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Chapter Text

Pierre could think of few things he’d enjoy less than sitting in a cramped carriage after a two hour ferry across the La Manche, but sitting in a cramped carriage alongside a talkative old lady was one of them. 

“What brings you across the Channel? I was visiting my sister in Paris, it’s a lovely city. Is that where you’re from? I should think not, you seem like good country-folk like myself. Are you visiting anyone?” 

Pierre rolled his eyes. If she wanted her questions to be answered, she ought to give him a second to respond, instead of blathering on and on. Not that he particularly cared to partake in her interrogation, anyway, but it would be nice to have the option. Finally, the woman took a moment to breathe, looking expectantly at him to carry on the conversation.

“My destination is Langston Manor. The master of the house hired me recently to teach 'is son.” 

There. That’s all there was to say about it. He certainly wasn’t about to tell her that Lord Langston was the husband–now widower, he thought, the crack in his heart growing deeper– of his first love. That their child was supposed to be the spitting image of his mother, and it had been her dying wish to see her son embrace his French heritage. That the only reason he’d accepted the position was because he longed to see Marie-Claire again, and maybe he’d be able to feel her presence there.

Fortunately, the woman didn’t seem terribly interested in hearing any more about Pierre’s tragic story or his reasons behind upending his entire life in France for a woman who wasn’t even alive. She rambled for the rest of the nearly three hour journey into Ashwood-on-Sea, a small coastal village known for its vast fishing enterprise, although Pierre knew that the seaside cliffs and caves were the real appeal for Lord Langston. 

As Pierre followed the worn path from the village proper to the Langston estate, he wondered why Marie-Claire had ever wanted to live in this place. Brambles scraped at his trouser legs and he had to watch every step to make sure his shoes didn’t meet horse droppings. Anyone who says sea air is nice has never visited the real coast. The smell of dead fish and tar invaded his nostrils, and damp wind made him shiver despite the summer season. 

By the time his arms started to ache from carrying his bags, he arrived. The main house had tall, stone walls with wrought-iron balconies framing three stories of windows. A set of columns outlined the entryway to two large black double doors. To the left of the house there was a large meadowy expanse, and Pierre spotted a pair of horses grazing happily in the distance. To the right was a flower garden and orchard, and a winding path Pierre assumed led to the seaside. The garden appeared overgrown, and the cherry trees were practically leaning with the weight of unharvested fruit. 

Speaking of which, Pierre felt himself drooping with the effort of hiking with his luggage for so long, so he stopped himself from exploring the grounds here and now, and instead waltzed up to the door and knocked. He heard faint scuttling from within before the door opened. 

The man who answered looked exactly how Pierre imagined the butler of a stately home would; of course there was the standard uniform, but his hair was also neatly combed down the middle, his posture was straight as a board, and he had the expression of someone who would spontaneously implode should a singular speck of dust find its way to his pristine white shirt. 

He raised an eyebrow at Pierre’s own disheveled appearance and with a voice that could only be described as plutocratic, said, “You must be the new tutor.” 

“ Oui , that is me, Pierre Beaumont,” he responded, attempting to subtly brush the dust off his trousers. “’Ow do you do?” 

He extended a hand towards the butler, but the other man didn’t even flinch. 

“How do you do,” he said simply. “You may call me Beauregard II.” 

Pierre didn’t have a chance to wonder what happened to the first Beauregard before he was being motioned through the doors into a grand entryway. The ceiling was vaulted with matching granite staircases leading up to a mezzanine floor, which itself opened up to a fathomless corridor, presumably leading to the private chambers of members of the household. As Pierre marvelled at the sight of the crown molding, chiseled from what seemed to be coade stone, rather than traditional wood or plaster, Beauregard II escorted him towards the back of the house, where a simpler, wooden staircase went all the way from the cellar to the third floor. 

“ Your room will be upstairs on the gentlemen’s side. Second door on the right,” Beauregard II explained, turning around and walking away.

Apparently the tour was over, and Pierre muttered a disgruntled “ Merci,” beginning his trek up two flights of stairs. By the time he reached the top floor, he was completely out of breath. He bent down for a moment, placing his bags on the ground while leaning against his thighs, huffing and puffing. He’d taken a job as a tutor, not a mountain climber, for goodness sake! Then, because the world sought to provide him no dignity, there was a loud whack! followed by the sound of an Englishman swearing, a Frenchman toppling to the ground, and a bag tumbling back down a staircase. 

“Oh goodness me!” the unknown Englishman exclaimed. “My sincerest apologies, you– you must be the new tutor! Oh I’m so sorry.”

The man kept rambling his apologies as he offered a hand to Pierre and helped to hoist him back to his feet. Upon further inspection, his most notable features were his very tall height and the messy mop of curls atop his head. His clothes were far less refined than the butler’s, more befitting of a role working outdoors. 

“Are you the gardener?” Pierre asked, curious if he was the man responsible for lack of upkeep of the fruit trees out front. 

“No, oh goodness, where are my manners? My name is Tarquin Rockhouse, I’m the groom here.”

Well that certainly explained a lot. Tarquin certainly behaved as though he spent significantly more time with animals than people, and he was probably about as tall as a horse anyways. Pierre hid a smile behind his hand as his mind conjured an image of the man standing eye-to-eye with a Clydesdale. 

“Do you need help with your bags?” Tarquin asked, eyeing the suitcase that was now resting on the second-floor landing. 

Of course, the proper thing to do would be to gently decline the offer. However, quite frankly, Pierre could not be bothered to do the proper thing anymore. All he really wanted to do was to get to his room, unpack his things, and lie face-down for the rest of the day.

Thankfully, Tarquin was plenty eager to help, scooping up both bags and carrying them to Pierre’s room with an ease that suggested they contained nothing but clouds. Seemingly satisfied with his penance for bumping into Pierre when they first met, Tarquin set the bags down by the doorframe and excused himself to return to his afternoon chores. 

Finally alone, Pierre took a moment to assess his surroundings. The room was bigger than he expected, with enough room for a four-poster bed carved out of what Pierre thought to be ash wood, a pale blue settee underneath the window, and a dressing table of similar design to the bedframe. A wardrobe was also propped up in the corner nearest to the door, and its dark staining matched the pair of nightstands on either side of the bed. Truly, it was one of the most luxurious rooms Pierre had ever seen, and he wondered how grand the rooms for the master of the house must be, if even his servants were permitted to live in such nice quarters. After a few hours spent settling in, Tarquin came back to retrieve him so that the housekeeper, Mrs. Addams, could give him a proper introduction to the Langston Estate. 

Mrs. Addams herself was a middle-aged woman with dark hair peppered by streaks of silver, which she wore in a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She was about the same height as Pierre, but held herself with such confidence that he couldn’t help feeling like she was about to crush him under her heel. Her speech pattern could best be described as erratic and long-winded, and Pierre found himself struggling to follow along as she explained the rules of the household using confusing metaphors and superfluous prose.

“This house… is a temple!” she crooned, leading him down the corridor to where the classroom was located. “A place which holds the history of generations… of men and women! A pyramid housing the endless expanse of past and future events, forging the rivers of time through its halls…”

She paused for a while, staring blankly into the middle distance. 

“I feel a bit faint,” she said finally, excusing herself with a flourish of her shawl, leaving Pierre lost in the mansion. 

Perfect , he thought. With no idea where the classroom could be, and no memory of the direction he’d come from, Pierre decided to just keep walking in a direction and hope that he could find his way out before anyone stumbled across him, wandering the halls in confusion. 

“Who are you?” a small voice chirped from behind him. 

“ Mon dieu!” Pierre yelped, spinning around. 

When he did, he came face-to-face with a small boy, and Pierre felt as though he was looking at a ghost. Bradley Langston was only ten years old, but he was the spitting image of his mother. His auburn locks were the same as the hair Pierre learned to braid with, his hazel eyes had the same flecks of honey-gold that used to stare at him with mischievous glee before inevitably getting him in trouble, and even the freckles dotting his nose were a similar pattern of brown constellations across rosy cheeks that Pierre had spent hours studying. 

“You’re French!” the boy exclaimed, and even his voice was the same as Marie-Claire’s.

“ Oui, ” Pierre eked out, trying to hide the fact that his throat was closing and eyes stinging with tears. “You must be Bradley, mon nouvel élève.”

Bradley looked puzzled for a moment, clearly translating the language in his head. 

“ Je m’appelle Chip,” he said carefully, pronouncing each word slowly and effortfully, beaming at Pierre when he was finished.

Pierre stared blankly for a minute, trying to process the fact that this is Marie-Claire’s son, the child of the love of his life– standing before him with a smile so bright and wide, completely unaware of who he’s even talking to.

“You look just like ‘er…” he whispered. He blinked several times, almost expecting the boy to be nothing but an illusion. 

Bradley’s– Chip’s – eyes grew even wider than they already were. 

“You knew Maman?” he asked in a disbelieving tone. 

“ Oui, Chip,” Pierre replied, clearing his throat and resisting the tears which stung behind his eyes. What had he gotten himself into? 

“She and I… we– we grew up together. In the same village,” he explained. 

“Were you friends? Dad says Maman was always better at making friends than him. Is that true? Oh! Do you know my grandfather? He came to visit once and brought me a model of a ship! He used to be in the– um, what was it called? The French boat people– wait, I know this one– La Royale! He was a captain which meant he was in charge of a bunch of other people, and he could read a map! He’d show me all the places he’s been to, did you know he went to Italy once? Ooh, there’s a map in the classroom, I can show you!”

With that, Pierre found himself being led by a very enthusiastic ten year old towards the classroom. As he dragged his new teacher along, Chip never stopped talking, and Pierre wondered how long it had been since someone was around to listen to him like this. 

After a half-hour, half-accurate geography lecture, Pierre finally excused himself, sending Chip away to freshen up before supper. His first lesson here, and he wasn’t even the one teaching it. Embarrassing, yes, but promising for the future of his job. Chip was clearly not shy, and enthusiastic about learning. It would be easy, just as long as he could forget who Chip’s parents were…

“Pierre!” 

Mrs. Addams seemed to appear out of thin air in the corridor, standing at the threshold of the classroom like she was posing for a portrait– arms stretched out to her sides, head tilted at an upward angle, toes pointed and peeking out from under her skirt. 

“Lord Langston has requested your presence in his study after supper!” Every word she spoke had a poetic air to it, a hint of theatricality in every phrase. “Also, the food is ready in the kitchen!” 

In the blink of an eye, she was gone, leaving Pierre to navigate all the way back through the endless hallways by himself. 

Pierre managed to make it downstairs in time to be served his meal while everyone else was getting seconds. Tarquin gave him a sympathetic look, promising that the manor became easier to navigate after the first week or so. Pierre was skeptical about receiving advice regarding the interior of the house from someone who spent so much of his time outdoors, but thanked him anyway. Sally, the maid-of-all-work, who couldn’t have been much older than sixteen, offered to bring him to the classroom tomorrow, assuming he was willing to get up at five-thirty when she made her rounds to light the fires in the morning. Pierre politely declined. 

Over dinner, Pierre learned that most of the staff ate together, with the exception of Beauregarde II, who ate alone in his room or in town, presumably to avoid the chaos Pierre was currently experiencing. 

The cook, Sandra, was apparently served first, inhaling her food before getting back up to adjust the dishes several hundred times, even if everyone else insisted her cakes were plenty moist. After her, the food was first-come, first-served. Sally and Mrs. Addams ate quickly, tending to the family in the dining room as needed before, during, and after the meal. Pierre was shocked by the number of times one of them was called in given the family consisted of only two people. (The things money did to people– could they really not acquire another butter knife for themselves? Was running out of bread rolls really a catastrophe requiring such immediate attention that Sally nearly fell over her chair trying to get up quickly?) He and Tarquin seemed to be the only ones able to enjoy their meal in peace, if a tad awkwardly given Tarquin’s lack of conversational ability and Pierre’s lack of interest in horses. Still, they managed to get into quite the heated discussion over pan au chocolate , with Sandra chiming in occasionally, mostly trying to rile them up with her contributions. It worked better on Tarquin, who could actually understand her thick Scottish accent and, quite frankly, had stronger opinions on pastries than Pierre expected of an Englishman. 

Sooner than Pierre would have liked, the meal was over, and he and Tarquin were ushered out of the kitchen; Pierre because he had to meet the boss, Tarquin because he was known to hinder the clean-up process more than help it. Also, although everyone was kind enough to keep this part to themselves, Pierre still needed help navigating the manor, especially if he was to make it to his meeting before sunrise tomorrow.

Tarquin deposited him just outside Lord Langston’s study with a kind smile and a wish good luck, which only served to make Pierre wonder why he would need luck at all. Anxiously, Pierre rapped his knuckles on the wooden door. While he waited to be permitted entry, he admired the illustration of a mountain range carved into the wood, beautiful enough to have been done by someone with a sincere love for geological formations, but shaky enough to show the limited artistic skills of said person. Pierre heard the rustling of papers, then footsteps which became louder before the door was pulled open from the inside. 

Standing before Pierre was a tired-looking man a few inches taller than Pierre. His dark hair looked hastily combed away from his face and the flecks of gray made him look much older, even though Pierre knew he was only a few years his senior. Behind him was the study, large enough for an entire wall of bookshelves and two desks. One was dark mahogany, tidy with a vase of fresh sunflowers next to a pot of ink and a box of unused quills. The other was both less ornate and less organized, and it clearly saw far more use than the other. The tabletop was scattered with rock samples and scraps of labeling paper, and a field journal was open next to a large piece of limestone and various oddly-shaped tools. Pierre was invited inside to sit in front of the mahogany desk, where his nostrils were immediately accosted by dust particles. 

“Sorry about the air in here. You get used to it after a while,” Lord Langston explained, taking the chair behind the desk. 

Pierre nodded, offering a polite smile. It went unreturned. 

“Let’s get straight to business, shall we? You will be my son’s tutor; it was his mother’s dying wish that he continues to cultivate his French heritage. As such, I expect you to instruct my son both in the traditional subjects as well as matters pertaining to culture. His mother also worked hard to teach him the language, and you will continue that education as well. During your first two months, you will give a weekly lesson plan and report to Mrs. Addams; after that you will meet with her once every six weeks to discuss my son’s progress. From time to time, it may be appropriate for you to give me an update directly, in which case I will arrange for us to have a meeting such as this one.”

As Lord Langston spoke, Pierre tried to suppress his rage. He hadn’t known just how angry he would feel upon meeting this man who had stolen away the truest love he’d ever known. He didn’t even refer to his own son or wife by name, he talked about them both so impersonally. Honestly, how could Marie-Claire choose him over Pierre? Just because he’s intelligent, and tall, with gorgeous dark green eyes? Was it the voice that makes every word sound like poetry being read by angels? Or maybe the jawline that rivaled the Greeks’ marble statues? Truly, what was it she saw in him?

“One last thing,” Lord Langston added, “I heard you grew up in Von Daunt village, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Pierre replied. 

“My wife was from there as well, perhaps you knew her? Her name was Marie-Claire.”

Pierre blinked several times. Somehow it was different, more startling, hearing her name from the lips of someone else who knew her. Who loved her. 

“P– perhaps,” he stuttered. “I mean, yes, sir, I did.”

“Were you close?” Lord Langston asked. His expression was unreadable as he stared at Pierre from less than a meter away, as if trying to read his very soul.

“We were friends as children. I was saddened to ‘ear of her passing,” he answered truthfully. Anything that may have happened in between was irrelevant, now. 

Lord Langston nodded slowly. “That will be all,” he said finally, dismissing Pierre from the meeting. 

Pierre decided that any sobs he heard on his way out were none of his business. He was here for a job. An admittedly much more emotionally complicated job than he thought he’d signed up for, but nonetheless. He couldn’t let pesky feelings get in the way.

Chapter Text

The first month spent at the Langston Estate flew by quickly. Chips’ endless thirst for knowledge kept Pierre on his toes and constantly busy. He found himself researching subjects he never thought he would just to satiate this child’s endless curiosity. Mrs. Addams, in her own strange way, commended him for his efforts. 

“You, Pierre, are an endless font of wisdom, a castle of knowledge, a colosseum where the bloody battle between fact and misinformation rages fierce! Teaching the child as a mountain teaches the rivers where to flow, as a bird teaches its young to fly! The riches held, material and metaphorical, within your mind that you gift to him on beams of starlight!” 

And here Pierre was, thinking he had a grasp of the English language. But Mrs. Addams seemed supportive, at the very least. 

As for Chip, he constantly reminded Pierre of Marie-Claire. It was the simplest things, the tiniest of expressions, but every time one would happen, his heart would jolt, until it was reminded that this was not her. 

“Pierre, can you tell me a story about Maman?” Chip begged one afternoon.

 It was hot in the classroom even with the windows wide open and a pitcher of water that Sally had been kind enough to refill three times already. Pierre could tell the boy had been getting antsy since lunch, and they weren’t going to be doing anything productive for the rest of the day anyways. 

“We can take a walk,” Pierre offered, “and I will tell you a story about how your Maman and I pulled off the greatest ‘eist the world has ever seen.”

Chip’s eyes positively lit up, and soon he was practically dragging Pierre outside. 

“Chip, if you want a story you must let me breathe!” he exclaimed, but Chip only marginally slowed his pace. 

“ S'il vous plaît, the story,” he pleaded. 

Pierre’s breath caught in his throat at the eyes he was being given, and he couldn’t tell whether it was because that expression was identical to Marie-Claire’s, or if it was the fact that Chip was the one making it. Regardless, he obliged. 

“Your Maman and I grew up in a village with many farmers, who grew all sorts of wonderful things. There was a family that owned an orchard with fig trees as far as the eye could see, a couple who owned a giant onion field, and another that grew pears and apples in the fall and roses in the spring. But there was one farm owned by one man that was our favorite. ‘Is name was Monsieur Oliver, and atop a hill, he grew ‘undreds and ‘undreds of  fraises.”

“Strawberries…!” Chip marveled. 

Pierre smiled. “Correct. Now, Monsieur Oliver was not a friendly man. ‘E always ‘ad something bad to say, and ‘e never wanted to share his food with the village. So one day, your Maman decided she wanted to get revenge on ‘im, and she told me ‘Pierre, we are going to steal every single one of that man’s strawberries, and then we will share them with all our friends and invite everyone over to make strawberry jam except for ‘im, and then maybe ‘e will learn to be nice.’ 

“That afternoon, we snuck over to the field with our baskets and began picking berries. We picked until our fingers were red from juice and our faces red from ‘eat, but we still ‘ad barely covered a few rows of the field. We knew we would need more ‘elp, so we invited all of our friends to come and bring their baskets and pick strawberries. But even after hours of work, the field was not empty, and we were so tired.”

“So what did you do?” Chip asked, completely invested in the strawberry-related escapades. 

“We realized we would never be able to pick every single berry by ourselves, but then, your Maman had a brilliant idea: we could just bring everyone we were planning to invite to the strawberry party to the field, and do it then and there! We brought everyone in town to this field, with jars and baskets and even sugar. It was amazing. And when the farmer finally noticed, ‘e was furious, but ‘e could not do anything about it because the whole village was there!”

Pierre found himself smiling at the memory, the reddened face of Monsieur Oliver when he realized his farm had been taken over by the entire village. He remembered how Marie-Claire had laughed about it for weeks. It was always one of his fondest memories of her.

“Do you miss her?” Chip asked, pulling Pierre out of his trance. 

“ Oui, ” Pierre answered. 

They had reached the garden, the one Pierre had noticed was completely overgrown when he first arrived. It appeared to be in even worse condition up close. The soil was dry and cracked, weeds had taken over the plots and were growing prolifically. 

“This was Maman’s garden,” Chip said softly, kneeling on the sun-bleached grass beside what once was a flower bed. “She planted one every spring. Only this year, when I asked when we were going to plant one, she said she didn’t know. She said she was too tired. But I could’ve helped. We could’ve planted strawberries.”

A piece of Pierre’s heart shattered for Chip. For all his intelligence, it was easy to forget he was still only a small child who’d lost his mother far too soon. That pain would likely never go away, but this… this was something he could help with.

“It’s not too late in the year to plant a garden,” he suggested. “We might even be able to grow strawberries.”

Chip sniffed, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Yes please,” he replied, his face once again reminding Pierre of someone else. This time, however, the way his eyes were narrowed slightly to prevent tears from falling, the strained, sad, half-smile on his face, as if putting on a show that everything was fine, Chip’s expression was pure Cliff. And for some reason, that still caused a pang in his chest.

The next week, Pierre and Chip held most of their afternoon lessons outdoors, working on the garden while discussing books, science, or conversing in French, to keep up the ruse of this being an educational activity. Luckily, no one seemed to care much where lessons were being held, so long as they were actually happening. Pierre told Chip more of his Marie-Claire stories, and got the impression that his parents had rarely spoken about her life before moving to England. He preferred not to dwell on his suspicions about why. 

At the end of the week, Chip excitedly asked if they could spend Saturday and Sunday working on the garden as well. Pierre thought about it but ultimately declined, citing a need to rest and to let the garden take a break as well. Besides, he had weekend plans.

Every two weeks, each staff member was allowed a day off. Pierre spent his first one being taught to ride a horse by Tarquin, which went smoother than either of them expected. So much so that the next free evening, Tarquin decided they should go into town to visit the local tavern. 

It’s a short trip on a horse, and Tarquin knew a route that doesn’t involve practically scaling a mountain. If only Pierre had known that a few weeks ago. The pair arrived at the tavern and tied up their horses before entering. Known as the Golden Bell, the tavern was one of very few establishments in town, and the only place which served food. As such, it was overrun by fishermen, sailors, and the odd traveler. Pierre wrinkled his nose at the stench of fish and sweat mixed with ale as they approached the bar, where they were greeted by a young girl, probably around Sally’s age, if Pierre had to guess. 

“Hi, Tarquin!” she said brightly, smiling at him before turning to look at Pierre quizzically. “Who’s this?”

“This is Pierre, he’s Chip’s new tutor,” Tarquin explained. “And Pierre, this is Amanda, her father owns the Golden Bell.”

“Nice to meet you,” Amanda said politely. “What can I get you?”

“Oh, um… I don’t suppose you ‘ave a brandy?” It was a valid question. During the war, it would have been difficult to have imported, impossible to do so legally. 

“We do, actually! Believe it or not, we have some from before the wars. It’s not terribly popular, but Father bought a stash of imported wines and liquors before it all started. Most of the French wines were bought up fast, but there was only one person around here who ever drank brandy.” 

And Pierre knew exactly who that was. He sipped from the glass that was placed before him, but it tasted like nothing. 

“So, Pierre, what brings you to work here?” Amanda asked cheerfully. “I can’t imagine it’s the promise of good food.”

“I always wanted to live by the sea,” he lied. It wasn’t even a good lie, but it was better than the truth.

“It is nice here,” Amanda agreed. “Mrs. Langston always liked the sea, too, do you remember Tarquin? Maybe it’s something about French people!”

Amanda giggled at herself, but Tarquin only nodded. Pierre just gulped down the lump which was forming in his throat. He took another sip of his drink, which stung at the back of his throat.

“I’m going to go check on the horses,” Tarquin announced, abruptly standing up from his seat, pushing past drunk people to reach the exit. Amanda quirked an eyebrow at his retreating form and picked up the half-empty glass of beer he’d left behind. 

“I guess it’s too soon to talk about her,” Amanda said with a shrug. “I guess I’d be shaken up, too, if I was the one who’d found her.”

Pierre’s eyes went wide, and he suddenly felt completely sober despite the near-empty glass in front of him.

“What do you mean ‘found her?’” he asked slowly.

“The day she died,” Amanda explained matter-of-factly. “Tarquin was the one who found her on the beach after she jumped.”

Pierre’s head spun. He didn’t know how Marie-Claire died, he’d assumed it was illness, or an accident. Something unpreventable. Not… not intentional. 

“Pierre, are you alright?” Amanda’s voice sounded muffled, like his ears were full of cotton.

“ Oui, but– I need to go.”

Pierre stood up sharply, placing a few coins on the countertop to cover his and Tarquin’s drinks. He suspected Tarquin had a tab here, but now was not the time to concern himself with that. He needed to get out quickly, and he needed to not have to say anything more. 

He wasn’t sure where he was headed other than “anywhere except here,” but he wound up following the sound of the ocean to the bluffs just beyond the Langston Estate. Below him, the waves crashed rhythmically, pulling the tide out into the liquid gold of the setting sun. He had no desire to get close to the edge, but his eyes couldn’t resist glancing down at the pebble-covered beach below. As if trying to prove to himself it really existed, was really a far enough plummet that it could have taken her away. He traced the path of a bird flying to land to roost for the evening, watching as it glided all the way down until he was distracted by the sight of someone else hovering on the cliffs.

Lord Langston.

He wore a brown overcoat coat that reached his knees, practically blending in with the surroundings, but Pierre spotted him nonetheless. He stood as stiff and still as a slab of marble, looking blankly out at the horizon. The orange glow of the evening light barely illuminated his melancholy expression as his lips moved faintly, words lost to the wind. 

Pierre recognized that deep sadness. It was the same one present in himself, though his had been festering for far longer. Perhaps that was the difference between him and Lord Langston. While Pierre’s loss had happened slowly, steadily over many years, like a rock being tumbled by the ocean’s waves, Lord Langston’s had come quick, like a chisel cracking through stone in one swift strike. He felt that way today, when Amanda had revealed the nature of Marie-Claire’s death. He felt like someone had come at him with a diamond saw blade and sliced him straight through the middle like a geode– only there wasn’t a beautiful crystal inside, just a devastatingly empty crater in his soul. 

Had Marie-Claire felt like that here? She was always so happy, so full of energy and joy. So what changed? What made her feel so terrible that she felt the need to escape from this world?

It was all too easy to get lost in the what-ifs. The fantasy that had he been here for her, if it was Pierre who she took late-night strolls along the beach with instead… that maybe she would still be here. 

But he saw the way Lord Langston looked when he talked about her. His were not the eyes of someone who wouldn’t care for, protect, and love Marie-Claire. And Pierre trusted her reasons for making the choice she did, however unknown to him they might be. 

In the dusky darkness, he supposed there was something to Lord Langston’s appearance. And when the breeze tickled his cheeks, his face twitched almost imperceptibly, but it was just enough for the corners of his eyes to wrinkle as if he was smiling. Perhaps his hands were soft and warm, perhaps he smelled like soil after a fresh spring rain. Maybe his lips were gentle and smooth, and maybe kissing him would send a rush of nerves throughout one’s chest and– 

It was getting dark.

The sun officially dipped far enough below the horizon that Pierre knew if he didn’t find his way back to the manor soon, he’d be stuck out here until morning. Besides, dreaming had never gotten him anywhere useful. Best to stick to reality, however painful it might be. 

The snap of a twig distracted him, and he swiveled around to check for whatever nocturnal creature must surely be behind him, ready to pounce–

“Pierre?” Lord Langston’s startled voice came from just beyond a curve in the path through the orchards. “Is that you?”

“ Oui, Lord Langston,” Pierre replied, placing a hand on his chest to calm his racing heartbeat. 

“Forgive me, did I startle you?” the taller man asked, approaching him until they were walking in step with one another. 

“It’s quite alright, sir,” Pierre mumbled bashfully.

“You know, it was bound to happen sometime, me scaring the hell out of one of the staff out here late at night,” Lord Langston said. 

Pierre nodded. “You are out here often?”

“Yes,” he admitted. He fiddled with a button on his coat, twisting it around the threads. “I feel closest to her when I’m out here– Marie-Claire. I’m sure it sounds ridiculous–”

“No,” Pierre interrupted. “I understand perfectly.”

Marie-Claire had always loved the outdoors, the wide expanses of sky, the grasses and trees, large open bodies of water for swimming; this really was her kind of place to live. Even before her passing, Pierre had often felt closer to her whenever he was looking up at the shapes forming in the clouds, trying to decipher their language. 

“So,” Lord Langston continued casually, “Chip has been telling me some stories.”

Pierre’s eyes widened, and he was grateful for the shadows obscuring his face. “Oh?”

“Mhm. And unless he’s been exaggerating, it sounds to me like you knew my wife more than you let on when we first met,” Lord Langston added, a hint of suggestion in his tone.

“I did not mean to lie to you, sir–”

Lord Langston cut him off with a wave of his hand. 

“No, no, that’s not– I’m not angry, Pierre,” he clarified. His voice was back to its more nervous register, the one that made him sound like he was perpetually on the verge of apologizing. “I just wish I’d known, is all. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to, about her.”

“Oh.” It was all Pierre could bring himself to say. 

“Pierre–” Lord Langston stopped himself this time, a frustrated sigh escaping his throat. “Would it be too much to ask for you to continue telling my son about his mother? I know it can be hard– I find it difficult myself to speak about her– but, well. You know as much as I do how wonderful she was, and I think Chip deserves a chance to know her, don’t you?”

Pierre inhaled sharply as he fought against the lump in his throat. 

“Yes, sir. I agree,” he mustered. 

Lord Langston nodded his approval, and Pierre knew he only wasn’t smiling because that would likely lead to tears. They had reached the front door, and Pierre held it open as they both stepped into the unlit entryway.

“Very good. Thank you,” Lord Langston said, pacing towards the staircase. “Oh, and Pierre?”

“ Oui?”

“You were her best friend, I was her husband. You can call me Cliff.”

Lord Langston disappeared up the stairs, climbing them two at a time, making use of his freakishly long legs. Pierre simply nodded into the darkness, confused but grateful, and ready for the days that would follow.

Chapter Text

Pierre lounged on his settee beneath the window, reading the rather dense novel Chip had chosen for this week’s lessons, enjoying the sight of the setting sun. Only, the orange glow wasn’t only coming from the west, but also from the north— down the hill, towards the town. And above the glow, thick, black smoke billowing up into the sky. So much for a relaxed evening in. 

Grabbing his overcoat from the wardrobe, Pierre thundered downstairs into the foyer where he found Tarquin comforting a distressed Sally and Sandra comforting an even more distressed Mrs. Addams. 

“What is ‘appening?” he exclaimed breathlessly. 

“The Wilson’s tavern is on fire!” Sally wept. “And Amanda is in there and she’s my best friend but they won’t let me go down to see if she’s alright!” 

The young girl broke down into tears, wailing into Tarquin’s shirt as he pet her hair in an attempt to soothe her. 

“And ‘er?” Pierre asked, looking towards Mrs. Addams. 

“She’s afraid of fire,” Sandra whispered. “Says she’s sure that’s how she’s gonna die.” 

“Right…” Pierre's head was spinning, both from lack of proper breathing and because of the emotional whiplash of his evening. 

“People!” 

Everyone turned to look up at the mezzanine, where Lord Langston— Cliff— stood, his presence almost as commanding as that of Mrs. Addams on any other day. 

“We need to gather everyone in town to help put this fire out and stop it from spreading,” Cliff announced. “Tarquin and Pierre, come with me.”

The pair of men diligently followed him to the stables where Tarquin and Cliff mounted their horses. Pierre glanced nervously at the mare offered to him, praying that she would behave for him as well as she had the previous few times he’d ridden her. He tentatively approached her, about to take the reins when Cliff tapped him gently with his foot. 

“Hop on,” he said, motioning his head behind him.

Technically, there was enough room on the saddle for them to sit, but he would have to hold onto Cliff if he had any chances of staying put, and what with them being in a rush and how fast the horse would be going…

Five minutes later, Pierre was clinging onto Cliff’s torso for dear life, muttering French curses into the wind as he keenly felt every thump of the horse’s hooves on the dirt. Fortunately, it was a short ride when one was going nearly twenty miles per hour, and by the time they reached town and took in the sight of The Golden Bell up in flames, the last thing on his mind was how close he’d just been to Cliff, how stable he’d felt leaning into his frame. 

The fire had already consumed most of the structure, with only a few pillars and beams visible through the flames. There was heat and smoke in the air and men shouting orders as people passed buckets of water from wells and the sea to the building. Others were building up a perimeter of wet dirt and stones to prevent the spread of the flames. 

As the night progressed, Pierre found himself pulled to and fro, dousing rubble, running water buckets, and avoiding floating sparks. At one point, Cliff dragged him to the water’s edge and encouraged him to dunk himself in the sea so he’d be less likely to be burned. Pierre complied, and they both abandoned their outerwear, clothed only in wet shirts and casual pants. 

As he tied his boots back on, Pierre averted his eyes from Cliff’s chest where the fabric clinging to his skin revealed the contour of his muscles, his broad, strong shoulders, the peek of collarbone where his shirt was cut deep in the front. 

Eventually, the fire burned out, leaving only the smouldering remains of a once-beloved tavern. Most of the townspeople returned home, and Tarquin led Mr. Wilson and Amanda to the manor, where they were invited to stay until their home could be rebuilt. It would ordinarily take months, but Cliff had organized with some of the masons and traveling laborers to have a structure put up in a fraction of the time. 

Speaking of Cliff, even as the sky lightened, heralding the rising sun, he was the only person still walking around the tavern’s remains. 

“Cliff? What are you doing?” Pierre asked hesitantly. 

“Oh!” Cliff jumped slightly, apparently not realizing that Pierre was standing so closeby. He shook his head and sighed. “Looking for something. Can’t seem to find it, though. Why are you still here?”

“I, um, did not want to leave you stranded here without a horse,” Pierre explained. Truthfully he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t simply walked home yet. Just, for some reason, he felt like he needed to stay with Cliff. 

“Perhaps I can help you find what you are looking for?” he offered.

Cliff raised an eyebrow, but nodded. 

“Mr. Wilson kept his late wife’s wedding ring in a box. He said it was in a drawer in his bedroom.”

Ah. That was going to make things difficult. The furniture had all been destroyed; anything made from wood was gone to dust. The ring was most likely buried in ash. Finding it could be extremely time consuming, if not impossible. But if Cliff was dedicated to its retrieval, then Pierre supposed he could be, too. 

“We should begin with the piles where ‘is bedroom was,” Pierre suggested. “Things were destroyed, but they were not moved.”

“Good thinking,” Cliff agreed, leading Pierre towards the back of the “house.” 

He knelt to the ground, sifting through soot with his hands. Pierre joined him, tracing the back of a still somewhat intact wall, watching for the glint of metal or the feeling of something hard. Every so often, a stray nail or a rock would get one of them excited as they methodically scanned the area, but as the sun got higher in the sky, their chances of finding the ring felt slimmer and slimmer. 

“We can’t give up,” Cliff said, just as Pierre was about to suggest they cut their losses and head back home. The adrenaline was wearing off and his body was insistently reminding him that he hadn’t actually slept last night. 

“We have to tell him we tried as hard as we could,” he added, picking up another handful of ash to sort through. 

Pierre rubbed at his eyes, willing himself to ignore his bodily needs for just a little longer. He hummed in agreement, returning to his piles of rubble. Perhaps a distraction technique was in order. 

“There are more stories I ‘aven’t told Chip.” He tried to keep his tone even, casual. As though this was just an ordinary activity, like telling tales about shared friends to embarrass them publicly (the truest form of platonic love). 

“I don’t want to share with ‘im any of the more scandalous things she got up to, but well, you know what she was like,” he continued with a small smirk. Cliff didn’t look up from his hands, but he did nod in acknowledgement, a far off look in his eyes as though filing through his own memories. It was permission enough for Pierre to go on.

“She was once asked to leave a public ‘ouse for causing a riot after she told all the men the first one to guess ‘er name she would kiss,” he recalled. “I guess nobody realized she could just lie and say they were wrong, all while accepting their bribes of food and drinks.”

Pierre chuckled, looking to Cliff. The other man’s face had softened slightly, and it seemed as though his eyes had brightened. Whether from tears or joy remained to be seen. 

Diligently, Pierre continued his storytelling, mostly tales he couldn’t tell Chip of his mother’s debauchery, an anecdote about how she never got along well with her mother, and a few instances of his and Marie-Claire’s wild rebellions as young adults.

While Cliff seemed to enjoy hearing about Marie-Claire’s life when Pierre knew her, not once did he laugh, even at the most incredulous tales. As hard as Pierre tried, he couldn’t even seem to make Cliff smile. And before he could even bring up the time Marie-Claire got so drunk off of wine at a dinner party that Pierre had to sneak her out the back entrance to get her home before she passed out, Cliff held up a small metal object in victory. 

“Found it!” he cried, brandishing the silver ring. “Thank you for your help today, Pierre. We can go home now.”

“Oh. Of course.” 

Pierre stuffed down his feelings of disappointment. There was no reason for him to be upset, after all. He’d stayed to help Cliff find the ring; now that it was located, they could return home, and there was no need to stay here, telling stories. It was just… for some reason… Pierre had really wanted to see Cliff smile. 

A few days passed after the fire, and Pierre tried to forget the feelings from that night. It was a high-stress situation, he was high on adrenaline and fear. There was no use trying to decipher meaning from anything that had happened. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. 

Chip, to his credit, was helping in his own way. He’d been insistent upon reading from a french cookbook this week, wanting to learn words for different kinds of food, even though Pierre informed him that many of those words were almost the exact same in English as in French. But Chip had an excuse for that, too, claiming that food was an important part of his French cultural immersion, and Pierre couldn’t argue with that. 

So, they read a cookbook together. The illustrations were helpful when Chip was trying to guess the meaning of a word, and the fractions and times actually made for a decent math lesson. Even science was relevant, as Pierre discussed the ways the cooking process made certain foods safe to eat, and the chemical reactions of the ingredients turned floury, bland batter into a delicious cake. 

At the end of the week, he was reading before supper when Sally informed him that his presence was requested in the formal dining room that evening. Confused and slightly worried, he headed downstairs, where he found a candlelit table with two chairs in the center of the room. Sally and Amanda sat side-by-side at the piano in the corner of the room, talking quietly as they played a simple duet. As he took his seat, the door opened and Cliff appeared, looking as equally concerned and baffled as Pierre felt.

Then, the door from the kitchen swung open, Chip and Mr. Wilson walked out, each carrying a plate of hors d'oeuvres, and Pierre realized why the boy had paid special attention to which recipes he’d pointed out as his favorites. 

“Pierre, Dad!” Chip exclaimed, practically running towards the table and almost spilling his carefully presented gougéres. 

“Chip? What is all of this?” Cliff asked, looking between his son and the older gentleman carrying a plate of farçous.

“Amanda and I wanted to thank you for your hospitality,” Mr. Wilson explained, smiling fondly at his daughter. 

“And I wanted to show you and Pierre how much I’ve learned!” Chip added. “I’ve been learning French recipes and these are Pierre’s favorites! He also told me about ones that Maman liked, and we made some of those, too.”

Pierre exchanged a look with Cliff. 

“This is a surprise to me as much as it is to you,” he said with a shrug. “But it would be a shame for this food to get cold, right?”

Cliff’s eyes were still wide as he muttered something unintelligible under his breath, probably something unfit for young ears. 

“I suppose so,” he agreed, picking up a cheese puff and popping it in his mouth. He hummed with approval as he chewed. “I forgot how good these were.”

Pierre smiled, mirroring him as he bit into the puffed pastry. It was impressive, especially for this side of the channel. 

The other courses were equally splendid. A mix of his and Mare-Claire’s favorite dishes, and Chip explained the process behind each one, in French and English, pride glazing every word. Pierre and Cliff mostly nodded along, otherwise eating each course in relative silence. 

Eventually, Sally and Amanda left to go eat their own meal, the candles tapered down to their last couple of inches, and Chip presented them each with a slice of coconut cake before Mrs. Addams rushed him upstairs to prepare for bed, leaving Cliff and Pierre alone in the dining room, with only the light of the candles illuminating their faces and plates.

“Well,” Pierre said, breaking the awkward silence, “we know your son ‘as a future as a chef, should ‘e want that.”

Cliff huffed, not quite a laugh, but as close to one as Pierre had ever heard.

“If only he retained an interest in anything for longer than a week at a time, he could be a world-class chef, poet, mathematician, or ballet dancer.”

“Not a geologist?” Pierre asked teasingly.

“No,” Cliff shook his head, “he’s never been interested in rocks like me or his mother.”

“What a shame,” Pierre said with a knowing smile. “I’ve always had a knack for geology myself, too.”

Cliff abruptly looked up, staring directly into Pierre’s eyes. 

“Really?”

Pierre almost laughed at the way his pupils widened. Such was the effect of talking about something one loves, he supposed. 

“Marie-Claire and I always wanted to study it together. I suppose it never really worked out for either of us,” he admitted. “Though she got closer, by marrying one.”

“She kept studying,” Cliff said. He sounded defensive, almost. “After we got married, we worked together sometimes, and she couldn’t do as much as I could, what with not having a degree, but she always loved it. And she never stopped trying to learn more.”

Pierre hoped his glistening eyes weren’t visible in the dim lighting. He stuffed a bite of cake into his mouth to cover the fact that he was swallowing a lump in his throat.

“Why did you stop?” Cliff asked after a moment. “Studying geology?”

Pierre shrugged. “My parents were sick, and then the war… I ran out of time, I guess.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cliff replied. It sounded genuine. “Your parents, did they…?”

“They passed a few years ago,” Pierre responded. “My mother tried to hold on, said she wanted to see me have a family before she was gone. But well, you see how that turned out.”

Cliff frowned, and Pierre hoped he hadn’t taken it the wrong way. He was fine with how his life had turned out, Marie-Claire had made her choices, and so had he. And, from what he’d heard, she’d been happy here. Cliff was a good man, and she’d loved him, and Pierre was beginning to understand why. 

“I know she cared for you,” Cliff murmured. “She once told me about her best friend from back home. She said everyone always thought they were going to marry each other someday, but that the two of them never thought about one another like that. Sometimes I wonder, if she had married ‘him, ’what things would be like. You know?”

“ Oui, Cliff.” He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about it either. On the other hand, “Chip wouldn’t be ‘ere, for one thing. And we both know ‘ow much better the world is for ‘is presence.”

Cliff nodded, his eyes flitting up where his son was (supposedly) fast asleep in bed. 

“But she might have been happier–”

“No,” Pierre cut him off. “She was ‘appy with you, Cliff. The choices she made… they were difficult for us to understand, but I do not believe for a second that it was you she was trying to escape. You are a good man, Cliff. And I’m sure you were a wonderful ‘usband.”

Cliff blinked rapidly as a few tears ran down his face, shimmering in the soft yellow candlelight. Pierre panicked again, worried that he’d really gone too far this time, until it happened. 

Cliff looked at him, green eyes sparkling and crinkled at the corners, dampness illuminating his weary face, and smiled.

Chapter Text

Pierre awoke to the sound of quiet, constant knocking on his door one morning during the third month of his placement. Groggily, he padded across the room, mindful enough to remember to put a dressing gown on over his sleep shirt, but not awake enough to remember that the door handle was on the left. He fumbled at the hinges for a few seconds before finally realizing his error and opening the door with more force than was needed. 

Before him stood a significantly-more-conscious Sally, who jumped a little when the door she had been fervently knocking on gave way from beneath her knuckles. 

“Good morning!” she said, sounding far too chipper for such an early time of the morning. 

Pierre made a grunt that could have been construed as a greeting, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Mrs. Addams wanted me to inform you that Chip will not be attending his lessons today!” she announced, her voice rising in pitch at the end, like it was most exciting news indeed, and not rather concerning given that Chip loved school and had yet to skip out on a single lesson.

“Is something the matter?” Pierre asked. “Chip is not ill, is ‘e?” 

“Goodness no!” Sally exclaimed. 

Pierre winced. 

“Sorry,” she apologized, and it was unclear whether she was regretful for the news or for her voice. “It’s just… it’s been exactly four months since Lady Langston passed, and Lord Langston is taking his son to the cemetery. They’ve finished the headstone, you see.” 

Pierre blinked slowly, his brain still far too sleepy to process everything he’d just been told. Or perhaps he just was resistant to the notion as a whole. Still, he nodded politely and thanked Sally for the message. There was no returning to bed at this point, but he could at least sit on the settee beneath the window and have a good think. 

He imagined Marie-Claire lying on top of the grass instead of beneath it. Her hazel eyes sparkling in the sun instead of being closed forever. Her skin warm and rich, so alive, not cold and—

“Pierre?” a voice called from beyond the door. Tarquin’s, if he guessed correctly. 

Pierre rose from the couch with a sigh, opening the door. As he suspected, he was met with the groom’s tall, lanky figure, towering above his, yet somehow appearing to take up less space than the physically smaller man. In fact, he seemed more nervous than usual, shaking a bit, like one of the horses spooked by a storm. 

“What is it?” Pierre asked hesitantly. 

“I– um, is– would Chip happen to, um, be in here with you?” Tarquin mumbled. He wrung his hands together as he timidly glanced into the room over Pierre’s head. 

“No, ‘e is not,” Pierre answered. “Are they not going out today, to visit the cemetery?” 

Tarquin gulped, his head bowing as he reached a shaking hand up to his mouth, worrying his thumb against his lip. 

“They were supposed to leave this morning, but when Mrs. Addams went to his room to ensure he’d awakened, he… he wasn’t there.” 

Tarquin whispered it like a prayer– no, a confession. His eyes were still locked in a staring match with the floorboards as he wiped furiously at his face. It seemed an overreaction, considering Chip was a ten-year-old boy, and ten-year-old boys like to get into mischief. Surely Chip wasn’t in any real danger, this must be a silly prank, a test of his limits as he got older and grew more independent. Pierre was sure he was perfectly safe, and he was about to reassure Tarquin of that, until the taller man spoke again, his voice trembling, barely louder than the falling of a snowflake.

“Pierre, the last time we couldn’t find someone–” Tarquin was cut off by his own loud sob, and Pierre rushed to pull him inside the room and into a tight hug. 

“ Merde… ” he swore under his breath, patting Tarquin on his back until his breathing returned to a normal pattern. 

“Tarquin, I am sure this is not like before,” he reassured. “We will find Chip, ‘e cannot ‘ave gone far. Allow me to get dressed and I will help you look for ‘im. Who knows ‘e is missing?”

“You, me, Mrs. Addams, and his father,” Tarquin replied tearily. “We have to find him, Pierre.”

“We will,” Pierre promised. 

Pierre dressed as quickly as possible and met the search party downstairs. It seemed as though everyone in the household had been informed of Chip’s disappearance, and some were taking it better than others. Sandra had pulled Tarquin to help her in the kitchen, citing that he would only scare the horses if they saw him looking so much like a terrified animal himself. Mrs. Addams and Sally were tasked with searching the manor, while Pierre, Beauregarde II, and Cliff would look around outdoors. 

Cliff himself was utterly distraught, dressed in his best outdoor clothes, complete with a rather stylish new waistcoat that Marie-Claire certainly would have approved of, though his hair was now mussed from running his hands through it every ten seconds. He screamed his son’s name desperately, the sound carrying across the estate as he ran through the orchards with no particular direction. 

“Cliff, I do not know if this is ‘elping,” Pierre said softly, reaching out to stop him, though purposely avoiding contact. 

Cliff’s head whipped around to face him, his eyes wide with terror, anger, and pure panic.

“If it was simply a matter of Chip not knowing we are looking for ‘im, we would ‘ave found ‘im by now,” Pierre said, keeping his tone as measured as possible. “‘E is most likely frightened and ‘iding, and we will not get ‘im to come back to us unless we are patient.”

Cliff’s eyes narrowed like a tiger about to pounce. 

“Shut up,” he seethed. “You know nothing of what it is like to have a son. So do not tell me how to handle mine.”

With that, he turned away, running deeper into the orchard, yelling for Chip at the top of his lungs. Though, as his voice grew more distant, Pierre might have sworn he heard the name “Marie-Claire” interspersed with his cries.

Biting back tears of his own, Pierre breathed deeply in an attempt to calm himself. Once he felt slightly more level-headed, he continued his own search along the perimeter of the orchard, walking slowly and deliberately, glancing up at the boughs of any trees whose branches were of the appropriate height for a young boy to climb. He kept himself silent, looking and listening for any signs of where Chip might have gone. He was rewarded for his efforts with a small sniffle, coming from a tree just a few meters further into the orchard. 

As he approached, Pierre caught a glimpse of a socked foot dangling from the leaves, and a lone boot cast into a pile of decaying foliage nearby. With a smile, he picked up the shoe, bringing it towards the sniffling tree. 

“‘Ow fascinating that in England, the trees wear shoes,” he commented. 

A gasp and a rustle came from the branches, and the foot retreated into the boughs. 

“And the many kinds of fruit– why there are apricots, and cherries, and oh! Most exciting of all, the treasured fruit de garçon!”

Pierre looked directly up into the boughs of the tree above him, fondly smiling at the object of his new discovery. Chip gasped, but upon seeing that he was not in any immediate trouble, allowed a small giggle to escape him. 

“Chip, what are you doing in a tree?” Pierre asked gently. “You must know we’ve all been looking for you.”

The boy huffed, curling his legs up to his chest, and Pierre was impressed at his ability to stay balanced so precariously. Though, perhaps he was just confident that Pierre would catch him should he fall. It would be a correct assessment, after all. Still, it seemed the conversation would not go further without more drastic measures being taken. Cursing the aging joints in his knees, Pierre hoisted himself up the tree to sit on a branch just below Chip, such that their heads were on an even level. 

“What’s wrong?” Pierre asked, placing a hand on Chip’s head, stroking his hair with his thumb. 

“On… wan… ad…” Chip replied, his voice thoroughly muffled. 

“ Mon chou, I am intelligent but I cannot read minds,” Pierre teased. “Can you look at me while you talk?”

Chip huffed again, but unfurled himself, once again dangling his legs from the branch. He still didn’t look at Pierre, instead focusing himself on a knot in the wood, but it was a start. 

“I don’t want to go to the cemetery with Dad,” he muttered quietly, though this time it was clear enough for Pierre to understand. 

“I see,” Pierre responded. “And why is that?”

Chip hesitated, tracing the grooves created by the tree bark with his finger. 

“He’s always so miserable when we talk about her. And the rest of the time he’s just sad… I don’t like him always being sad.”

“Oh, Chip–” Pierre began, but he didn’t have the words to continue. In that moment, Pierre had never seen the boy look so weary, so devastated… so much like his father. 

“I want to make him happy again but nothing I do ever works,” Chip admitted. “Do I not make him happy?”

Pierre felt like he’d been hit with a beam of solid metal. 

“Oh, mon chou, I know it is difficult to understand, but it is nothing you are doing wrong,” he explained. “You make your father so happy, but there are some sadnesses that cannot be easily fixed… even by the most wonderful little boys.”

Chip sniffled, nodding his head along to Pierre’s words. Whether he would take them to heart was another thing, but Pierre was just glad he seemed to be listening. 

“Come now, Chip, we must get down from this tree and inform everyone you’re alright.” 

Pierre jumped down as gracefully as a thirty-six year old man could, then reached his arms out towards Chip. 

“I will make sure you are not punished,” he added, when Chip seemed hesitant. 

It seemed to satisfy the young boy, and he scurried down from his perch, brushing off Pierre’s offered assistance. Pierre laughed, thinking Chip clearly assumed himself to be too old for such things. Although, as they walked back towards the house, Pierre did not miss the way Chip leaned his head onto his arm. Nor did he miss the whispered confession into his sleeve. 

“I miss Maman,” Chip murmured.

“So do I, mon chou. ” Pierre replied. “So do I.”

In the end, Chip wound up getting his way; by the time everyone had stopped running around like headless chickens, it was far too late to make it to the cemetery and back before nightfall. Instead, Cliff took his son to the seaside, where Pierre guessed they were sitting in silent thought, much as he’d seen Cliff doing that evening when he’d first arrived. He wished there was something he could do for Chip, perhaps give him an extra special lesson tomorrow. They could focus on French culture, gardening, anything that reminded them of Marie-Claire. It wouldn’t be much, but, well, what could he do? Confront Cliff about how his grief was affecting his son? Tell him to get over himself like everyone else, at least when Chip was around? Pay more attention to his only child? 

Ten minutes later, Pierre was knocking on the door to Cliff’s study, cursing his newfound protectiveness towards the boy. 

Cliff was still buttoning his shirt with one hand while the other opened the door, clearly surprised at the unexpected visitor. He seemed even more confused as to why it was Pierre, quirking his eyebrow up as he invited the other man inside. He ran his fingers through his hair, serving only to mess up the styling even more. His hand settled on the crook between his neck and shoulder as he released a deep sigh, sitting down at the chair to his worktable rather than the desk. The dust and soft candlelight created a halo of sorts around his form, and Pierre felt a chill run down his spine. 

He was getting distracted. There were important matters to attend to, something about… about… Chip! Yes, that was it!

“Chip!” he exclaimed, shocking himself and Cliff alike. He felt the heat rush to his face and hoped that the dim lighting wouldn’t reveal how red he must be. “I mean– I am ‘ere to discuss Chip, please, sir. It’s very important, or I would not be bothering you at this late hour.”

Cliff fiddled with a small bladed tool on his desk, tilting it side to side such that it cast a small beam of light onto the ceiling. He didn’t make so much as a sound, but he nodded expectantly.

“Well, you see, sir–” why was he so formal all of a sudden?– “Cliff, sir–” oh yes, so much better– “you see, I am worried about ‘im… your son.”

He stared into Cliff’s eyes, hoping for some kind of recognition, perhaps for Cliff to admit that he’d noticed it too, maybe that they’d already had a conversation.

“Why?” he asked simply. Quietly.

“Today, when we could not find ‘im, well, you know, I did find ‘im, and ‘e was up a tree but… it was because ‘e was ‘iding,” Pierre took a slow breath, “from you.”

“Oh” was all Cliff said in reply, and a stiff silence sat between the pair for a while. Cliff blinked slowly, still turning the knife in his hand, both intensely present and unbelievably lost in his own mind. 

“Is that all?” Cliff asked finally. 

Pierre was taken aback. He felt his temper rising, his heart rate quickening. How could he not care that his son was upset? That he was the cause of his son’s misery? 

“No,” Pierre said boldly. “ It is not all. Your son does not like to be near you and I do not blame ‘im. I know you think ‘e does not see all of your pain but ‘e does. Chip is a very sweet boy, and when ‘e sees you like this, ‘e blames ‘imself!  And ‘e only wants to make you ‘appy, and ‘e can see that you are not!”

“Pierre, you forget yourself,” Cliff warned, his voice lower than Pierre had ever heard before. His body shivered, but he refused to stand down. 

“I do not ‘forget myself.’ We all cared for Marie-Claire, we all miss ‘er, but that does not mean we can be sad forever! For Chip, yes, but for ourselves, too, Cliff! There is no joy ‘ere, I ‘ave felt it since the moment I arrived, and it cannot stay this way! It is not fair to Chip, it is not fair to you, and it is not fair to Marie-Claire–”

“Enough!” Cliff shouted. His eyes glittered with tears, which he swiftly wiped away with his hand. His face was contorted in an expression Pierre was a rarity for the man: anger. Directed at him. It made Pierre feel… not entirely bad, although that may have just been the pride at standing up for Chip. He almost apologized, but then Cliff spoke again. 

“I appreciate your candor, Pierre. The care you have for my son is apparent. But you do not need to worry yourself with affairs other than his education. Chip is my responsibility, and I am perfectly capable of taking care of him. As for the state of ‘happiness’ in my household, you will be pleased to know that I am holding a party. The social season is nearly over, after all, and I have been neglectful in my duties to host as of late. Yes, and there is still so much to do, it would probably be best for you to leave me to it.” Cliff abruptly rose, opening the door for Pierre to leave. 

“Oh, of course,” Pierre replied as he was ushered out. It was evident that this party was being constructed on the spot, and he pitied Mrs. Addams, who would have to plan a grand soirée in less than a month, as well as Sally, who would have to deal with the subsequent inevitable meltdown. 

Though, perhaps a party was just what the Langston Estate needed. Food, music, and friends, dancing and flirting for the young guests, it would be exciting, to be sure. A spark of joy, he hoped. After all, who could be upset at a party?

Chapter Text

Truthfully, Pierre was surprised that Cliff had stuck to his word, but it had been two and a half weeks since their conversation that night, and today the manor was decorated in shades of gold and bronze, a stage for a string quintet had been erected in the ballroom, and there had been extra staff in and out all day. The theme of the ball was ‘A Glittering Gala,’ and decorating the tables were a wide variety of gemstones Cliff had gathered or extracted himself. 

Pierre had peeked at the displays one evening when he’d wandered into the ballroom by mistake, looking for the kitchen (he still hadn’t gotten a handle on the layout of the manor, despite nearly three months of living here). They were impressive, to be sure, but he was partial to the less precious minerals from Cliff’s collection; the ones he kept on the shelves in his study, for example. Most weren’t terribly rare or valuable, but they were pretty in other ways. A streak of bright blue embedded in a dull gray background, or a veiny web creating intricate shapes within the stone. There was one in particular that he loved, a mostly white stone with feathery patches of pink and red. He’d stared at it once for a little too long, which led Cliff to explain nearly everything about it, placing it in Pierre’s hand while he pointed to each characteristic that made it unique. His fingers had brushed against Pierre’s a few times, sending shivers through his body. Anyways, now if you asked Pierre what his favorite rock was, he’d be able to give the confident answer of “pink dendritic agate.”

Somehow, Pierre doubted that would be one of the topics covered by the attendees at tonight’s ball. Not that he would know. He’d volunteered to watch Chip this evening, so Sally could attend the ball. She’d seemed so upset that there was a party happening that she couldn’t attend, and the English upper class scared Pierre somewhat, anyways. 

Chip, on the other hand, was less enthusiastic to be missing out on the fun. All day, he begged Pierre to let him attend the party, as if Pierre had any control over that. Finally, he agreed that if Mrs. Addams and his father were alright with it, he’d chaperone Chip at the party for an hour before bed. It was a purely selfish idea, just intended to keep Chip quiet during the rest of their lessons that afternoon. 

He hadn’t expected them to actually say yes.

As the clock struck nine, music had already filled the hallways of the manor, reaching Pierre’s ears even as he sat in the classroom, trying to get through a novel about a man who falls in love with a much older woman, leading to their isolation from both society and each other. Depressing as hell if you ask him, but Marie-Claire had kept very few books in French, so it was either this or an almanac which still utilized the Napoleonic calendar. 

Chip had been sitting focused at the desk, poring over a math textbook, but he sprung up when he heard the chimes, counting them on his fingers even though he could read a clock. 

“It’s time to go!” he exclaimed in excitement, bouncing on his toes as he waited for Pierre to locate a bookmark and put aside the novel. “Hurry, Pierre!” he shouted, practically dragging the tutor through the hallways towards the staircase. 

“They will not stop the party in the next five minutes, mon chou ,” Pierre teased, but he did pick up the pace a little. Seeing Chip so excited… well, it was the joy he’d been longing for ever since the incident less than a month ago.

Upon first glance, the ballroom appeared to be packed. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the door, and Pierre was worried he might lose Chip in the fray. However, as they maneuvered through the dense crowd and Pierre wondered just how many people Cliff had invited to this thing, it became evident that only the edges of the room were occupied, with the large dance floor completely barren in the center.

Pierre scanned the room for Cliff, who was, to his surprise, mingling with a few guests near the champagne table. With his arm tightly linked with Chip’s, Pierre strode over, waving politely at Cliff to get his attention. 

“Ah! Lord and Lady Lafayette, may I introduce you to my son, Bradley!” Cliff announced with an uncharacteristic boldness. His voice was loud, and his face looked wrong somehow. It took a few seconds of careful consideration before Pierre realized exactly what the cause of this strangeness was: Cliff had a smile plastered across his face, spanning from ear to ear, but not reaching his eyes.

“Bradley, these are the Lafayettes, they live in Scotland most of the year but have come down to visit for the season and are kindly gracing us with their presence,” Cliff explained, addressing Chip, who clearly could not care less. Pierre still nodded along, not sure what he was supposed to do. Should he introduce himself? Wait for Cliff to do it? Or was he to act like a member of the hired staff, presumed invisible unless someone needed something?

In his bewilderment, Pierre didn’t even notice himself being introduced until Lord Lafayette reached a hand out to shake, and Chip had to nudge his arm forward for him. This is why Pierre ( Mr. Beaumont, as he had been introduced to the Lafayettes) didn’t spend much time in society, even in France where he was slightly more familiar with the rules. 

What he did notice was the less-than-subtle side eye Lady Lafayette was giving to Chip, looking him up and down as she wrinkled her nose. It made him want to step protectively in front of the boy, to shield him from her judgemental gaze. Instead, he shot her a look of his own when she caught his eye, and she turned her head away from them both. 

As their exchange was happening, Chip was tugging at his father’s sleeve to tear his attention away from Lord Lafayette. Cliff ignored him for a while, even as Pierre noticed his lips pursing to avoid laughter, but eventually gave in and cast his eyes down upon his son. 

“What is it, Chip?” Cliff laughed, his eyes actually brightening this time. 

“I want to dance! Pierre and I have been reading a dance book in French, please please can I?” Chip opened his eyes wide, sticking his lower lip out just a little to maximize his preciousness.  

Cliff smiled. “With whom are you going to dance?” he asked, placing a hand gently onto Chip’s shoulder. “Isn’t it almost your bedtime anyways? Perhaps Pierre should take you back upstairs,” he added. 

And as much as Pierre did not want to be at this party, as much as he knew he was a clumsy dancer even with practice, and that it had been over ten years since the last time he’d done a single dance step, he was a man who kept his promises. And Chip had been promised an hour at the party, not ten minutes talking to judgmental strangers. 

“Chip will dance with me,” Pierre said, offering his arm to the boy. “As part of our culture lessons, ‘e will prove to me what ‘e ‘as learned from that book, starting with the quadrille.”

Pierre quickly placed his request with the quintet, who flipped a few pages of sheet music, then started up a medium-tempoed tune. Of course, two cannot dance the quadrille alone, so Mr. Wilson, Amanda, Sally, Tarquin, Mrs. Addams, and even Beauregarde II were roped in for the demonstration. They paired off, although Amanda and Sally’s insistence to dance with each other left Mr. Wilson dancing with a disgruntled Beauregarde II, and stood in a circle to begin. As they twirled, jumped, and pranced around the floor, abandoning all dignity, Pierre couldn’t help but watch Cliff out of the corner of his eye. His head bobbed along, and Pierre caught him tapping a foot every so often. Cliff’s expression was so calm, so pleasant, it was hard to focus on the steps. 

Perhaps, if he’d been paying more attention, Pierre wouldn’t have collided with Chip, causing a wave of missed steps to spread throughout their octet, the dance promptly falling apart. But when their small group stopped to laugh at themselves, Pierre noticed something even more striking. 

The dance floor was full.

Slowly, most of the guests had peeled themselves from the walls, and were dancing and smiling, paying no mind to the mismatched group of people (who really had no business even being at a social event like this) who’d started it. Pierre smiled in amazement, as the music switched to a faster cotillion, forcing him to focus on his steps even more than the quadrille. His heart was beating faster, but it was a welcome change. Cliff still observed from the sidelines, but he was gazing lovingly in the direction of Pierre and Chip. When they were split up, he was forced to follow only one of them, and while he was usually successful in tracking his son, Pierre caught Cliff occasionally watching him instead, that same look of adoration pasted on his face, which told Pierre he either wasn’t paying too much attention or needed to have his eyes checked. Potentially both. 

Next up was a minuet, a dance Chip either didn’t know as well, or one in which his proximity to Pierre led to greater notice of his missteps. The twelfth time he was stepped on, and the fourth time he’d visibly winced at it, Pierre was surprised to look up and see none other than Cliff standing just behind his son, tapping his shoulder.

“Perhaps watching someone else would benefit your education?” he suggested, sending a pointed look at Pierre, whose eyes widened. He nodded at the savior of his toes, gratefully accepting Cliff’s offered hand. 

The pair started the dance again, with Cliff commenting on his steps as Chip circled around them, watching. With Cliff, Pierre hardly needed to pay attention. He followed Cliff’s steps, allowing himself to be guided through the dance. He was so oblivious to his surroundings, he didn’t notice when Chip wandered off to get a lemonade with Sally, or when the music slowed, signaling the beginning of a waltz.

The steps felt so natural, he was so at peace, and he was danced across the ballroom, spun this way and that, each time landing perfectly in Cliff’s firm embrace. The arms which held his were strong, stable, yet the hand which guided him through spins was gentle and forgiving. He was just close enough to notice when his breathing slowed to match the pace of the music, and when Pierre looked up at those evergreen eyes, he felt his breath catch as they locked with his. 

He was spun away before either could say anything, then pulled back in with such force their chests wound up barely an inch from touching. From this distance he saw the dark stubble lining the underside of Cliff’s chin where the razor hadn’t been placed close enough to the skin of his sharp jawline. He saw the flush of his cheeks– from the exercise, of course– and his pink lips. Pierre didn’t understand what had come over him, but suddenly he felt the desire– no, the need to kiss Cliff. He had to know what those lips felt like, what it was to run his fingers through his hair and down his neck, what sound Cliff would make when he was kissed so passionately. 

He tried to tell himself it was because he wanted to better understand Marie-Claire, but he didn’t have to kiss Cliff to know why she fell in love with him. Pierre already knew Cliff was thoughtful, caring, devoted to both his family and his work; he really was the perfect man. Anyone would be lucky to have loved him, married him, had children with him. 

So why, why did Pierre still have the burning need to press his hand into Cliff’s chest, to pull him close into an embrace, to have their lips meet, to be ravished–

“Are you alright?” Cliff’s voice pulled Pierre back to reality. 

“ Oui, I am fine,” Pierre replied, his head still slightly in the clouds. The way Cliff was looking at him was not helping; it was a mix of gentle concern and faint… amusement, perhaps, at Pierre getting so swept away.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Cliff said, “for inspiring this ball. It was good for all of us, I think.” Pierre was gently twirled out from Cliff and back in, like a breath of air. “We needed some joy,” he added, glancing at where Chip was giggling with Tarquin, Sally, and the Wilsons. “And with the house so alive like this,” he gestured with their clasped hands, “it really doesn’t feel like she’s gone at all. Does that even make sense?”

Pierre nodded. He knew exactly what Cliff meant. The music and the lights and the people, it was the kind of environment Marie-Claire loved. It was easy to imagine she was actually here, just out of sight somewhere among the chattering crowds and glittering decorations. There was also something less tangible, a warm sensation he felt whenever he was reminded of her, directly through memories or indirectly through her husband and son. He’d thought England would bring closure, but it had only opened his heart more than he’d ever thought possible, and, present or not, Marie-Claire was to thank for that. 

“It feels like love,” Pierre murmured. 

Cliff’s pupils dilated, his mouth opening slightly as he ran his teeth over his bottom lip. “That’s a good way of saying it,” he agreed. 

Something in Pierre stirred, and he felt Cliff’s hand squeeze even tighter around his waist. Cliff inhaled slowly, readying himself to speak, and Pierre’s heart sank. Whatever Cliff was about to say, he knew he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to ruin this moment between them, whatever it was.

“Pierre–”

“It is time for Chip and I to leave,” Pierre interrupted, stepping away from Cliff and abruptly halting their dance. “This evening has been quite enjoyable, and I’m sure Chip will remember it for years to come. Thank you, Cl– Lord Langston,” he corrected with a short bow. 

Pierre scurried off the dance floor, making a beeline for Chip who he dragged upstairs despite the boy’s protests that he “still had eleven minutes left.” 

“The clock in there runs slow,” Pierre said. “It was time to go.” 

Only one was a lie. 

After stripping off his fancy clothes and adequately messing up his hair, Pierre collapsed into bed for the night. However, despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t seem to fall asleep. The evening kept playing over and over in his mind, even though in his tired state he wasn’t really processing any of it. He tossed and turned, throwing the covers off and pulling them back until eventually he gave up and curled up on the settee, watching the stars twinkle in the sky. He found himself fantasizing about a life with Marie-Claire just like he would when he was a young man, and by the time his dreams morphed into imagining a life with Cliff, instead, the sun began to rise.

Chapter Text

It was another ordinary morning in the classroom, a few days had passed since the ball, and Pierre had scarcely said a word to Lord Langston since, though he’d resumed referring to the man of the house by his proper title rather than first name. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He’d gotten too close to the family, started to care for them more than he should have? All he needed to do to fix the messy feelings was to just stop having them. To set firmer boundaries. It was easier said than done. 

Every time he caught a glimpse of Lord Langston, his heart skipped a beat. He kept thinking about the dances they’d shared that evening, too. And his mind wouldn’t let him forget those thoughts he’d had, the ones he desperately wanted to blame on tiredness, but kept showing up during his waking hours. 

“Pierre!” Chip’s voice rang out as he waved Pierre over to his drawing of the solar system (not to scale enough to be scientifically accurate, but pretty enough that Pierre was satisfied to count it as an art project). 

Embarrassed that he’d been caught daydreaming, about Chip’s father, no less, Pierre hurried to his student’s side to answer a question he had about what color Venus ought to be. Eventually, that turned into a discussion on where Venus got its name, which turned into a lesson on Roman and Greek mythology, which became a civics lesson, and finally the clock struck three and class was over for the day. 

Usually, Pierre would take this time to catch up on lesson plans, review Chip’s writing or math, or take a walk, but he found himself too exhausted to do anything. Instead, he made his way upstairs to his room and collapsed onto the settee. 

Like every other minute when he’d had nothing else to do, his thoughts wandered to Lord Lang– fuck it . He couldn’t stop thinking about Cliff. 

The desire was the easiest. Cliff was plenty attractive, and Pierre figured probably wasn’t the only person who had thoughts about kissing him on occasion. Only lust is fleeting, it comes and goes like the tide, and it can’t be helped. Pierre had experienced that plenty of times, and while it was certainly present for Cliff, it didn’t explain why he couldn’t get him out of his head.

He didn’t admire Cliff either, not like he had Marie-Claire. It wasn’t a fantasy of someone so far out of reach, a dream for something so removed from reality that its appeal was the simple fact that it was so unattainable. Part of what made Marie-Claire so intriguing was her impossibility, and the fact that Pierre had held her in such high regard probably contributed to why he never could’ve been with her. 

Cliff was just… Cliff. He was a man who’d lost so much but still found it in him to try to make his son happy. He kept a level head and only angered over things that really mattered. They shared an understanding that went beyond their shared love of the same woman and a mutual interest in geology. Cliff was just Cliff, and in spite of and because of that… Pierre was in love with him. 

The realization hit Pierre like a pickaxe driving through granite. There was a pain growing in his chest as he struggled to breathe. He opened his window and was assaulted by the hot, humid air from the sea, but he gulped it in regardless, feeling like his soul was floating away. There was only one thing that reliably calmed him in this situation, even if it was because the emotional pain weighed him down enough to come back to his own body. He reached for the drawers beside his bed and pulled out a sheet of paper which, despite its size, held a memory as big as the universe.

It was July, and Pierre had just returned from a visit south to his great-aunt, a woman who was so frequently said to be on death’s door that the family was beginning to send only one or two representatives whenever word came of her impending demise. This had been one of the rare occasions where she had actually been sick, rather than experiencing mild hay fever, although as expected, she hadn’t actually passed, and Pierre was sent home after only a week. 

When he arrived back in the village, his first stop was of course Marie-Claire’s house. Unlike other young men, he was not expected to visit her at appropriate calling hours, and no one even batted an eyelash when they were left together, unchaperoned. Which is why he was surprised to see Mrs. Richard waiting in the drawing room for him, rather than Marie-Claire. Her eyes were misty as she handed over an envelope addressed to him. Pierre recognized the script immediately.

My dearest Pierre,

I begin this letter with an apology. I am sorry I could not bring myself to say goodbye face-to-face, but it would simply have been too painful. Perhaps that makes me a coward, but I am only scared that should I see you again, I would never be able to leave. 

I have found the opportunity of a lifetime: for three months I have been invited to the École des Mines de Paris to study their fossil collection– I am the only woman who was invited to this, Pierre, that is how impressed they were of me! My parents were less pleased with this opportunity; they want me to stay and find a husband and have children, but I will have my whole life for that. I promised them I would only be away for the three months of studying, but I cannot lie to you and make that same promise. I do not know how long I will stay in Paris, but I know that I will not leave until I have found what I’m looking for. 

Someday, Pierre, we will meet again. But while I am gone, you must promise me one thing: that you will go after that girl you have been in love with for as long as I’ve known you! Even though you’re convinced she could never love you back, or that you’re not good enough for her, or whatever one of the hundreds of excuses you’ve had for not telling her how you feel, because they are all ridiculous. No one could ever not love you– you are Pierre Beaumont. So stop worrying about how it could all go wrong and just say how you feel. If there is one thing I’ve learned in my two and twenty years it’s that silence has never helped anyone be happy.

My candle burns low, so I leave you with these final words. You are the best friend I’ve ever had. The best man I’ve ever known. I love you, Pierre, until we meet again.

Yours sincerely,

Marie-Claire

Mrs. Richard hadn’t moved while he read, but there were now tears falling down her face. Pierre swallowed a growing lump in his throat, offered her his handkerchief, and promptly walked downstairs and out the door. There was simply nothing he could think to say.

Marie-Claire loves you. She called you her best friend.

She wants to see you again. Her desires do not always translate into action.

She knew if she told you these things to your face, she wouldn’t have been able to leave. But she did. 

He walked home in silence, eyes trained forward, refusing to acknowledge anyone on the streets. His heart felt cold, and water ran down his face, and it felt like the world should have stopped out of courtesy for his anguish. He read the letter again and again and again and again and again…

The paper was worn out from years of handling, with smudges where countless tears had spilled on the soft parchment. But Pierre didn’t even need to see the words to know what it said. His breathing slowed, and a few new droplets joined the old ones as he felt himself sober up.

Over the years, different parts of the letter had stood out to him. At first, it was that last line, her admission of love, that had consumed him. Now, something else struck him as more important. She’d urged him to confess his feelings, to not sacrifice his happiness for comfortable silence. 

Was that what he was trying to do? Create a comfortable silence in his mind, to forget how he felt about Cliff? Marie-Claire had been the smartest person he’d known. He’d spent his whole life listening to her and doing as she said. And the one time he didn’t, he’d lost her forever. Pierre may not have been the smartest man, but he was certainly one who did not make the same mistake twice. Which of course left him with one option: tell Cliff how he feels.

His heart was racing as he swept through the halls towards the study, but to his surprise, the door was wide open and Cliff was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he heard voices floating down the hall, coming from the drawing room. 

“There is the matter of the dowry, of course.” Beauregarde II’s voice, Pierre recognized.

“Come now,” Cliff’s voice replied, solemn and firm. “She’s only just left. We can take care of matters of business later.”

Who was “she?”

“When would be an appropriate time, then? Surely not when she is walking down the aisle?”

Aisle?

“Beauregarde II, I’ve only just proposed–”

Proposed!?

Pierre hardly had a second to panic before a hand on his shoulder made him jump nearly a foot into the air. 

“Woah! Sorry, Pierre!” Tarquin apologized. 

Pierre spun around, placing his hand on his chest as he steadied himself. 

“Did you ‘ear that?” he asked, not bothering to hide that he’d been eavesdropping.

Tarquin nodded, though his face betrayed no emotion. 

“I knew he was courting her, though I am a bit surprised at how soon he proposed. Apparently it took him a year and two months with Lady Langston.”

Pierre’s jaw dropped. How had he not known that Cliff was courting someone? It all felt too soon, just a few days ago they’d been dancing at the ball, not long before that Cliff had been so sad. Yes, he was getting better day by day, but to propose marriage? How could he have moved on so quickly? He wasn’t ready to forget Marie-Claire, to forget him–

“Pierre? Pierre, are you alright?” Tarquin had his hands on Pierre again, shaking his arms gently. 

“Yes,” Pierre whispered meekly. “I am surprised, that is all. I– I will be fine.”

Tarquin tilted his head and gave Pierre a sad smile. 

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong? I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who’d get so worked up about this kind of thing. I mean, it’s not like you were planning to–” Tarquin paused, his eyes going wide. “Oh… Oh Pierre, I’m so sorry.”

Just like that, Pierre was wrapped in Tarquin’s massive gentle giant arms. It was a kind gesture, but really all Pierre wanted was to be alone. He gave Tarquin a pat on the back, thanked him, and in a haze made his way back to his room. All the way, he cursed himself for ever having hope. 

Pierre desperately wanted to cancel lessons for the next day (and perhaps forever), but the only thing worse than spending the day in the classroom would be spending it alone, with only his self-deprecating thoughts to keep him company. It was a sentiment he took back immediately upon Chip’s arrival, as the boy slumped into his chair, crossed his arms, and scowled. 

“Why do people get married?” Chip asked indignantly. 

“Chip,” Pierre replied, a warning in his tone. 

Chip huffed, then handed Pierre a piece of paper. It was addressed to him, written in Mrs. Addams’s striking script. 

At quarter-to-noon today, you will take Bradley downstairs for lunch in the morning room with his father and Miss Pavmire; you will then supervise from just outside the door– Tarquin has drilled a hole in the wall for you to peer in through– and it is your job to report anything you hear to us this evening over dinner. We are counting on you…

If only one thing could be said for Mrs. Addams, it was certainly that she had a good mind for theatrics. Pierre folded the note back up, and smiled at Chip. 

“Well, you will be meeting ‘er today, so I suppose you will find out why your father has decided to marry her, won’t you? In the meantime, ‘ow about some geography?” Pierre suggested.

To his credit, Chip only let out a quiet sigh, before joining Pierre over a book about early civilizations around the rivers of Africa. It was a quiet lesson, with both parties clearly distracted by other matters, but neither mentioned it. There was a mutual understanding that today was not for picking fights or petty arguments. 

All too soon, it was time to make their way to the morning room. It was by far the sunniest room of the house, with windows covering the majority of two walls, looking out upon the refreshed garden and the orchards, where the leaves were just starting to turn shades of gold and red. Wooden furniture was the main feature of the room, although there was a beautifully carved bench– gray and white marble– which stood in the corner underneath a wide, curved window. 

Pierre stood just outside, gently pushing Chip into the room. More as a joke than anything else, he scanned the adjoining wall for any holes, and nearly laughed in surprise as he found a small hole, the diameter of his fingertip, perfectly positioned at eye-level. Teach him to doubt Mrs. Addams…

Through the hole, he could see Chip standing in the center of the room, fidgeting with his fingertips as he was introduced. Cliff sat on a tall rosewood chair to his left, and then there was the woman. 

“Miss Pavmire,” Cliff spoke her name with the level of emotion one typically reserves for the recitation of a mathematical formula. 

“Please, call me Esmerelda. We’re family now, aren’t we?” she replied. 

Esmerelda sat on the marble bench, her blonde hair illuminated from the back. Her dress was light blue silk lined with white lace and small pearls. Everything about her was small, from her periwinkle eyes to her gloved hands. Her voice was almost unnaturally high, and her posture so perfect Pierre wondered if she was secretly a doll. Everything about her screamed perfection, like an embalmed corpse laden with roses, so peaceful it almost tricked you into thinking it was just sleeping… if it weren’t for the indescribable feeling that something was deeply, deeply wrong. 

“This was Maman’s favorite room,” Chip was explaining proudly. “She used to take me in here and we would watch the birds and butterflies outside and she would tell me stories about them. Do you want to hear them?”

Pierre watched Esmerelda shift uncomfortably, shooting a glance at Cliff. 

“I’m not sure we should bore Miss Esmerelda with that right now,” Cliff said to his son. “Maybe you can tell her about the books you’ve been reading lately?”

Chip nodded, and Pierre wished he could see the boy’s face. To his credit, Chip started talking about the latest novels they’d been going through, although Esmerelda admitted she’d heard of very few of them. She instead suggested they discuss their travels, and went on a fifteen minute rant about how beautiful Portugal was this time of year. When Chip asked if she’d ever been to France, she admitted that she’d spent some time in Paris, but found the countryside to be dull. Pierre wondered if she’d really bothered to visit the charming towns throughout the country, or if she’d merely passed by on her way to bigger and better places. 

The entire time, he studied Cliff’s face for any sign of his affections towards this woman, but he scarcely even smiled. Instead, his eyes held that same far-off gaze that Pierre had noticed when they’d first met, like he was deep in thought about something, or someone, else. Nothing about his body language betrayed any feeling towards her, and he was polite and pleasant and stiff. Not once did he make a move to touch her arm, nor did he watch her as she talked. He just focused on a point on the wall and sat, almost blending in with the decorations. 

Pierre zoned out a bit himself, but snapped back to attention when Beauregarde II popped in for a moment to have a quick aside with Cliff, leaving Chip alone with Esmerelda. He expected the room to delve into an awkward silence, but instead, Esmerelda kept talking, her voice lowering and her eyes narrowing as she spoke.

“You’re dreadfully immature, aren’t you?” she hissed at Chip, who drew back but stayed silent. Pierre cursed himself for telling the boy to be on his best behavior.

“Clifford,” (the way she said his name made Pierre want to crawl out of his skin), “tells me you’re ten years old, and yet here you are, desperate to talk about your precious mother and your lessons in wholly unimportant subjects. A boy your age shouldn’t be so excitable; you should act like the adult you almost are, or else I will be forced to send you to a more appropriate school, far, far away. And you wouldn’t want that, now would you?”

Pierre wanted to scream. He wanted to smash the wall to the ground and tear this woman to shreds for what she was saying, but he found himself completely unable to move. He watched in abject horror as Chip nodded, his brow furrowed in an expression that was identical to that of his father when either was trying desperately not to cry. That was enough for his feet to become unstuck from the floor. He practically leapt to the door, knocking furiously as he threw it open. 

“Ch– Bradley! You neglected to finish your essay on the importance of cereal grains on the development of modern civilizations! Come with me at once!” he shouted, putting on his best impression of a strict tutor, internally praying that Chip would play along. 

Thankfully, Cliff re-entered the room then, his eyes flitting between the three people staring at one another with varying levels of fear, contempt, and confusion. Pierre didn’t know how much he’d heard, but that hardly mattered now. What was important was getting Chip away from this woman, and, with a glower that could have set fire to Buckingham Palace itself, he persuaded him to do just that. 

Once outside, Pierre wrapped Chip in a tight hug. 

“Are you alright, mon chou? ” he murmured into the boy’s hair. “I am so sorry she talked to you that way.”

“‘M fine,” Chip answered, his voice muffled by Pierre’s torso. “Please let go.”

Pierre did, and was surprised to see Chip’s face, usually so expressive, completely blank. The heart he usually wore on his sleeve was suddenly nowhere to be seen.

“Chip, we will talk to your father. You can tell ‘im everything she said, and I’m sure ‘e will–”

“It doesn’t matter. Dad doesn’t listen to me anymore,” Chip interrupted, pushing past Pierre. “I’m going to my room now.”

If the circumstances were any different, Pierre might have laughed. If Esmerelda really wanted to see Chip act his age, she ought to come visit to watch him behave like the moody pre-teen he could be. Instead, he made up his mind to indeed talk to Cliff, like he had planned, except this time to discuss something far more important.

“You cannot marry Miss Pavmire,” he announced when he marched into Cliff’s private study that evening. He hadn’t even bothered to knock, instead opting for interrupting Cliff while he worked on some kind of sediment analysis. Water splashed as Cliff dropped the specimen he was holding, but he didn’t say anything right away, almost as if he was expecting something like this to happen. 

“Why not?” Cliff asked after mopping up the droplets on his notebook. 

“I ‘ave never seen Chip so despondent. Today, when you left– ‘e asked me not to say anything but you should know that she is not the woman you think she is. And Chip does not want you to remarry.”

“My son told you this? Unless you somehow overheard our conversation?” Cliff folded his hands in his lap, though his eyes continued to dart around the materials covering his desk. “Pierre, are you sure it is Chip who doesn’t want me to get married?”

Pierre stifled a gasp, his fists clenching involuntarily. He realized he was shaking ever so slightly. 

“I do not know what you are insinuating, sir. But my job is to look after Chip’s best interests. And I believe marrying Miss Pavmire would not be congruent with that,” he explained with a measured tone. He was trying to make eye contact with Cliff, but the other man refused to meet his eyes. 

“My job,” Cliff spoke after a moment of quiet contemplation, “is to care for everyone and everything in this home. I failed at that once, and I will not do that again. Chip understands more than you think. He will be fine.”

“No!” Pierre clamped a hand over his mouth, not intending to shout at his boss. Yet. He took a deep breath. “No,” he continued, “you cannot dismiss this. If Chip is old enough to understand these things, ‘e is old enough to ‘ave an opinion on them. The only reason I am the one telling you this and not ‘im is because ‘e is too polite for ‘is own good; ‘e will do anything to please you.” 

“Pierre–” Cliff warned.

“Do not.” Pierre stepped closer to Cliff, such that now he could smell the faint metallic dust on his hands, the rosemary soap he used for his hair. He bent slightly to look directly into his mesmerizing green eyes. “Why are you marrying this woman so soon?” 

Cliff blinked rapidly, inhaling slowly through his teeth. 

“I… have a duty to give my son a mother, don’t I?” he said slowly. 

Pierre straightened, so that he was now looming roughly a foot over Cliff’s head. 

“You ‘ave a duty to give ‘im a father, don’t you?” he replied.

“What does that mean?” Cliff stood as well; he now had the higher ground. 

“Someone ‘as to look out for ‘is best interests,” Pierre answered. Despite Cliff’s height over him, he was not going to give up that easily. Besides, there was something about the commanding presence standing over him that… was distracting him, clearly. Now was not the time for that. “I am not sure you are doing that anymore.”

“Pierre!” Cliff’s voice raised in volume, not quite yelling, but loud enough that it echoed slightly within the room. “Are you seriously implying that I am, what, making this decision selfishly? That I am not in fact doing any of this– all of this – for my son? Chip is the only thing I had in mind when I made the decision to propose!”

“The perfect way to begin a marriage,” Pierre scoffed. “Do you even love this woman?” he asked, his voice perhaps gentler than he’d intended. 

“Wha– what gives you the right–” Cliff sputtered.

“Do you?” Pierre asked again, closing the already infinitesimal distance between them. Cliff’s shallow breaths washed over him as he angled his chin upwards, staring intensely his nervous eyes, his trembling lips, his eyebrows– 

“I– I think you should leave, Pierre,” he whispered. 

This time, Pierre obliged, spinning around on his heels to exit. 

The next few days were spent in a sort of limbo, one where Pierre was attempting to teach an unmotivated, ill-tempered Chip whilst waiting to receive his inevitable punishment. Most likely he’d be asked to resign, effective immediately, but there was always the chance that Cliff was the sort of man who relished in explicitly stating the words “you’re fired.” Finally, after supper on the fourth evening of this purgatory, Pierre was called to Cliff’s office. 

He considered apologizing as soon as he stepped in the door, but thought it was best to start silent and save the groveling for later, should Cliff be amenable to changing his verdict. No use in debasing himself if he was going to be sacked regardless. 

Needless to say, “thank you” were the last words he expected to hear out of Cliff’s mouth. 

His jaw dropped, and he let out a surprised half-laugh, half-shout. 

“It is because of your candor that I felt confident enough to break off my engagement to Esmerelda– Miss Pavmire,” Cliff continued. 

Pierre pinched himself as discreetly as possible. Surprisingly not a dream.

“Chip is not ready, and truthfully, neither am I. After all, I shouldn’t be starting a new relationship whilst I harbor feelings for someone else.” 

Pierre nodded. His feelings for Marie-Claire were certainly a contributing factor to why he never married. He couldn’t imagine how difficult they would be to forget if she had ever truly loved him back, like she had Cliff. 

“Anyways, I don’t mean to keep you too long,” Cliff continued with a soft smile. Oh, how Pierre had missed that smile. “Good night, Pierre.”

“ Bonne nuit, sir,” he responded. Pierre turned around to leave, but Cliff’s voice stopped him in the threshold. 

“I am lucky to have you.” The words were spoken like a confession. “So is our Chip.”

“Thank you, Cliff,” Pierre addressed the man behind him without turning to look. Perhaps impolite, but bursting into tears in one’s boss’s study would be impolite, too. Though, if he had looked back, he just might have caught a glimpse of the brightest smile anyone has ever seen.

Chapter Text

As Pierre got further from the study, he began to pick up his pace as his heart rate quickened. Spiraling questions filled his head and he couldn’t hold onto one for long enough to address it before another would come barreling in. He started to feel dizzy, almost sick, which led to him practically sprinting up the stairs to his room. Thankfully, there was no Tarquin to crash into this time, and he made it to his bed where he collapsed face down without any major incident. 

He couldn’t keep track of how much time was passing, so when Sally knocked on the door to wake him up the next morning, he could barely manage an exhausted “come in” before he shifted his head back into the pile of pillows in front of him. 

“Oh my! What’s happened to you? You know what, not important. You’re clearly not feeling well, I’ll just get Sandra to make you some soup, how about that?” she chattered. 

Pierre felt a lightweight quilt drape over his lower body and his shoes were unlaced and tugged off. His face was firmly surrounded by a mountain of pillows, but he could make out the dimming of the light, and he suspected she had drawn the curtains for him. That was nice. More than anything, Sally’s brief interruption had drawn him out of his own thoughts for long enough that he did indeed realize he felt sick and tired, and a nap probably wouldn’t hurt. 

He didn’t even hear the door close behind her before his mind drifted off into unconsciousness. 

Pierre stood on a pebbly beach, the waves lapping against his ankles below a cloudy sky. Despite the overcast day, there seemed to be a bright light shining into his eyes, causing them to sting, though he was unable to even blink. It was starting to give him a headache, he wanted to go home, but his feet were stuck in place. In fact, his entire body felt stiff and immovable, like he was made of solid granite. 

“Hello, Pierre. Long time, no see,” a voice carried out in French. It was distorted by the wind whipping past his ears, but while his head took a moment to process, his heart recognized her immediately. 

Marie-Claire– he tried to say, but his mouth wouldn’t open. His head wouldn’t turn either, even as he desperately wanted to search for her face. 

“Have you enjoyed it? Living my life? Weasling your way into my son’s heart, my husband’s mind? I thought you were loyal to me, I thought you loved me, Pierre.”

It was her voice, but they were not her words. It was just his mind playing tricks on him, he knew that, but… it still felt like he’d been shot through the heart. 

“ Admit it, you’re happy I’m dead.”

No! Pierre wants to scream, as he feels tears run down his cheeks. And it’s true. He’d give up all of this, the manor, his job, Chip and Cliff, for her to be alive again. 

“You’re not what they deserve, Pierre.” 

I know. 

“It’s not you they want, it’s me.”

You’re right. 

“If you ever loved me, if you ever loved them , you’ll leave before it’s too late.”

Pierre felt a touch on his hand, a sting like a hot iron, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Her voice didn’t return either, leaving him alone, again, standing on that pebbly shore as the tide crept in, further, deeper, until it swallowed him whole. 

He woke up gasping for air. His throat felt drier than a desert and he was grateful for the pitcher of water someone had left on his bedside table. As he poured himself a glass, he saw a scrawled note propped up beside it. 

Feel better soon, it read. - C.  

The writing was decidedly not Chip’s blocky script, which left him but one potential sender. Briefly, his heart soared at the notion that Cliff had been thinking of him, Cliff wanted him to feel better, Cliff cared about him, but Pierre’s heart was an Icarus. It had flown too close to the sun, and would now come crashing down. At least he could control where it fell, though.

He peeked out of the curtains, relieved to see the sun had just risen above the horizon. If he was lucky, everyone except Tarquin would still be asleep. 

He didn’t think as he packed the same bag he’d carried when he first arrived. He only bothered with the most important items this time, a few clothing items, his letter from Marie-Claire, a picture Chip had drawn of himself, Pierre, and Cliff enjoying the garden on a sunny summer day. He bowed at the settee as he left, thanking it for its service these past several months, and tiptoed downstairs, catching Tarquin on his way out to the stables. 

“I need a ride to the docks,” he announced. “Please.”

Tarquin nodded silently, and within a few minutes had pulled a carriage to the front of the house. Pierre raised his eyebrows in surprise, but Tarquin just shrugged.

“Consider it a parting gift,” he said. 

Pierre could tell there was something more he wasn’t saying, but he let it go. Tarquin was allowed his silence, too. Instead, he boarded the carriage and watched out the window as Langston Manor grew smaller and smaller, until it disappeared beyond the slope of the hill. 

Turning back into the carriage, he let the tears fall. And he wasn’t sure why. 

He was making this choice, wasn’t he? It was the right thing to do to leave. He felt haunted there, not just by Marie-Claire but by his own decisions. Being there was torture, every second he was reminded of things he hadn’t said or done, and now those regrets extended to his actions with Cliff. There was nothing there to stay for. He had no reason not to go. 

“STOP!” 

The scream spooked both the horses and Pierre. The carriage came to an abrupt halt, as thundering hooves slowed the closer they came. Pierre flung the door open, frantically looking around for the source of the scream. Tarquin, however, seemed as unbothered as ever. In fact, a large grin was spreading across his face as he looked behind them on the road towards none other than Lord Clifford James Langston. 

Pierre watched in stunned silence as Cliff brought his horse to a stop, handed the reins to a thoroughly amused Tarquin, and ran up to the side of the carriage. 

“Pierre!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “What are you doing? Wait– no! I know what you’re doing! You’re trying to leave! But you can’t! You– you just can’t! Hold on, I need to catch my breath!”

Cliff pushed past Pierre, climbing into the seat of the carriage next to Pierre’s bag. 

“Cliff,” Pierre began, and shit , he really did not want to have to do this. This was why he’d left in the early hours of the morning, to specifically avoid this conversation! “Cliff, I do not expect you to understand, but… I have to go.”

“Why?” Cliff pushed. “Is it something I’ve done?”

“No–” god , why did this have to be so hard ? “I just cannot stay and pretend to take Marie-Claire’s place. My being there is just a reminder of what we’ve both lost and–”

“It isn’t. Oh, Pierre, you are anything but that. You are not a reminder of what was lost, you remind us of what was had . The love and the life she brought to our home… When she died, it felt like we could never get it back. But then you arrived, and it was like she had never been gone. You reminded us all that the story of her life could last beyond its last page.”

No, it couldn’t be true. Cliff was wrong, he must be wrong–

“I love you.”

Pierre could swear his heart skipped a beat. 

“No, you cannot, you… you love Marie-Claire–” 

“Pierre, of course I do, we both do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love you, too!”

And Pierre did not have a response to that. Because he felt the same way. He’d never stopped loving Marie-Claire. And he was in love with Cliff. Both were true, but only one was terrifying. Then again, loving Marie-Claire had been scary, too. Scary because she hadn’t shared his affections, scary because she had gone. But the fear, it had faded. And well… maybe this fear could disappear, too. 

“Pierre, I cannot force you to stay,” Cliff continued, as he knelt to the floor of the carriage. “But I will beg you not to leave.”

Then, Cliff held out his hand, and Pierre assumed he just needed help getting up, but when he offered his own, Cliff enclosed it between his palms as he spoke. 

“Pierre, I am nowhere near a perfect man. I spend far too much time with my rocks, I snore at night, I am woefully upper-class– and I know what your people think of that,” he said with a light laugh. “But I am a man who loves you, and I only hope that that is enough for you to consider having me.”

Pierre’s eyes welled with tears as he gasped out a laugh. 

“Cliff, you ridiculous man,” he bemoaned, “stand up so I can kiss you.”

It was Cliff’s turn to laugh, and this time he did use Pierre’s hand to help hoist himself off the floor, before bringing it to his own cheek and pulling him into a close embrace. Pierre only had to lean forward before he was completely enraptured in the most passionate kiss he’d ever experienced. It was a good thing Cliff’s arms were wrapped around him, because he felt as though surely he would melt to the floor otherwise. When Cliff tried to pull away, Pierre scarcely allowed him a breath before tangling his fingers in his hair and tugging their lips back together. 

“You ‘ave no idea ‘ow long I’ve waited to do this,” he whispered. 

“Oh, it can’t possibly be as long as I have,” Cliff replied, murmuring into Pierre’s face as he bent down to kiss every inch of available skin, from his temples to the sensitive skin on his neck. 

The pair only stopped when a few short taps were heard against the roof.

“If you’d like to head back to the estate, I’ll need to be able to take my fingers out from my ears,” Tarquin called. 

Pierre descended into a fit of embarrassed laughter while Cliff just pounded his fist against the wall to get Tarquin’s attention and signal that they were indeed ready to return home. He then pulled Pierre into a seat beside him, linking their arms like a young couple out for a stroll around the park. 

“I am not sure I believe this is really happening,” Pierre admitted. “It feels too good to be true.”

Cliff smiled at him, and Pierre remembered the first time he’d seen that expression, how wonderful it had felt to make him happy. He realized it now felt even better. 

“It feels like love,” Cliff said with a wink. “Like you said.”

Pierre replied with a brief kiss on Cliff’s hand that he’d somehow wound up holding. 

“I love you too,” he added for good measure. “Like quartz loves feldspar.”

“... What is your obsession with granite, anyways?” 

“No idea. Though I suppose inexplicable love is kind of my modus operandi, is it not?”

“That and speaking more languages than I can keep up with.”

“ Oui, but you love it.”

“That I do, Pierre. That I do.”

Chapter Text

The information that Pierre and Cliff were officially a couple spread like wildfire throughout the household. 

Tarquin, Pierre, and Cliff had hardly been home for a minute when they were swarmed by Sally and Amanda, who had apparently been waiting in the room directly overlooking the road up to the manor so they could see the carriage as it arrived. 

“Did he do it?” Sally asked excitedly, bouncing on her toes as she spoke. “Did he tell you?”

“If you’re asking me if ‘e told me ‘e is in love with me, then yes,” Pierre responded with a grin. “If there is some other news– ack!”

He was promptly squeezed by two sets of arms as Sally and Amanda hugged him in unison. Pierre was only released from their grip when they realized Cliff was also standing right there and he became the next victim of their excitement. 

“I wonder if they are ‘appy about it?” Pierre mused sarcastically, but he couldn’t hide the fact that he was smiling from ear to ear. 

Once those two knew, so did every other adult in the house, and both Sandra and Mrs. Addams expressed their happiness, with only a slight comment from Mrs. Addams that it was “about time already.”  Cliff had feigned offense, but his eyes gave away that he wasn’t really too bothered by it. And Pierre felt flattered (and a bit vindicated) that everyone seemed to be perfectly pleased with the new state of affairs to such an extent that some of them had apparently been waiting a long while for this. 

Cliff had been a mote concerned for Beauregarde II’s reaction, but when he was asked to help move Pierre’s personal effects from his room to Cliff’s chambers, he obliged with a simple nod. 

They decided to wait to tell Chip until they both felt settled enough, and it was one evening when having a small get-together for Christmas that that day came. Everyone was huddled together in the drawing room; Sally and Amanda were battling Tarquin and Sandra in a game of whist while Mrs. Addams watched, drinking sherry and provoking competition between the teams. Beauregarde II was seated on the sofa in the opposite corner, and he and Mr. Wilson were engaged in what looked to be a… private conversation, so to say. Pierre and Cliff knelt by the fireplace next to Chip, who was drawing a picture with the new charcoal pencil set Cliff had gifted to him for the holiday. 

“Chip, there’s something we want to talk to you about,” Cliff said, petting the top of his son’s head like he was a cat and not a ten-year-old boy. 

“Mmm?” Chip hummed, still focused on the task before him. 

“It’s… you see when two people– well, Pierre and I–”

“Chip, your father and I are in love,” Pierre said, before Cliff could embarrass himself further. “And we wanted to tell you because we love you, too, more than anything else, mon chou .”

“Okay,” Chip replied, not looking up from his paper. 

“Do– do you have any questions about that?” Cliff prompted, exchanging a puzzled look with Pierre, who just shrugged. He didn’t know, either. 

Chip stuck his tongue out in concentration, before asking, “is that why you guys sleep in the same room now?”

Pierre snorted, almost leaning into the fireplace as he laughed. 

Cliff, in a bold attempt to save face, cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize you noticed that…” he said under his breath. “But yes,” he answered, out loud this time. “That’s why we’re sharing a room now. Is this– are you– okay with all of this?”

Chip finally paused his drawing as he thought for a moment. 

“Yeah,” he responded. “But I don’t wanna call you Pierre anymore.”

“No?” Pierre questioned, raising his eyebrow in confusion. “What will you call me, then?”

“You said people call their fathers ‘Papa’ in France, right?” Chip asked.

“ Oui, they do–” 

“So I want to call you Papa,” Chip explained. 

“Oh,” Pierre whispered. His throat felt like it was full of cotton and his eyes stung a little as he tried to hold back tears. “I suppose I would be alright with that. So long as your Dad is okay with it?”

“It’s great!” Cliff squeaked, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief before pulling them both into a tight hug. 

When Cliff released them, Chip pulled his drawing off the table to show Pierre and Cliff.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the figures on the page. “There’s Dad, and me, and Papa in the orchard,” he explained as he gestured to the people in a small forest of fruit trees. Then, he pointed to the sky, where another figure sat atop a cloud. “And there’s Maman up in heaven watching all of us,” he added. 

“It’s a lovely drawing,” Pierre praised.

“So why is Dad crying again?” Chip asked.

“Because ‘e’s a soft one,” Pierre affectionately teased. “You should see ‘ow ‘e reacts when I kiss ‘im.”

Pierre leaned in, puckering his lips to give Cliff a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Ew!” Chip squealed, covering his eyes with his hands. 

Pierre made a mental note to remember that reaction when Chip got older, but for now he just laughed and tugged Cliff close for a hug instead, enjoying the warmth of the fireplace and friends. 

Ten Months Later...

The moon hung low in the sky, glowing a brilliant white, casting dim light through the many windows in what was lovingly referred to as “Marie-Claire’s room.” Pierre spent many an evening there, enjoying the peace of the plants and the cool breeze. Autumn had officially just begun, and with it came the smell of ripened fruit and drying leaves. He and Chip would be collecting them, this year, to turn into mulch for their garden come spring. Cliff had offered to help, too, though much to his dismay, he’d been given the job of bringing home worms, bugs, and other detritivores he found while engaging in geological research, to assist in the decomposing process. 

Speaking of Cliff, he’d been acting strangely, as of late. He was working longer hours in his study and being oddly secretive. And tonight, when Pierre suggested the family engage in a backgammon tournament after supper, he froze before coming up with a poor excuse about having matters to attend to tonight in town. Nearly three hours later, he still hadn’t returned, and Pierre was starting to become concerned. He was about to start investigating when Chip appeared at the door from outside, flushed and out of breath. 

“Papa! Come quick!” he shouted, before running off. 

Without thinking, Pierre jumped into action, sprinting as fast as he could after Chip, which admittedly, was not all that fast in his house shoes and trousers, and certainly not fast enough to keep up with his son, who disappeared into the orchard. 

“Chip!” he called breathlessly, “Chip!– oh.”

He stopped dead in his tracks as he came across a scattering of desdemona petals, presumably straight from the flower beds out front. The fragrance filled his nose as he followed the trail, which was also dotted with orange chrysanthemums and autumn crocus buds. The path wound through the apricot trees, and eventually let out at the bluffs. There, under a massive wooden arch, stood Cliff, with Chip to his left, rosy cheeked and grinning. 

“Cliff… what is this?” he muttered, eyes darting around confusedly. 

“Do you like it?” Cliff asked, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

Pierre approached, taking in the sight before him. There was first and foremost the arch, which upon further inspection had been engraved with similar mountainous motifs as the door to Cliff’s study, as well as a pattern of swirls and curves which made parts of the wood look almost braided together. It was draped with thin white fabric, which reflected the light coming from the moon and the dozens of candles and lanterns decorating the ground. On either side of the arch were granite plinths holding bouquets of white roses, with wire centerpieces which held thin slices of agate that appeared to glow against the dark night. Finally, his eyes fell upon Cliff and Chip, who he realized were each wearing their finest suits, though Chip had on comfortable shoes (presumably because he’d needed to run to get here) and Cliff had anxiously loosened his tie to the point where it was almost falling off. 

“It’s perfect,” Pierre answered. “But what is it for?”

Chip giggled, but Cliff just took Pierre’s hands in his, raising them to his lips to press a kiss against his knuckles. 

“It’s for you, love.”

Cliff breathed deeply, then reached into his coat pocket, from which he procured a small, velvet box. Pierre inhaled sharply as he flicked open the lid, revealing a silver ring inlaid with pink dendritic agate– the rock Pierre had cited as his favorite so long ago, and apparently, Cliff had remembered. He made a move to reach for it, but Cliff stopped him by holding up his hand, delicately removing the ring from its box before sliding it onto Pierre’s finger like a wedding band. 

“I believe it is customary to propose prior to a wedding ceremony,” Pierre joked.

“Oh, hush,” was all the reply he received. 

Cliff straightened to his full height, once again grasping Pierre’s hands in his own. He rubbed his thumb gently across the new stone on Pierre’s finger, looking deeply into his eyes as he spoke.

“I have spoken vows before,” he began. “I promised to cherish and love someone until my dying days. Later, I swore to her that I would protect and care for our son from the moment he was born. And today, I ask the woman to whom I promised these things if she would be willing to allow me to share these vows with one more person.”

Cliff turned his head towards the horizon, now addressing the sea, the clouds, and the stars. 

“Marie-Claire, I believe you are familiar with the man who stands before me today, but in case you need a reminder, allow me to tell you a bit more about him. He is brilliant, handsome, and kind. He is also the most understanding and thoughtful person I’ve ever known. He knows what it means to love you, and may very well be the only other person on Earth who knows how deep the current of that love runs. I think you would approve of him, because I know you loved him, too.

“Now, by some quirk of fate or quite possibly a miracle, he has found our family and chosen to become a part of it. And with these vows, my intention is to make known my desire for this to be permanent.”

He looked back to exchange a look with Chip, then Pierre, whose eyes had not been dry for some time. The nighttime breeze tickled his cheeks, as though Marie-Claire was enjoying this as much as he was.

“Pierre, mon roc, ” and Pierre’s heart bloomed at his attempt at speaking French, no matter how devastating his pronunciation was, “would you do me the honor of sharing these vows, so that we may continue to love each other and spend the rest of our lives together?”

“ Oui!” Pierre replied, before pulling Cliff towards him and dipping him low for a kiss. “I would love nothing more.”

He had never been so sure of something.