Fic: Widdershins, (The Eagle AU), part 2
Title: Widdershins, part 2
Pairing: Esca Mac Cunoval/Marcus Aquila
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5k
Warnings: This is set in the 50s, so the language is un-PC
Summary: The Eagle AU - Esca's a house master and history teacher at a 1950s boys school on the English/Scottish border, where welcoming the new Latin teacher proves to be a challenge
A/N: For awarrington
It was a normal Tuesday morning, boys in varying states of pyjama running in and out of the bathrooms throwing wet balls of toilet paper at each other while Esca stalked the corridors attempting to restore calm. North House was the smallest of Cranholme's four boarding houses, typically taking only the year's first formers and any new scholarship boys coming in, so it was left to Esca and the housekeeping department to maintain some kind of order out of the chaos that comes with thirty boys away from home for the first time.
It wasn't that Esca didn't like his job. He hated almost all of it. The desperately suppressed sobs of homesickness that echoed through the house's drafty halls well into the early hours of the first two months, for example, which would occur again for a couple of weeks after each holiday break. The stench of sock that never quite went away, no matter how strict he was with with laundry rounds. The mind-numbing tedium involved in supervising and enforcing an eight thirty bedtime. The punishments. Those were the worst.
“Kevin! Put that . . . no, put it in the bin, boy. Neil, uniform, now. Five minutes. Get,” Your arses into gear. “A move on. I missed supper last night, I'm not missing out breakfast, too.”
“Is it true, Mr. Mac? That the Italian's here?”
News travelled fast in a place like Cranholme. He'd heard mutterings about it late last night, each dorm room suspiciously silent when he'd stuck his head in each time to tell them to get to sleep.
“Yes, Johnnie, your new Latin master arrived last night, and let's all refer to him by his name rather than his nationality.” Problem. Esca only knew Marcus by his first name. “Once we find out what it is. Come on, lads, get a shift on.”
Once washed and clothed, the boys spilled out the open door into the pure blank of fresh snow, the echoes of their excitable shouts muffled by the swags of snow-laden cedar boughs surrounding the house as Esca pulled one fallen boy up by the collar, ducking to avoid a snowball. The drifts along the path were so deep in places that his galoshes were filled with icy water by the time he'd led an increasingly bedraggled crew of boys to the dining hall, his socks squelching between his toes in shoes that'd probably take all day to get halfway dry. He followed the boys inside, taking off his mortarboard to dust off the half-inch of snow it had collected on the walk over, and started to make his way over to the master's tables after checking that his boys were safely settled into theirs.
The sight of Marcus sitting alone at one of the long tables was enough to stop him in his tracks. North House were always the first at breakfast, the other houses full of older boys who didn't wake automatically at six like his lot, and none of the masters without houses to look after ever surfaced before they strictly had to. So Esca was used to having his mornings more or less to himself unless Stew had been for an early run, which would be unlikely given the state of the weather. But it was definitely Marcus, the gown that made most of the teaching staff look like a bunch of dusty old crows instead a thoughtful frame for the breadth of his shoulders, his mortarboard lying on the table in front of him along with several large deep red ledgers, one of which he was reading through with total absorption. A cup of tea and bowl of porridge were sitting ignored next to the knuckles of his left hand.
Esca was suddenly aware that his gown was shabby, shiny and turning grey with age, his shirt collar frayed, a hole in his jumper badly darned by himself and already beginning to pull. He badly needed a haircut, too, and began to wish that custom meant that the masters kept their caps on when dining, as they habitually did throughout the rest of the working day. Marcus looked like something out of an advertisement in the newspaper, his robes pristine as if brand new, another fine shirt beneath, a silk tie in a mossy green that would compliment his eyes tucked into a jumper that clung to what looked to be a ludicrously defined chest. If anything, he was more startlingly handsome than Esca remembered from the night before. Esca grabbed the nearest chair, needing to sit to conceal his physical reaction and to pull himself together, but the legs of his chair scraping on the floorboards drew Marcus's attention.
“Mr. MacCunoval. Good morning.”
Esca once more limited himself to a nod of acknowledgment, no smile, saving that for Polly when she came over to him with a cup of tea and his own bowl of the school's wonderfully thick, salty porridge. It was the only edible thing that ever came out of the kitchens. Esca took a sip of his tea, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Marcus continued to regard him for a second longer before returning to his books in silence. The tables full of North House boys were several rows down in front of them, all with their eyes glued on the new arrival, an excitable chatter weaving back and forth between them, which Esca couldn't hear but would've bet money on the subject matter.
Usually Esca enjoyed his lone mornings, a chance to go over the day in preparation, to order his thoughts, a chance for silence before he'd spend the rest of the day speaking without pause until he'd finally fall into his bed and a fitful sleep. But an awareness of Marcus tugged at his left arm, the side of his face, an itch, almost a warmth as he ate a few spoonfuls of porridge and kept an eye on the boys, trying to ignore the hulking form still reading silently a few seats down. Finally it got too much, and he sat back with his tea cup, looking over to Marcus and loathing himself for needing to say something, anything.
“You're not a porridge man, I take it?”
Marcus looked up from his book, a frown of incomprehension creasing his wide brow before Esca nodded towards the bowl at his hand. “Oh, the oats. I've never had them for breakfast before, or with salt.”
“You should fill up. We don't get much for lunch, and I guarantee your classroom's going to be freezing this morning.”
“I've noticed that the common buildings are colder than I'd expected.” Marcus turned in his seat to face Esca, the charcoal wool of his jumper pulling tight across that chest of his. Esca averted his eyes and took another look over at his house's tables, catching Billy Mason in the act of trying to spoon porridge down an oblivious Eddie Haskith's collar. “There was no hot water this morning. Are the school's plumbing systems not in working order?”
“The school was built in eighteen thirty five, and I doubt much has been done to the plumbing since. You get used to it.” Which was an enormous lie. “Perhaps not so much if you're used to a warmer climate.”
Marcus's eyes flickered at Esca's faintly sour tone, the hint of smile dropping, and Esca cursed himself internally for giving a shit about being rude. “The cold doesn't concern me. I was simply curious. It can't be easy to teach when your class is more concerned with the comfort of their toes than the subject at hand.”
“True, very true.”
Where did you teach before? Which schools, where? What ages? What problems? What the hell did you do to end up here? The usual questions he'd ask a new teacher came easily to Esca's lips, but he ignored them. He wouldn't be welcoming, or anything other than strictly polite. He'd thought of nothing else in bed last night, nothing but Marcus, his prick hard and aching for attention as he resolutely ignored his physical needs and set his mind to how he was going to work alongside someone who didn't deserve even a smidge more than social etiquette demanded. Esca always figured himself as a friendly type of chap, a loner by nature, perhaps, but willing and able to have a chat with anyone. It came easy to him. He mustn't forget himself. He couldn't forget what they'd done.
Thankfully a few more boys began to filter into the dining hall, the noise of chatter and spoons scraping bowls and cups of tea clinking in their saucers filling his head and allowing him to ignore Marcus in a bit more comfort. A couple more masters joined them with no more than a nod and gruff 'Morning' to Esca, curious glances towards Marcus as they waited for someone to make an introduction. Esca wasn't going to do it. No way was he going to volunteer to roll out the welcome wagon for the Italian who'd forced his way into Esca's dull little world.
A sudden scraping of chairs and rows of boys rising in tandem brought Esca's attention to Mr. Knobs, the headmaster, entering the hall. He stood, as was the school's custom, forcing himself to carry on looking towards Mr. Knobs with a smile rather than looking over to where Marcus had also stood, his gown falling around him in gentle folds hanging down from strong shoulders.
“Good morning, yes, good morning to you, too, boy. Mr. MacCunoval, Mr. Dunnin, good morning, Mr. Brown.” Mr. Knobs loved this, four times a day, gracing his subjects with smiles and condescension as he soaked up the acknowledgment of his status. A small man, squat like a toad with a similar wide, rubbery smile that he now turned on Marcus, holding out a hand in greeting. “And Mr. Aquila, our newest arrival, Such a pleasure to finally have you here. I do apologise that I wasn't available to personally welcome you last night. I understand that our Mr. MacCunoval accompanied you here himself?”
“Mr. Knobs, the pleasure is mine. Yes, Mr. MacCunoval was kind enough to assist me with my car, and to rescue me from the depths of your Scottish winter.”
He had no choice but to look at Marcus now, a smile that didn't reach Marcus's eyes lifting the corners of that smooth, pink mouth. Anger flared deep in Esca's gut again, at how unjust this was, and at Marcus himself for being. . . well, just look at him. It was simply unfair.
“I don't believe I did a thing that any other passerby wouldn't have.”
And that, so far as Esca's share of the conversation went, was that. He removed himself from the introductions, sitting back down to finish his congealing porridge and abhorring that he noticed how stiff and over-formal the other masters were in their welcomes. He shouldn't care about this. It was natural for them all to find issue with having an Italian welcomed with open arms into their school. He wouldn't feel sympathy for Marcus. He'd finish his breakfast, then get out of there and try to keep as much distance between himself and the new Latin master as he was able to.
-
Thud.
Esca looked up at the ceiling in concern, the lights swinging gently as all the boys stopped reading from various library books and also looked upwards.
Thud. Thud. Bump.
“What the . . .” A shower of dust filtered down from the classroom's old plasterwork as a barrage of heavy footsteps marched across the floor above. Esca bookmarked and closed his book, getting to his feet as a particularly loud series of thuds from above made the classroom lights flicker. “Bruiser, get up here. Everyone keep reading, and Bruiser'll keep an eye on you. Bruiser's on report if I find any nonsense going on when I get back.”
That should take care of them all for a second or two. Esca took the stairs to the upper level of classrooms two at a time, his damp shoes sliding to a halt in front of the Classics room, when a loud shout almost made him jump out of his skin.
“Intra!”
Stomping feet moved beyond the door, the blocks of the old parquet floor almost rattling in response. Esca lifted a knuckle to knock on the classroom door, another volley of shouted words causing him to pause and frown at the door itself.
“Iunge. Move! Tarda, tarda . . . Sta! Parati, frudices?”
Giggles. The third form were giggling during their Latin lesson. There had to be something very wrong about that. Esca opened the door a crack just as another fierce shout came from the new Latin master, who was . . . standing on his chair?
“Gladium stringe! Your swords, you dogs, draw your swords! You're getting out of step, soldiers. Ad signa! Dirige frontem. You there, observe your line. Supprime tuum stultiloquium . . . percute!”
He opened the door completely as the third form roared and charged as one, slide rules held aloft in place of swords, every one of them stumbling to a halt in a fresh fit of giggles as they stood around Marcus's desk waving their extended rules in triumph. Marcus was grinning down at them all, his mortarboard tilted forward over his nose, dimples dug deep into each clean-shaven cheek.
“Gladium reconde. Swords away. Good job, men. Gratulatio, the field of war is yours.”
Esca cleared his throat, unsure of how best to interrupt. “Mr. Aquila?”
“Mane bonum, Mr. MacCunoval. Pax tecum.”
Marcus began to climb down off his chair, his leg making it hard going, refusing any offers of assistance from the boys with a shake of his head. Esca searched his mind through whatever Latin he remembered, not wanting to let the side down.
“Uh, gratias.”
An easy shrug of shoulders Esca would've paid good money to swing off, if he'd had any money and the shoulders in question weren't Italian. “Nihil est. Tell me, what can the Cranholme Legio Victrix Triumphalis do for you?”
“A quiet word with its centurion out in the hall would be a start.”
“Very well. Dimitto, fungi. You're dismissed, so back to your seats. And what did I call you all?”
A sea of hands shot up, Marcus picking one boy out with a nod. “Mushrooms, sir!”
The grin returned briefly. God, it was breathtaking, Marcus's eyes shining in genuine affection at the host of boys beaming at him in return. “Good job. Return to your notes. Mr. MacCunoval and I will only be one moment, I'm sure.”
Marcus pulled the door shut behind them, joining Esca in the frigidly damp air of the hallway, his breath clouding in front of him as he spoke. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Where to start?” Esca folded his arms, annoyed with how he was having to crane his neck back to look at Marcus in the eye. “Interesting teaching technique you've got there. One that's very different to your predecessor's.”
“Perhaps so. The boys were expecting yet another morning of tense changes. I wanted to give them something that would get them fired up about learning. Passionate about it, you know?”
That wasn't a word Esca was comfortable hearing from Marcus, said in those serious tones, the timbre of his voice causing as many shivers to run through Esca as the hoarfrost curling on the hall's window panes.
“You're right that Nasher wasn't known for motivating his students, but if you could keep it down a tad? I've got a roomful downstairs worried that your legion's about to land on our heads.”
“My apologies for our disturbance. It's not something I intend to do often, more a way of making myself known to them, and a method to instil discipline.”
“How you choose to conduct your classes is nothing to do with me, but too much noise is unfair to the other boys.”
“Of course.” Any of the pleasure that had been lighting Marcus's eyes before was gone, his face once more a composed blank slate. “Then I'll leave you to do your job, as I'll do mine.”
“You do that.”
That bastard, turning his back on Esca without another word to enter his classroom, closing the door firmly behind him. Surely he had to have understood he'd be creating tensions by coming here, that he'd never be welcome or accepted. Esca glared at Marcus's classroom's door once more, wanting to kick it in and march in there to give the big sod a proper talking to, to tell him to get out and away from them all. Away from him. But he didn't, instead rubbing some warmth back into his fingers as he made his way back down to his own room to see if Bruiser had given anyone a dead arm yet.
-
“Mac! You're a sight for sore eyes. I've been torturing the fifth form with a cross-country run all morning, and I'm in dire need of a decent smoke.”
Esca made his way through the crowded teacher's lounge, slumping down onto the protesting springs of the armchair opposite Stew's, while tossing him his pack of Woodbines. “No more du Mauriers?”
“Not a sausage, not in this weather. The little bastards are probably all smoking in the lavs, out of the cold. Should've seen them, though. I had them turning blue. It was a sight to behold.” Stewart lit a smoke, swinging his feet up onto the littered coffee table. “So what's this I hear about you playing the Good Samaritan last night? Couldn't just walk by on the other side, eh?”
“It's a bloody disgrace, is what it is.” Chauncey Whitmore shook the pages of his Daily Post into order in the next chair. “What's next? Inviting Fritz in to start teaching German?”
“You don't have to tell me. Joyce?” Esca leaned over the arm of his chair to give the Music mistress a cheeky grin, the one that never failed. “Any chance of a cuppa while you're up?”
“Don't know about that, Mac. You have your white horse and suit of shining armor at the ready? I might find myself in need of rescue from the kettle.”
“Alright, I get it. Anyone else?”
“You couldn't have left him to freeze? Like any decent human being would've?” Jeremy Knackerwell leaned over Stew's feet to pinch one of Esca's Woodbines.
“Truth be told, Knackers, I thought about it. Ta,” to Joyce as she handed Esca a steaming cup. “You're an angel. Christ, it's cold in here.”
“Three burst pipes this morning alone. Nobby must be ready to tear his hair out, the budget'll never stretch to more work . . . oh, my. Speak of the devil and he doth appear.”
The hubbub of the smoky, dimly-lit room died down as the door opened once more, Marcus's hulking figure filling the frame as he came through into sudden silence, everyone finding an interest in their newspaper or fingernails, looking everywhere but at their new colleague. Esca surreptitiously watched for Marcus's reaction through the haze of his cigarette, but there was none, the blank expression in place as Marcus held his head high and slowly limped over to the one spare chair at the room's table, laying down the same red ledgers he'd been reading at breakfast. As quickly as it had stopped, conversation resumed, a low gossipy buzz of whispers, Marcus himself wrapped up in an air of total solitude as if sitting alone rather than surrounded by a roomful of people who wanted him gone.
“Well, he's a cool one, got to give him that.” Stewart picked a shred of tobacco off his tongue before wiping his fingers on his trouser leg. “Pity about the cane. I could do with some back up for rugger training.”
“How did he get the job, anyway? Did anyone hear? Did you ask him last night?” Joyce had perched on the arm of Esca's chair, her plump hip pressing against his shoulder, her voice hushed.
“I got the impression he's not the chatty sort.”
“No? Hmm. Still waters, perhaps.”
“You setting your cap at him, JoJo? Do you like the strong, silent type?”
Knackers sniggered at Stewart's question, Joyce blushing and shooting a glare at Stew as Esca hid his smile in his tea. They all suspected Joyce was a confirmed spinster in much the same way that Esca would be a lifelong bachelor, although he hoped to hell that the same sort of rumours didn't pass themselves around the staff room about him quite as easily.
“You keep your dirty thoughts to yourself, Hamish Stewart. You have to admit, though, he's an odd choice. Doesn't look like any Latin teacher I've ever met.”
Truer words were never spoken, Marcus's profile etched in silver light coming from the room's one small, snow-dusted window. He wasn't a typical brand of handsome, the heavy brow and strong jaw giving him a faintly thuggish quality, but he had an atypical beauty to him in those inch-long eyelashes and firm mouth, the smooth golden skin of his throat highlighted by his perfectly starched shirt collar, the vulnerable curve of the nape of his neck into his neatly-cropped hair making it tough for Esca to look away.
“I saw him at lunch. Didn't eat his mutton, and only picked at his cabbage.” Knackers never left the table without finishing each and every scrap. “He's probably used to foreign muck and nothing else.”
They all muttered their agreement, Esca instead busying himself with finishing his tea. The clock on the mantle was coming up to the afternoon's session and, one by one, the room started to empty, Esca himself getting up and brushing the ash off his trousers and gown to make his way back out to the Humanities wing. His action must've caught Marcus's attention, as Esca caught Marcus's eye for one uncomfortable second, Marcus simply compressing his lips and giving Esca a silent nod of recognition. But Esca broke their stare without returning it, dropping his gaze to his shoes before murmuring his goodbyes to the others, agreeing to stop by Stew's room for a quick drink later.
-
“Why not? It'd be fun. Get you out, a wee dance, bit of a kiss.”
“Can't. I'm supervising your prep, remember?”
“But Janice has got - ”
“A little sister who likes to dance, I know, you've already said.” Esca drained his glass, deciding against refilling it. The bottle of cheap blend he'd bought in the village yesterday was already halfway down, and Esca had been hoping it'd at least last the week. “I've got your prep to do. Then mine, plus the bedtime hour. Maybe next time.”
“That'll be the fiftieth time you've said that.”
“Balls.” He stubbed out his smoke, pocketing the whisky and leaning down to grab the stack of library books by his ankle. “You know well that the chances for a dance around here only come up three times a year. Four, if the weather's turning everyone frisky, so there's no way we're anywhere near fifty.”
Stew waved the specifics away with a lazy hand. “You're such an old woman. Ach well, I suppose I asked. You off already?”
“Got to return these before the little blighters finish supper and need their arses wiping before bed.”
“Right. Listen, Mac, should I be worried? About you and the wop? Big bugger like that, wouldn't want you taking an ill-judged swipe at him, but with what they did to your awld man . . .”
Stew had stood at the same time he had, a hand on Esca's shoulder, the very tip of Stew's thumb resting against Esca's neck. It had been so long now that even the one small touch lit his skin, nerves igniting and sending signals southwards in the second it took Esca to shake his head and move away.
“No need. I'm fine. I'll keep out of his way.”
“Might not work.” A censoring, severe look at him. “You be careful, now.”
“Now who's the old woman? G'night, Gran.”
It was never going to work. Esca understood that, Cranholme being too confined a climate, but he'd hoped it would've last the rest of the night, perhaps. No such luck, as, in the short period of time it had taken him to return his books and pick up the ones he'd phoned through to request earlier, Marcus had appeared at one of the long polished tables back towards the doors. Esca would have to pass him. He tucked his parcel of books within his coat to protect their covers from the wet snow still gusting outside, wrapping his scarf around his ears and mouth against the shrill wind and shrinking down into the collar of his overcoat in the absurd hope that Marcus wouldn't notice him. They were the only two in the library this late, everyone else but the librarian's assistant in the dining hall at this hour.
The library's lights were turned low, and Marcus was sitting in the pool of yellow light spilling from the table's reading lamp, the skin of his hand glowing as if gilded as it made notes across a notebook's page from one of the ever-present red ledgers. The tips of his snow-damp hair shone where the light hit it as he moved from reading to writing, his ears red with cold. Out without a hat in this weather. How very continental of him. Esca pulled on his worn trilby, pulling down the brim to disguise himself further, the urge to laugh aloud at himself at resorting to such fatuousness bubbling up his throat as he strode past Marcus's table without a greeting.
“Buona sera, Mr. MacCunoval.”
“Yes, I get it. You speak Latin.” He halted in his steps and stared at the door, wondering how it'd look if he made a run for it. “Well done, you.”
“That was Italian, but thanks.”
He'd known that, damn it. “You're welcome. Good night, then.”
“If I may detain you one moment . . .”
He'd only made it three steps before halting again, unwillingly turning back towards Marcus. “You may.”
“The food this evening.” Marcus's eyes either weren't a pure green, or the desk lamp was giving the impression that his irises were flecked with gold. “May I ask what it was?”
He wouldn't laugh. He wouldn't. The thinly-disguised veneer of disgust didn't register on Marcus's bland expression of polite inquiry, but it rang strong through his words. Esca would've agreed with him but tonight wasn't as bad as it sometimes got.
“Which course?”
Marcus pursed his lips, tilting his head to one side like he was thinking about it with deep consideration, before shrugging and giving Esca a grin he felt all the way down to his toes. “All of them?”
The books were slipping down under his arm, so Esca hooched them up beneath his coat, not wanting to put them on the table and look like he was settling in for a chat. “The grey, stringy bath water was Bawd Bree, or hare soup. The soggy mush that followed was liver and oatmeal pudding. Lasties was stewed rhubarb.”
“Truly? Oh. I wasn't able to correctly identify a single ingredient.”
“The kitchens cook what's available locally. Sale of meat's still subject to rationing.”
“I see.” Had the strong shoulders stiffened slightly? The smile remained, but seemed less genuine, Marcus's eyes darkening as he dropped his head and flipped a page in his open ledger, dismissing Esca easily as he'd himself so often do with one of his boys. “Well, I won't detain you any longer. Thank you. Good night, Mr. MacCunoval.”
Call me Mac. Everyone does. It'd be so easy to take his coat off, place his heavy books down and fall into a conversation about the worst affronts coming out of the kitchens. To watch the play of humour and shadow falling across a face that gave nothing away save a hint of private understanding and a surprising sense of the ridiculous. To try and make that smile appear in his direction time and time again. Too easy, and impossible.
“Not a problem. 'Night.”
The snow was falling thick and fluffed over the ice of the afternoon, and walking along the path was like trying to skate in slippers. As Esca took his second tumble in three minutes, his treasonous mind settled on an internal image of the cane propped against Marcus's library chair, a niggle of a disloyal worry biting at his gut as he thought of what a fall could do to whatever injury had caused a permanent limp.
Pairing: Esca Mac Cunoval/Marcus Aquila
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5k
Warnings: This is set in the 50s, so the language is un-PC
Summary: The Eagle AU - Esca's a house master and history teacher at a 1950s boys school on the English/Scottish border, where welcoming the new Latin teacher proves to be a challenge
A/N: For awarrington
It was a normal Tuesday morning, boys in varying states of pyjama running in and out of the bathrooms throwing wet balls of toilet paper at each other while Esca stalked the corridors attempting to restore calm. North House was the smallest of Cranholme's four boarding houses, typically taking only the year's first formers and any new scholarship boys coming in, so it was left to Esca and the housekeeping department to maintain some kind of order out of the chaos that comes with thirty boys away from home for the first time.
It wasn't that Esca didn't like his job. He hated almost all of it. The desperately suppressed sobs of homesickness that echoed through the house's drafty halls well into the early hours of the first two months, for example, which would occur again for a couple of weeks after each holiday break. The stench of sock that never quite went away, no matter how strict he was with with laundry rounds. The mind-numbing tedium involved in supervising and enforcing an eight thirty bedtime. The punishments. Those were the worst.
“Kevin! Put that . . . no, put it in the bin, boy. Neil, uniform, now. Five minutes. Get,” Your arses into gear. “A move on. I missed supper last night, I'm not missing out breakfast, too.”
“Is it true, Mr. Mac? That the Italian's here?”
News travelled fast in a place like Cranholme. He'd heard mutterings about it late last night, each dorm room suspiciously silent when he'd stuck his head in each time to tell them to get to sleep.
“Yes, Johnnie, your new Latin master arrived last night, and let's all refer to him by his name rather than his nationality.” Problem. Esca only knew Marcus by his first name. “Once we find out what it is. Come on, lads, get a shift on.”
Once washed and clothed, the boys spilled out the open door into the pure blank of fresh snow, the echoes of their excitable shouts muffled by the swags of snow-laden cedar boughs surrounding the house as Esca pulled one fallen boy up by the collar, ducking to avoid a snowball. The drifts along the path were so deep in places that his galoshes were filled with icy water by the time he'd led an increasingly bedraggled crew of boys to the dining hall, his socks squelching between his toes in shoes that'd probably take all day to get halfway dry. He followed the boys inside, taking off his mortarboard to dust off the half-inch of snow it had collected on the walk over, and started to make his way over to the master's tables after checking that his boys were safely settled into theirs.
The sight of Marcus sitting alone at one of the long tables was enough to stop him in his tracks. North House were always the first at breakfast, the other houses full of older boys who didn't wake automatically at six like his lot, and none of the masters without houses to look after ever surfaced before they strictly had to. So Esca was used to having his mornings more or less to himself unless Stew had been for an early run, which would be unlikely given the state of the weather. But it was definitely Marcus, the gown that made most of the teaching staff look like a bunch of dusty old crows instead a thoughtful frame for the breadth of his shoulders, his mortarboard lying on the table in front of him along with several large deep red ledgers, one of which he was reading through with total absorption. A cup of tea and bowl of porridge were sitting ignored next to the knuckles of his left hand.
Esca was suddenly aware that his gown was shabby, shiny and turning grey with age, his shirt collar frayed, a hole in his jumper badly darned by himself and already beginning to pull. He badly needed a haircut, too, and began to wish that custom meant that the masters kept their caps on when dining, as they habitually did throughout the rest of the working day. Marcus looked like something out of an advertisement in the newspaper, his robes pristine as if brand new, another fine shirt beneath, a silk tie in a mossy green that would compliment his eyes tucked into a jumper that clung to what looked to be a ludicrously defined chest. If anything, he was more startlingly handsome than Esca remembered from the night before. Esca grabbed the nearest chair, needing to sit to conceal his physical reaction and to pull himself together, but the legs of his chair scraping on the floorboards drew Marcus's attention.
“Mr. MacCunoval. Good morning.”
Esca once more limited himself to a nod of acknowledgment, no smile, saving that for Polly when she came over to him with a cup of tea and his own bowl of the school's wonderfully thick, salty porridge. It was the only edible thing that ever came out of the kitchens. Esca took a sip of his tea, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Marcus continued to regard him for a second longer before returning to his books in silence. The tables full of North House boys were several rows down in front of them, all with their eyes glued on the new arrival, an excitable chatter weaving back and forth between them, which Esca couldn't hear but would've bet money on the subject matter.
Usually Esca enjoyed his lone mornings, a chance to go over the day in preparation, to order his thoughts, a chance for silence before he'd spend the rest of the day speaking without pause until he'd finally fall into his bed and a fitful sleep. But an awareness of Marcus tugged at his left arm, the side of his face, an itch, almost a warmth as he ate a few spoonfuls of porridge and kept an eye on the boys, trying to ignore the hulking form still reading silently a few seats down. Finally it got too much, and he sat back with his tea cup, looking over to Marcus and loathing himself for needing to say something, anything.
“You're not a porridge man, I take it?”
Marcus looked up from his book, a frown of incomprehension creasing his wide brow before Esca nodded towards the bowl at his hand. “Oh, the oats. I've never had them for breakfast before, or with salt.”
“You should fill up. We don't get much for lunch, and I guarantee your classroom's going to be freezing this morning.”
“I've noticed that the common buildings are colder than I'd expected.” Marcus turned in his seat to face Esca, the charcoal wool of his jumper pulling tight across that chest of his. Esca averted his eyes and took another look over at his house's tables, catching Billy Mason in the act of trying to spoon porridge down an oblivious Eddie Haskith's collar. “There was no hot water this morning. Are the school's plumbing systems not in working order?”
“The school was built in eighteen thirty five, and I doubt much has been done to the plumbing since. You get used to it.” Which was an enormous lie. “Perhaps not so much if you're used to a warmer climate.”
Marcus's eyes flickered at Esca's faintly sour tone, the hint of smile dropping, and Esca cursed himself internally for giving a shit about being rude. “The cold doesn't concern me. I was simply curious. It can't be easy to teach when your class is more concerned with the comfort of their toes than the subject at hand.”
“True, very true.”
Where did you teach before? Which schools, where? What ages? What problems? What the hell did you do to end up here? The usual questions he'd ask a new teacher came easily to Esca's lips, but he ignored them. He wouldn't be welcoming, or anything other than strictly polite. He'd thought of nothing else in bed last night, nothing but Marcus, his prick hard and aching for attention as he resolutely ignored his physical needs and set his mind to how he was going to work alongside someone who didn't deserve even a smidge more than social etiquette demanded. Esca always figured himself as a friendly type of chap, a loner by nature, perhaps, but willing and able to have a chat with anyone. It came easy to him. He mustn't forget himself. He couldn't forget what they'd done.
Thankfully a few more boys began to filter into the dining hall, the noise of chatter and spoons scraping bowls and cups of tea clinking in their saucers filling his head and allowing him to ignore Marcus in a bit more comfort. A couple more masters joined them with no more than a nod and gruff 'Morning' to Esca, curious glances towards Marcus as they waited for someone to make an introduction. Esca wasn't going to do it. No way was he going to volunteer to roll out the welcome wagon for the Italian who'd forced his way into Esca's dull little world.
A sudden scraping of chairs and rows of boys rising in tandem brought Esca's attention to Mr. Knobs, the headmaster, entering the hall. He stood, as was the school's custom, forcing himself to carry on looking towards Mr. Knobs with a smile rather than looking over to where Marcus had also stood, his gown falling around him in gentle folds hanging down from strong shoulders.
“Good morning, yes, good morning to you, too, boy. Mr. MacCunoval, Mr. Dunnin, good morning, Mr. Brown.” Mr. Knobs loved this, four times a day, gracing his subjects with smiles and condescension as he soaked up the acknowledgment of his status. A small man, squat like a toad with a similar wide, rubbery smile that he now turned on Marcus, holding out a hand in greeting. “And Mr. Aquila, our newest arrival, Such a pleasure to finally have you here. I do apologise that I wasn't available to personally welcome you last night. I understand that our Mr. MacCunoval accompanied you here himself?”
“Mr. Knobs, the pleasure is mine. Yes, Mr. MacCunoval was kind enough to assist me with my car, and to rescue me from the depths of your Scottish winter.”
He had no choice but to look at Marcus now, a smile that didn't reach Marcus's eyes lifting the corners of that smooth, pink mouth. Anger flared deep in Esca's gut again, at how unjust this was, and at Marcus himself for being. . . well, just look at him. It was simply unfair.
“I don't believe I did a thing that any other passerby wouldn't have.”
And that, so far as Esca's share of the conversation went, was that. He removed himself from the introductions, sitting back down to finish his congealing porridge and abhorring that he noticed how stiff and over-formal the other masters were in their welcomes. He shouldn't care about this. It was natural for them all to find issue with having an Italian welcomed with open arms into their school. He wouldn't feel sympathy for Marcus. He'd finish his breakfast, then get out of there and try to keep as much distance between himself and the new Latin master as he was able to.
-
Thud.
Esca looked up at the ceiling in concern, the lights swinging gently as all the boys stopped reading from various library books and also looked upwards.
Thud. Thud. Bump.
“What the . . .” A shower of dust filtered down from the classroom's old plasterwork as a barrage of heavy footsteps marched across the floor above. Esca bookmarked and closed his book, getting to his feet as a particularly loud series of thuds from above made the classroom lights flicker. “Bruiser, get up here. Everyone keep reading, and Bruiser'll keep an eye on you. Bruiser's on report if I find any nonsense going on when I get back.”
That should take care of them all for a second or two. Esca took the stairs to the upper level of classrooms two at a time, his damp shoes sliding to a halt in front of the Classics room, when a loud shout almost made him jump out of his skin.
“Intra!”
Stomping feet moved beyond the door, the blocks of the old parquet floor almost rattling in response. Esca lifted a knuckle to knock on the classroom door, another volley of shouted words causing him to pause and frown at the door itself.
“Iunge. Move! Tarda, tarda . . . Sta! Parati, frudices?”
Giggles. The third form were giggling during their Latin lesson. There had to be something very wrong about that. Esca opened the door a crack just as another fierce shout came from the new Latin master, who was . . . standing on his chair?
“Gladium stringe! Your swords, you dogs, draw your swords! You're getting out of step, soldiers. Ad signa! Dirige frontem. You there, observe your line. Supprime tuum stultiloquium . . . percute!”
He opened the door completely as the third form roared and charged as one, slide rules held aloft in place of swords, every one of them stumbling to a halt in a fresh fit of giggles as they stood around Marcus's desk waving their extended rules in triumph. Marcus was grinning down at them all, his mortarboard tilted forward over his nose, dimples dug deep into each clean-shaven cheek.
“Gladium reconde. Swords away. Good job, men. Gratulatio, the field of war is yours.”
Esca cleared his throat, unsure of how best to interrupt. “Mr. Aquila?”
“Mane bonum, Mr. MacCunoval. Pax tecum.”
Marcus began to climb down off his chair, his leg making it hard going, refusing any offers of assistance from the boys with a shake of his head. Esca searched his mind through whatever Latin he remembered, not wanting to let the side down.
“Uh, gratias.”
An easy shrug of shoulders Esca would've paid good money to swing off, if he'd had any money and the shoulders in question weren't Italian. “Nihil est. Tell me, what can the Cranholme Legio Victrix Triumphalis do for you?”
“A quiet word with its centurion out in the hall would be a start.”
“Very well. Dimitto, fungi. You're dismissed, so back to your seats. And what did I call you all?”
A sea of hands shot up, Marcus picking one boy out with a nod. “Mushrooms, sir!”
The grin returned briefly. God, it was breathtaking, Marcus's eyes shining in genuine affection at the host of boys beaming at him in return. “Good job. Return to your notes. Mr. MacCunoval and I will only be one moment, I'm sure.”
Marcus pulled the door shut behind them, joining Esca in the frigidly damp air of the hallway, his breath clouding in front of him as he spoke. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Where to start?” Esca folded his arms, annoyed with how he was having to crane his neck back to look at Marcus in the eye. “Interesting teaching technique you've got there. One that's very different to your predecessor's.”
“Perhaps so. The boys were expecting yet another morning of tense changes. I wanted to give them something that would get them fired up about learning. Passionate about it, you know?”
That wasn't a word Esca was comfortable hearing from Marcus, said in those serious tones, the timbre of his voice causing as many shivers to run through Esca as the hoarfrost curling on the hall's window panes.
“You're right that Nasher wasn't known for motivating his students, but if you could keep it down a tad? I've got a roomful downstairs worried that your legion's about to land on our heads.”
“My apologies for our disturbance. It's not something I intend to do often, more a way of making myself known to them, and a method to instil discipline.”
“How you choose to conduct your classes is nothing to do with me, but too much noise is unfair to the other boys.”
“Of course.” Any of the pleasure that had been lighting Marcus's eyes before was gone, his face once more a composed blank slate. “Then I'll leave you to do your job, as I'll do mine.”
“You do that.”
That bastard, turning his back on Esca without another word to enter his classroom, closing the door firmly behind him. Surely he had to have understood he'd be creating tensions by coming here, that he'd never be welcome or accepted. Esca glared at Marcus's classroom's door once more, wanting to kick it in and march in there to give the big sod a proper talking to, to tell him to get out and away from them all. Away from him. But he didn't, instead rubbing some warmth back into his fingers as he made his way back down to his own room to see if Bruiser had given anyone a dead arm yet.
-
“Mac! You're a sight for sore eyes. I've been torturing the fifth form with a cross-country run all morning, and I'm in dire need of a decent smoke.”
Esca made his way through the crowded teacher's lounge, slumping down onto the protesting springs of the armchair opposite Stew's, while tossing him his pack of Woodbines. “No more du Mauriers?”
“Not a sausage, not in this weather. The little bastards are probably all smoking in the lavs, out of the cold. Should've seen them, though. I had them turning blue. It was a sight to behold.” Stewart lit a smoke, swinging his feet up onto the littered coffee table. “So what's this I hear about you playing the Good Samaritan last night? Couldn't just walk by on the other side, eh?”
“It's a bloody disgrace, is what it is.” Chauncey Whitmore shook the pages of his Daily Post into order in the next chair. “What's next? Inviting Fritz in to start teaching German?”
“You don't have to tell me. Joyce?” Esca leaned over the arm of his chair to give the Music mistress a cheeky grin, the one that never failed. “Any chance of a cuppa while you're up?”
“Don't know about that, Mac. You have your white horse and suit of shining armor at the ready? I might find myself in need of rescue from the kettle.”
“Alright, I get it. Anyone else?”
“You couldn't have left him to freeze? Like any decent human being would've?” Jeremy Knackerwell leaned over Stew's feet to pinch one of Esca's Woodbines.
“Truth be told, Knackers, I thought about it. Ta,” to Joyce as she handed Esca a steaming cup. “You're an angel. Christ, it's cold in here.”
“Three burst pipes this morning alone. Nobby must be ready to tear his hair out, the budget'll never stretch to more work . . . oh, my. Speak of the devil and he doth appear.”
The hubbub of the smoky, dimly-lit room died down as the door opened once more, Marcus's hulking figure filling the frame as he came through into sudden silence, everyone finding an interest in their newspaper or fingernails, looking everywhere but at their new colleague. Esca surreptitiously watched for Marcus's reaction through the haze of his cigarette, but there was none, the blank expression in place as Marcus held his head high and slowly limped over to the one spare chair at the room's table, laying down the same red ledgers he'd been reading at breakfast. As quickly as it had stopped, conversation resumed, a low gossipy buzz of whispers, Marcus himself wrapped up in an air of total solitude as if sitting alone rather than surrounded by a roomful of people who wanted him gone.
“Well, he's a cool one, got to give him that.” Stewart picked a shred of tobacco off his tongue before wiping his fingers on his trouser leg. “Pity about the cane. I could do with some back up for rugger training.”
“How did he get the job, anyway? Did anyone hear? Did you ask him last night?” Joyce had perched on the arm of Esca's chair, her plump hip pressing against his shoulder, her voice hushed.
“I got the impression he's not the chatty sort.”
“No? Hmm. Still waters, perhaps.”
“You setting your cap at him, JoJo? Do you like the strong, silent type?”
Knackers sniggered at Stewart's question, Joyce blushing and shooting a glare at Stew as Esca hid his smile in his tea. They all suspected Joyce was a confirmed spinster in much the same way that Esca would be a lifelong bachelor, although he hoped to hell that the same sort of rumours didn't pass themselves around the staff room about him quite as easily.
“You keep your dirty thoughts to yourself, Hamish Stewart. You have to admit, though, he's an odd choice. Doesn't look like any Latin teacher I've ever met.”
Truer words were never spoken, Marcus's profile etched in silver light coming from the room's one small, snow-dusted window. He wasn't a typical brand of handsome, the heavy brow and strong jaw giving him a faintly thuggish quality, but he had an atypical beauty to him in those inch-long eyelashes and firm mouth, the smooth golden skin of his throat highlighted by his perfectly starched shirt collar, the vulnerable curve of the nape of his neck into his neatly-cropped hair making it tough for Esca to look away.
“I saw him at lunch. Didn't eat his mutton, and only picked at his cabbage.” Knackers never left the table without finishing each and every scrap. “He's probably used to foreign muck and nothing else.”
They all muttered their agreement, Esca instead busying himself with finishing his tea. The clock on the mantle was coming up to the afternoon's session and, one by one, the room started to empty, Esca himself getting up and brushing the ash off his trousers and gown to make his way back out to the Humanities wing. His action must've caught Marcus's attention, as Esca caught Marcus's eye for one uncomfortable second, Marcus simply compressing his lips and giving Esca a silent nod of recognition. But Esca broke their stare without returning it, dropping his gaze to his shoes before murmuring his goodbyes to the others, agreeing to stop by Stew's room for a quick drink later.
-
“Why not? It'd be fun. Get you out, a wee dance, bit of a kiss.”
“Can't. I'm supervising your prep, remember?”
“But Janice has got - ”
“A little sister who likes to dance, I know, you've already said.” Esca drained his glass, deciding against refilling it. The bottle of cheap blend he'd bought in the village yesterday was already halfway down, and Esca had been hoping it'd at least last the week. “I've got your prep to do. Then mine, plus the bedtime hour. Maybe next time.”
“That'll be the fiftieth time you've said that.”
“Balls.” He stubbed out his smoke, pocketing the whisky and leaning down to grab the stack of library books by his ankle. “You know well that the chances for a dance around here only come up three times a year. Four, if the weather's turning everyone frisky, so there's no way we're anywhere near fifty.”
Stew waved the specifics away with a lazy hand. “You're such an old woman. Ach well, I suppose I asked. You off already?”
“Got to return these before the little blighters finish supper and need their arses wiping before bed.”
“Right. Listen, Mac, should I be worried? About you and the wop? Big bugger like that, wouldn't want you taking an ill-judged swipe at him, but with what they did to your awld man . . .”
Stew had stood at the same time he had, a hand on Esca's shoulder, the very tip of Stew's thumb resting against Esca's neck. It had been so long now that even the one small touch lit his skin, nerves igniting and sending signals southwards in the second it took Esca to shake his head and move away.
“No need. I'm fine. I'll keep out of his way.”
“Might not work.” A censoring, severe look at him. “You be careful, now.”
“Now who's the old woman? G'night, Gran.”
It was never going to work. Esca understood that, Cranholme being too confined a climate, but he'd hoped it would've last the rest of the night, perhaps. No such luck, as, in the short period of time it had taken him to return his books and pick up the ones he'd phoned through to request earlier, Marcus had appeared at one of the long polished tables back towards the doors. Esca would have to pass him. He tucked his parcel of books within his coat to protect their covers from the wet snow still gusting outside, wrapping his scarf around his ears and mouth against the shrill wind and shrinking down into the collar of his overcoat in the absurd hope that Marcus wouldn't notice him. They were the only two in the library this late, everyone else but the librarian's assistant in the dining hall at this hour.
The library's lights were turned low, and Marcus was sitting in the pool of yellow light spilling from the table's reading lamp, the skin of his hand glowing as if gilded as it made notes across a notebook's page from one of the ever-present red ledgers. The tips of his snow-damp hair shone where the light hit it as he moved from reading to writing, his ears red with cold. Out without a hat in this weather. How very continental of him. Esca pulled on his worn trilby, pulling down the brim to disguise himself further, the urge to laugh aloud at himself at resorting to such fatuousness bubbling up his throat as he strode past Marcus's table without a greeting.
“Buona sera, Mr. MacCunoval.”
“Yes, I get it. You speak Latin.” He halted in his steps and stared at the door, wondering how it'd look if he made a run for it. “Well done, you.”
“That was Italian, but thanks.”
He'd known that, damn it. “You're welcome. Good night, then.”
“If I may detain you one moment . . .”
He'd only made it three steps before halting again, unwillingly turning back towards Marcus. “You may.”
“The food this evening.” Marcus's eyes either weren't a pure green, or the desk lamp was giving the impression that his irises were flecked with gold. “May I ask what it was?”
He wouldn't laugh. He wouldn't. The thinly-disguised veneer of disgust didn't register on Marcus's bland expression of polite inquiry, but it rang strong through his words. Esca would've agreed with him but tonight wasn't as bad as it sometimes got.
“Which course?”
Marcus pursed his lips, tilting his head to one side like he was thinking about it with deep consideration, before shrugging and giving Esca a grin he felt all the way down to his toes. “All of them?”
The books were slipping down under his arm, so Esca hooched them up beneath his coat, not wanting to put them on the table and look like he was settling in for a chat. “The grey, stringy bath water was Bawd Bree, or hare soup. The soggy mush that followed was liver and oatmeal pudding. Lasties was stewed rhubarb.”
“Truly? Oh. I wasn't able to correctly identify a single ingredient.”
“The kitchens cook what's available locally. Sale of meat's still subject to rationing.”
“I see.” Had the strong shoulders stiffened slightly? The smile remained, but seemed less genuine, Marcus's eyes darkening as he dropped his head and flipped a page in his open ledger, dismissing Esca easily as he'd himself so often do with one of his boys. “Well, I won't detain you any longer. Thank you. Good night, Mr. MacCunoval.”
Call me Mac. Everyone does. It'd be so easy to take his coat off, place his heavy books down and fall into a conversation about the worst affronts coming out of the kitchens. To watch the play of humour and shadow falling across a face that gave nothing away save a hint of private understanding and a surprising sense of the ridiculous. To try and make that smile appear in his direction time and time again. Too easy, and impossible.
“Not a problem. 'Night.”
The snow was falling thick and fluffed over the ice of the afternoon, and walking along the path was like trying to skate in slippers. As Esca took his second tumble in three minutes, his treasonous mind settled on an internal image of the cane propped against Marcus's library chair, a niggle of a disloyal worry biting at his gut as he thought of what a fall could do to whatever injury had caused a permanent limp.