitude of books and figures as it crescendos.
Charles can only stare and fight the tears that begin to form. Mr. Pilkington may be his only critic, but any contenders for the title would surely lose.
A single finger points at him and Charles follows the line to the hard, furious face of his friend.
“One day and this is meant this with all the care I offer to you, one day you will irrevocably and bitterly regret your meddling.”
One moment later, Mr. Pilkington turns and is out the door again, ignoring Sir John’s calls at his departure.
“I knew I shouldn’t have taken the extra turn among the roses. Though they were chatty today.”
Charles ignores him, focused only on the retreating back until it disappears over the hill, chest in pain right where his heart lay.