Chapter Text
Sometime in 1889
David marched into the stables only half dressed appropriately for riding; he had his boots on, and the trousers, but had left the hat, and the shirt was the same he’d been wearing all day, and he’d just thrown on whatever jacket was nearby and not made of silk or velvet or any kind of fussy fabric like that. Abel, currently mucking out a stall, straightened in surprise when David came in and upgraded that reaction to astonishment when he noted his rather more sloppy than usual get-up. David tapped the brim of his non-existent hat. ‘Is Duchess ready?’
Poor Abel wrung his hands around the pitchfork. ‘I brushed her earlier,’ he said, stammering a little, ‘and checked her hooves and such, m’lord. She’s ready enough for a ride, but – beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, did you ask me to prepare her specially?’
‘No, that’s all right. I’m being spontaneous. Carry on.’ And he left Abel to gawk after him, very aware that his demeanour was extremely unlike him and not caring one bit. He shouldered into the tack room, grabbed saddle and bridle, and went to saddle his horse.
Ten minutes later, he led her out of the stable, mounted, and departed the Prevost estate’s courtyard at a canter. As they turned onto their favoured bridleway, he gave her the reins, then gave her even more, and she shot away like an arrow. He stood in the stirrups, leaning over her neck, her mane, long and unbraided, whipping into his face. The wind tore at his clothes, grabbed his hair and pulled. It stung tears into his eyes. His breath came in time with Duchess’ pounding footfalls. She’d left the bridleway and was now tearing across the fields with no care for direction, even clearing a few fences and hedges completely at her own volition, and startling all sorts of wild fowl into panicked ascents. There was no space in David’s head but the hiss of the wind, the strong body beneath him, rocking him mercilessly, and the strain in his calves, in his back, in his neck; nothing but the horse, and the hills, and his body.
Eventually, though, even Duchess slowed to a trot. She tossed her head and snorted; foam flew from her bit into David’s face, who couldn’t give any less of a toss. He sat back and looked about him. Well, he was in a field on a hill, of which Spokehamshire had plenty. There were some sheep to his left, looking bewildered, and a pile of rocks to his right, looking rocky. He pulled Duchess to a stop and slid off. His legs had jellified and his spine had petrified. He pulled the stirrups up and knotted the reins to the saddle, then flung himself into the grass where he stood, breathing heavily and staring up at the cloud-covered sky. He heard Duchess wander a few feet to the side, then begin to crop the grass.
Now that the wind was no longer screaming in his ears, and Duchess’ hooves weren’t drumming a mad tattoo beneath him, all he heard was the rush of his own blood and the heaving of his lungs. And with the quiet returned that from which he had run.
He groaned and placed his hands over his face as the argument with Jonathan began to replay itself in his mind. Not just an argument it had been, but an all-out fight. It had started out as a more innocuous disagreement, but then Jonathan had made a remark that David thought was quite unwarranted, and he’d told him so, and then Jonathan, the contrarian ass, had only leaned on it, and before David knew what was happening they were fully shouting at each other. David had said things indicating that he thought Jonathan was both stubborn and a coward; that he put altogether too much thought and effort into things that required neither of them; that he was fussy and overbearing and David was bloody tired of his needling. Jonathan retaliated by pointing out that David was prone to flightiness and fickleness; that he had no ambition to speak of; and that his recklessness and lack of patience were going to be his damn ruin one day.
Eventually, David had just told him to ‘Fuck right off and stew in your misery, you sodding toad of a man,’ which in hindsight was remarkably cruel and would horrify him if Jonathan hadn’t said equally cruel things just beforehand, and had stormed into his dressing room to throw on enough riding clothes to make do. Contrary to general opinion, he did know his way around his own dressing room and could actually dress himself unassisted, thank you very much. He’d just not had the patience.
David wondered how other men dealt with it when fighting with their valets. Well. He figured most men’s valets weren’t also their lovers. If Jonathan weren’t, they wouldn’t have had such an explosive fight; or if he weren’t, and they’d had, David would have dismissed him on the spot for impertinence. He then wondered what it would look like to the rest of the household, if they had overheard them arguing and Jonathan wouldn’t be dismissed for impertinence.
Fuck that. Fuck them. Fuck it all. David was the heir of the bloody Earl of Spokeham, he had his own bloody courtesy title, and if he wanted to keep on a valet who argued with him then that was his own sodding fucking business.
David pushed himself up on his elbows and looked for Duchess. She was still nibbling the grass, but looked up when he did, her ears dancing this way and that. Satisfied that her rider was still alive, she returned to ignoring him. David drew his knees up and put his arms on them.
Was he fickle? Was he reckless? Was he unambitious? The first, probably; the second, definitely (had this dash across the countryside not proven it?); but what did he need ambition for, when his entire life’s path was already laid out for him the moment he drew first breath? Well, all right, surely there were more rebellious heirs around, groaning and gnashing their teeth and shaking their fists at such restriction, but David saw no point in it; nor did he particularly chafe against it in the first place. He was one of only a handful of people in this country who had been given the power to make lasting, wide-ranging change along with his first toys. It was his right, but also his responsibility to fulfill it.
David regarded the countryside sloping gently downwards and sloping just as gently upwards again on the other side of the field. This was Spokehamshire. He was to be earl of it one day. Effectively, he already was, more or less; in the last couple of years, after the birth of his daughter Marguerite, his father had left more and more of the responsibilities of the earldom in David’s hands. The only thing he kept a tight grip on was his peerages in the House of Lords; probably because he suspected – correctly – that David’s votes were going to swing much more Liberal than his own.
‘Unambitious,’ he grunted, ripping up a handful of weeds. Not everyone could be the head of an international ring of vigilante smugglers, now could they. What was he supposed to do, hasten his summons to the House of Lords by offing his own father?
And besides, Jonathan was infuriating. He held so much of himself back out of fear, it was bloody ridiculous. He didn’t even speak freely in front of Sophia, who was a member of that damn smuggling ring. And she knew David, her husband, was inverted. Fuck’s sake, she was herself a lesbian! The sheer amount of unnecessary layers of armour Jonathan wrapped around himself was exhausting to watch, what must it feel like to be encased in them? And the stubbornness, God! Right now, still simmering with anger at him, David couldn’t recall a single instance when Jonathan didn’t cling to his plan or opinion even when it was objectively and obviously not the right one. He was so damn rigid. Everything had to be done just so and to deviate was to invite chaos and bloodshed, apparently. ‘The done thing,’ that was one of his favourite phrases. Ironing the newspaper in the morning, that was the “done thing.” Cutting David’s hair every fortnight was “the done thing.” Right now, it was even pissing David off that he was so loath to use that walking stick, because a valet using a walking stick was very much not the “done thing.” But said valet grimacing and wincing in pain, and occasionally laid up in bed for days at a time, apparently that was perfectly acceptable.
Duchess came over and nudged the side of his face. The spittle-foam around her bit was stained green. He winced at his poor care of her; he should have removed her bridle before letting her roam, and the saddle, too. It wasn’t her fault he and Jonathan were having a spectacular lovers’ quarrel. He patted her cheeks in apology, and stood to unsaddle her. She shook herself all over when the saddle was off and wandered back to her patch of grass. David wasn’t worried that she would run off. He moved over to the pile of rocks and sat down on one, loosening the laces on his boots.
What Jonathan had said wasn’t… untrue. Neither was anything David had said. They’d just said it in the most hurtful way possible, turning the worst lights on each other. Because when David wasn’t angry at Jonathan, he’d praise his patience and endurance, rather than disparage these qualities as “stubbornness” or “rigidity.”
His mood immediately souring further, David ground his teeth when he realised that it would be he, David, who’d have to cave and apologise first. If he didn’t, Jonathan – bloody stubborn Jonathan – would drag this fight out for a week, at least.
‘Bloody let him,’ he muttered. Then repeated it, much louder, yelling it at the stones and the hills. A couple of sheep, bleating in woe, skipped a few steps away.
But they were empty words, shouted at empty air. Already, his temper had cooled considerably. Of course, he’d not at any point been afraid that this fight meant his and Jonathan’s relationship was over. It didn’t happen frequently – thank the Lord – but they’d had a handful of fights of this calibre over the years. Eventually, they’d be back to normal. Or what counted as “normal” for them, and that was very much not in agreement with the rest of society.
The secrecy and caution that their relationship necessitated were exhausting. He envied his wife sometimes, who could walk arm-in-arm with whatever girl she fancied at the moment, kiss her on the cheek, and generally be all over her. Onlookers just smiled and said to themselves what great friends the two women were. David couldn’t even touch Jonathan beyond a brief pat on the shoulder or arm.
Of course, even if love between two men weren’t illegal, there was the vast class divide between them to consider, as well. David was sure that one day, inverted men and women could love openly, and one day, an earl could openly love a valet; but which of these days would arrive earlier, David honestly could not say.
As it were, they had to be careful. And, David thought with sudden clarity, they had to take especial care of their relationship, too. They had to make sure it continued to be strong enough to endure that exhausting secrecy. With newfound determination, David tightened his bootlaces again and slipped off the rock to saddle Duchess, ride home, and apologise to Jonathan, and, he was sure, get an apology in turn. Because he loved him dearly; and Jonathan loved him, too. Certainty of those two facts were the core of David’s entire life. And that could outlast anything: the law, society, and it could definitely outlast a lovers’ quarrel.