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Warminster Hall never failed to lower Ash's spirits, but as he jumped out of the carriage onto the snow-covered gravel path in front of the main entrance, his boots squeaking in the slush while his spirits lowered even further than usual.
The ancestral seat of the Dukes of Warminster was an ugly block of stone jutting out from a dreary grey-green landscape. It dated back to some venerable previous age Ash could never properly remember. The different Henrys and Charleses of the past forever blended in his mind, and that they were conveniently numbered didn't help much. The Hall was missing all of the fine detailing and beautiful ornamentation that adorned all the other stately homes Ash had visited. It stood, lonely and misshapen, in the middle of nowhere, like those standing stones from Britain's distant past, but with none of the mystery. Truth be told, London was less than a day's travel away, but it might as well have been in the colonies for how far away Ash felt from everyone he loved and who loved him.
It would be the first time Ash would see Mal since that business with the letter. Mal had left London in disgrace, his engagement dissolved, and their father the Duke intent on not letting him out of his sight again until he was a thoroughly reformed character.
Ash supposed it was possible that the Maltravers he was about to meet was a changed man. After all, he'd never seen Mal face any consequences before; there was no telling how he would react.
He wasn't especially optimistic. Their father had spent all of Ash's youth beating sense into him, and look what it had accomplished. Francis often talked about the balance between effort put in and profit achieved and it seemed to Ash that his upbringing had involved a great deal of effort expended with very little to show for it.
No one was waiting for him inside except for Shilling, the butler, stooped by age now, but with both feet still planted as firmly on decorum and gravitas as he'd ever been. When he had been a child, Mal and Michael had terrified Ash with stories of Shilling catching and devouring any child he found wandering Warminster Hall alone at night.
"Lord Gabriel," Shilling announced in a grave voice and bowed.
"Shilling," Ash acknowledged. He was probably doing Shilling an injustice, since he had never actually laid a hand on Ash, but something in him still felt that old fear. Showing no signs of an appetite for naughty children, Shilling turned on his heels and led the way to Ash's usual rooms.
The Duke of Warminster despised frivolous spending, which was why he disapproved of Ash and also all notions of redecorating his entrance hall. It was made of the same oppressive grey stone and gloomy burgundy velvet it had been all of Ash's life. Surely he must have had the draperies and upholstery replaced at some point, because they did not look like they'd been through decades of wear and tear, but they were such an exact copy that Ash couldn't tell.
Francis would know. He'd know exactly how long a fabric lasted under which kind of treatment, he could tell from the weave if a fabric came from England or India or elsewhere entirely, knew which species of snail or beetle or what-have-you would've died to dye everything that shade of glum red.
Ash wished Francis were here. A familiar feeling he experienced every time he was parted from Francis, but there was a a new note of hopelessness this time. They'd agreed that it would be safer not to write each other letters while under the same roof as Mal. Ash saw the sense in that; Mal, though defeated, was probably snarlingly angry, and probably desperate for vindication. He might try to use even the most innocent correspondence, and Ash frankly did trust himself to manage to write something innocent.
Which meant, all in all, a fortnight or more without so much as a word from Francis. Ash suppressed the urge to sob.
Jennings, his valet, had already unpacked all of Ash's clothes and was now nowhere to be seen. Ash sighed and opened the clothes press.
There was nothing but snowy linen, contrasted with somber black, navy and dark grey coats. They were impeccable pieces of clothing, picked out by Francis himself, but Francis could see a whole rainbow of shades where Ash only saw dispiriting black. "Look at that fellow in that shocking blue coat," Francis would often say, and Ash would strain his eyes over a crowd of identical black looking for a nice robin's egg blue, or perhaps turquoise, until Francis would give him a fond eye-roll and point out the black-clad gentleman he'd meant.
It was no good. He could not wear any of his usual colorful clothes here, in his father's presence, if he wanted to be left alone at all. He hoped at least Harry was wearing something fetching and scandalous back home.
Dinner didn't improve things. Ash had managed to avoid preprandial drinks by spending too long getting dressed, but that meant he had to endure a lecture about his dandyish ways from his father.
Mal, who had in Ash's memory never appeared on time for dinner in his life, was already there when Ash slinked into the room. He looked worse than ever, red-faced and flabby, and thoroughly evil. His eyes landed on Ash and they were filled with pure unbridled hatred.
Mal was seated next to their father, who was at the customary seat at the head of the table, still wearing the old-fashioned horsehair wig he'd worn for as long as Ash could remember. He, too, had no warmth in his eyes for Ash, but it was only the usual amount of indifference. Ash's mother sat to his left, keeping up with the fashions a little bit more than her husband, the ruffles of her sleeves reaching up to her ears. She'd never been especially interested in Ash, considering it her chief concern to raise her three daughters to marriage eligibility.
Eleanor, Agatha and Caroline were all present, their husbands and husband-to-be seated next to them. Caroline was increasing with her first child and had applied an excessive amount of rouge to hide what was probably a sickly pallor; by contrast, Eleanor was glowing with satisfaction at her impending marriage to a marquess' son. Agatha, the quietest of them, was married to Admiral Easterbury, an aged naval hero with deeply tanned skin who talked about nothing but shipping routes and navigation charts.
Michael, the middle son, who had always been Mal's lackey, had married the fashionable Lady Williamine, who at least occasionally spoke with genuine interest to Ash, if only on inquire about his tailor. Ash never told her the truth, knowing there would be hell to pay if Mal found out he'd sent a relation to one of Francis' vast web of affiliated tradesmen.
Ash wanted to go home. That was all. Usually he had a million ideas flitting around in his head, new clothes he wanted to try, places he wanted to see, things he waned to talk to Francis with, but now, all he could bring himself to think about was how much he wanted to be anywhere else.
"Gabriel," his father said, with distaste, when Ash seated himself. It was odd to hear that name in his father's mouth, now that it had so fully become the name his lover called him in Ash's mind. Odd to think he'd once started going by Ash because he despised his name so.
"Your Grace," Ash replied, hoping that would be fulfill his conversational duties for the evening.
It did not. Immediately, a cacophonous conversation about the flower arrangements for Eleanor's wedding dinner started, with every member of the family voicing their opinions in the loudest possible voice, cutting each other off and talking over each other. Ash had thought this type of dinner conversation unremarkable until he'd cut off Francis one day, and he'd said in that steady, gentle but firm voice, "May I finish my sentence, darling?" Ash had been conscious of it ever since.
He contributed only as much as necessary until the first course was served. With horror, he realised that the bland, medicinal diet his father had eaten all his life had been ordered for the whole family. In front of him sat a plate of beef broth so light it was almost indistinguishable from water; Ash knew from experience it would taste like it as well.
"Not to your taste, Gabriel?" his father asked, reading the displeased expression on Ash's face.
"N-no," Ash stammered instinctively, "That is, yes, I mean—"
"Get your words out, boy!" his father barked.
"He's a lost cause, Sir," Mal put in, "He's always been slow."
His mother, always concerned with familial harmony, which to her meant different, though equally aggravating topics, said, "When will you be getting married, Gabriel?"
A question he'd been asked a thousand times before. It stung every time, made him feel vaguely sick, and Ash quickly shoved a spoonful of watery soup to avoid having to answer. It tasted as watery as expected.
There had been a time when he had vaguely thought he'd marry one day, never mind the fact that he'd never felt the slightest urge to touch a woman, and spent most of his time around men. He'd casually mentioned it once, one warm evening, after they'd laid spent and satisfied on Francis' bed. It's a shame we won't be able to do this as often once we're married.
Francis had gone stiff, been even more monosyllabic than normal the next few days, until finally he'd sat Ash down and asked, in that earnest, serious way of his, if Ash wanted to get married.
Ash didn't , was the thing. He'd known plenty of men who carried on affaires, sometimes even with their wives' enthusiastic consent, but there was nothing there that appealed to him. He knew he would either have to spend time with a wife that he'd rather spend with Francis, or else become a source of gossip when people eventually noticed he was estranged from her. Besides, he had a vague notion that perhaps he and Francis could share rooms, or at least have adjacent rooms like Harry and Julius did, one day—something that would be completely unremarkable for two bachelors, and unthinkable for a married man.
And so, they'd come to conclusion, tearfully, that they'd remain unmarried, and in that joy of mutual assurance that they'd be building their lives around each other that almost bordered on what Ash imagined getting married would feel like, Ash also had to contend with a new feeling: Tthe certainty that his family would never leave him alone. He'd have to field this question for the rest of his life, they wouldn't stop even when he was old and grey, because any Ashleigh child was a valuable bargaining chip for the furtheration of the glory of the Warminster dukedom.
"Hrmg," Ash said eloquently.
" Mother, " Eleanor cried out, "You can't mean to have my wedding be overshadowed by Gabriel ."
Ash's father scoffed loudly. "After the disaster of Maltravers' engagement—No, be quiet Maltravers—We need any distraction we can get. Gabriel, once you are back in London, you will meet a number of suitable ladies her Grace has selected. It is time you stopped this frivolous life and took up your responsibilities. I daresay the ducal name will be enough to overcome your shortcomings in at least one eligible lady's eyes."
A wave of despair crashed over Ash. He wished in this moment he had Francis' wit and strength, or Richard's effortless authority, or at least Harry's courage that had made him declare he'd rather be free and poor than marry for obligation.
And Ash did not even have that obstacle. He was provided for in a way his father could not take from him, and yet, he couldn't muster a word of courage.
Luckily, his family did not require his input. When he said nothing and instead spooned tepid soup into his mouth, it was taken as an agreement.
The next week was awful. The abject misery slowly gave way to a terrifying numbness, like his eyes were always slightly unfocused, like he'd been packed in straw like an expensive hat shipped over from France.
He woke up in the mornings, let Jennings dress him in whatever the valet felt like, had breakfast where he nodded and smiled vacantly. After that, the women usually went to the village to look at various necessities for the wedding, and Ash would have loved to join them, but instead he was stuck with the men and had to go shooting and smoke and discuss the stocks. Not that he did much of any of that either; instead he would trail after them and hope not to attract attention.
The worst part, the very worst, was that he barely thought about Francis.
When he'd first agreed to become Francis' lover, he'd mostly thought about the fucking, but over the weeks that followed he realised he'd been enjoying his time with Francis enormously, even when they weren't inside each other. He enjoyed Francis' attempts at getting Ash to be better at cards; the long, quiet evenings and the boisterous nights. What had come as the greatest surprise of all, however, was that even when they were apart, the joy Francis had brought to his life remained. Ash had found himself always thinking of Francis, wondering how he might react to this or that, thinking of Francis in each of his own decisions. It was a kind of companionship Ash hadn't known before, and he realised now how lonely he'd been before he'd had someone else to consider in everything he did.
All that was gone now, as if Ash's mind didn't want to bring Francis to this miserable place. Still, it didn't make the solid rock of misery in Ash's stomach any less odious.
It was late when Ash stumbled into his room, grateful for the enveloping warmth of a fire already lit for him, and the warm glow that rescued him from the darkness of Warminster Hall's corridors. Jennings was already there, folding Ash's shirts which had been returned from the laundry.
"Good evening, my lord," he said, smoothly moving to the mirror where Ash presented himself to be peeled out of his coat. "A package arrived for you."
Ash nearly whipped around. He wasn't expecting a package; he was pretty sure he hadn't ordered anything.
"From whom?" he asked.
"Hawkes & Cheney, my lord. Did you forget you've ordered a new coat, sir?"
Jenning's voice was without reproach, but it wouldn't have been the first time Ash would've forgotten a purchase. He certainly wouldn't have forgotten ordering it to Warminster Hall, however.
He waited impatiently for Jennings to finish peeling his coat off, then walked over to the bed, where a large black box was laid out. It had the usual gold stamp with the Hawkes & Cheney initials, and it filled him with the same excitement he felt when he ordered new clothes, but this time, there was apprehension too. What if it was some sort of prank? One of those cruel ones his brothers and sisters had always played on him when they were children?
Carefully, he approached the box and flipped the lid open.
Inside the box was the most brilliant waistcoat Ash had ever seen. It had a shimmery purple colour, with a blue shine around the edges where the warm glow of the firelight touched it. There was no embroidery on it, letting the fine weave take the centre stage, sober and straightforward, yet ostentatious and attention-grabbing.
Ash moved closer and ran his fingers over the fine silk. The buttons gleamed, reflecting the orange glow behind Ash, making them look golden at the first glance. They weren't—that would've been the obvious choice, and Ash didn't make many of those—but instead they were a tasteful silver, picking up the color of the silver strands woven into the fabric. There was some subtle embossing on the buttons, one he didn't immediately recognise. When he bent down to look closer, inhaling the familiar scent of a freshly tailored garment, he saw the distinct shape of two Ws lying on their side, interlocking in the middle to create a subtle A.
When Ash lifted the waistcoat out of its box, a small, cream-coloured piece of paper fell out of the folds of fabric. Ash's heart skipped a beat. He put the waistcoat back and bent down to pick up the card, his heart beating faster as he moved closer to the card and its distinctive handwriting, spare but precise.
Lord Gabriel,
A certain young buck of our mutual acquaintance has been seen wearing a truly shocking waistcoat around town. I think it is much more suited to your colouring, so I took the liberty of having one tailored.
Take heart.
Ever yours,
FW
"My lord?" Jennings inquired, no doubt in response to the sob Ash hadn't quite been able to suppress.
"It's nothing," Ash said, hearing the emotion in his own voice. He closed his eyes. "Jennings?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"Would I be able to wear the same waistcoat for my entire remaining stay?"
"If you do not get any stains on it, my lord." Jennings' voice sounded dubious.
"Right," Ash told him, striding over to the writing desk and locking the calling card in the drawer. "I shall wear a napkin at supper."
He dismissed Jennings for the evening, watching him go—no doubt to his sweetheart—with a spring in his step, and burrowed into his bed, the closed box with the waistcoat in it next to him, clutching it as if the lover who had given it to him were there in its stead.
Ash took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against his father's study door. The Duke's muffled voice bid him enter. The welcome would probably have been a great deal less prompt if his father had known it was Ash knocking.
His heart always raced when he had to enter the study, but it was especially bad today. His palms were sweaty, his throat felt dry, and his clothes—the finest linen money could buy—felt itchy. All of it, except the grey-purple waistcoat, Francis's gift, covering his breast like an armor made from amethyst.
Lying in bed, he'd thought of Francis' unflinching faith in him when they'd planned on lying to that awful Home Office man—not Dominic—and when they were preparing to entrap Mal. How he hadn't yelled—or worse, ignored him—when Ash had confessed to having written and lost the damn fool letter. He'd been angry to be sure, but not at Ash. At Mal, and the world. And then he'd taken Ash in his arms and promised to fight, and if they lost, to run away with him.
Francis had set himself against the other Ricardians, who were his friends longer than he'd known Ash, because he would not compromise on Ash's happiness.
So, neither would Ash. He'd come to that conclusion during the night, during those awful hours before dawn when the world seemed too dark to bear, cradling the waistcoat.
He pushed down the door handle and entered.
His father was sitting behind his imposing desk, peering up at Ash with irritation.
"I'm busy, Gabriel," he said.
Ash planted his feet in front of the desk, not sitting on a chair that would not be offered.
"I'm s-sorry, Your Grace," Ash stammered, and took a deep breath. "I'll be b-brief. I have decided to join the trades. Francis Webster has offered me a position and I intend to take it. I expect I will be a great deal too busy for family engagements in the future, and I daresay I shouldn't like to ."
The thrill of breaking one of the immovable laws of society shot through Ash, almost as intoxicating as when he'd first kissed another boy.
This time however, his transgression would be public. People would talk, they would gossip, and they would treat him differently, and he would have to live with that.
Perhaps he would stop getting invitations, he might be given the cut, but—Francis would always be there, and so would the other Ricardians, and that was enough. More than enough—It was everything Ash wanted and imagined he could want.
His father's face had turned an unnatural shade of purple, contrasting sharply with the pure white wig.
"I don't know what game you're playing at, Gabriel. Maltravers has made certain... insinuations about you. I didn't credit them, naturally, but..." The duke's voice trailed off suggestively.
Ash remembered the first time Francis had tried to teach him to play cards. They'd been holed up at Francis's home, well-fed from an excellent dinner and well-lubricated by Francis's brandy, and they'd played a few hands that Ash had summarily lost.
"You've got no mind for numbers, my dear Gabriel," Francis had said with a fond smile, "But you have a sense for people, and you're an excellent liar. So, don't try to count the cards, just watch and lie like the devil."
He debated playing at toughness—the only language his father understood—but he'd come to understand that this wasn't what Francis had meant.
Francis believed Ash was at his best when he was exactly who he was—not strong, not thoughtful, not stoic and unflappable, but thoughtless and frivolous, concerned with clothes and his friends rather than money and politics. And so he let his lips quiver, and his shoulders hunch when he spoke.
"It's not my fault, if you weren't such a dashed miser—"
His father rose from his seat, looming larger than his natural height as he called on his full ducal might.
"You— You insolent, worthless— You dare! After suckling at the teat of the family for all your worthless life! Get out of my sight! Get out!"
Ash let the familiar words wash over him, for once with happiness rather than despair, because they meant he was finally free.
Ash crashed through the doors of Arrendene's sitting room with a wave of relief. Francis, who was sitting on the settee, all but dropped the paper he'd been reading and strode towards Ash with quick steps. Ash saw the joy and warmth dawn on his face, and knew his face held the same. To be safe, he turned the key behind him, and then he was being soundly kissed.
It wasn't until that moment when Ash realised just how much he had missed Francis. It was like he could take full lungs of air again, even if he was currently being kissed breathless. He clung to Francis with both hands, absorbing the warmth and the love he'd been starved of.
He'd had to sit out the rest of the week after that confrontation with his father, enduring several more interrogations and shouted accusations, but he'd felt nothing but relief, as if the poisonous words were bouncing off the grey-purple waistcoat, shielding him from the knowledge that he was despised with the certainty that he was loved.
Richard had already given them the use of Arrendene even before Ash had left for Warminster Hall, and the rest of the Ricardians would be making visits in the coming days. Everything would be good.
Finally Francis untangled himself and leaned back to examine Ash.
"You look good, better than usual after a stay with your family. The waistcoat—"
"I wore it every day since you sent it. Oh Francis—" Ash couldn't help it, he threw himself into Francis' arms. "I might have to become a tradesman, Francis. You'll have to give me a position and I daresay I won't be very good at it—"
Francis cut him off with another kiss, just a quick press of his lips this time, just enough to stop Ash's thoughts.
"My dear, I'm sure whatever it is, it can be fixed. If it is just by you entering my employ, consider yourself hired."
Francis pulled him over to the settee, laying down with Ash draped over him like they'd done that first night they had been lovers.
"Tell me," Francis rumbled into Ash's ear, fingers carding through his hair.
Ash did. He told the whole story, dwelling probably too long on the misery and then on the salvation of a waistcoat, while Francis stroked his hair.
"It all seems so silly now. I daresay you'll tell me it all won't work like I thought," Ash said, feeling slightly wretched. He'd learned not to trust himself with planning or scheming, and yet...
Francis was silent for a moment, deeply considering like he always did, his breath slow and hot against Ash's temple.
"No," he said at length, "I think it was a brilliant and brave plan, and it will work. But, Gabriel, is that what you truly want? People will talk."
Ash squirmed around, propping himself up with his hands bracketing Francis' face, and looked deep into his lover's eyes. For once, he saw some uncertainty there.
"I thought about it and— Even if I'm never received in company again, even if my father disowns me, I've had my fill of it all. As long as you're with me."
Francis' arms reached around Ash and pulled him down.
They kissed for a long time, burrowed deep into each others' warmth, the love pouring out from Ash's heart at the same rate it was poured back into him.
"Gabriel," Francis panted, "My Gabriel, what do you want?"
In this moment, Ash was so greedy it hurt. He wanted everything, to live forever, to kiss forever, to tell the whole world and beyond how much he loved Francis.
He couldn't have everything, but in a world full of people who couldn't get what they wanted, Ash was pretty sure he was the happiest man of them all.
"You, me, naked in a bed," he said, "Not having to get up for at least a fortnight."
Francis laughed, that rare laugh only Ash got to see, and kissed him again.