I Constantly Thank God for Dupin 2/2
Brendon’s Uncle Michael had been waiting up for him when he’d returned home in the early morning hours on Monday. Pete’s magic had taken Brendon far closer to home than he’d first realised, but it was still after one when Brendon arrived at the mill. The lashing Brendon had received left bloody welts up and down his back, which made sleeping on the hard kitchen floor even more of a hardship than usual.
He’d risen Monday after only a few short hours of sleep and gone sluggishly through his daily routine, which had earned him several switches from his aunt. He tried to go faster, if only to avoid the ire of his aunt and uncle, but his head was full of cobwebs and his body didn’t respond how it normally did. All day he felt chilled, even when he curled up by the fire in the evening, wrapped in his blanket, shivering as he inched nearer and nearer to the flames.
When he’d awoken on Tuesday, covered in cinder soot, and attempted to rise, he’d found his legs would not support him. His throat was raw and he could not breath through his nose, and besides the pain from his back impeding his movements, his body was weak and his limbs heavy. When his cousins came in to find their breakfast unmade, no amount of threatened violence could move Brendon from his prostrate position by the fire.
They left him mostly alone once they’d determined he was truly ill and not faking to escape his duties. No one called for a doctor, but he was allowed to sleep as best he could in his miserable state. He didn’t know how long he was ill, drifting in and out of consciousness, but he wondered if this was how his parents had felt, near the end. He was feverish and very frightened, but he tried to take comfort in the thought that he might again be with his parents soon.
And then, on Saturday, the fever broke, and though his back was still angry red along the sores, he could move again. There was no talk of him going to the market. His uncle was still convinced he’d stolen the money and somehow hidden it, and it wasn’t as if Brendon could tell him the truth; he wouldn’t be believed, even if he spoke it.
Instead, his cousin Adrian would go to one of the local markets for the time being. He kept giving Brendon threatening looks over it, bitter that his free time was to be impinged upon, and Brendon knew that when it came, the punishment would be worse than anything his aunt or uncle might do.
Brendon spent his Saturday working at the quern stone, catching up on the heavy corn harvests brought in by the local farmers. He couldn’t help but think of Spencer, though he hadn’t allowed his thoughts to wander there in his illness. On any regular Saturday, they would be together just now, Spencer crouched under the table of the stall, trading secrets, or opinions, or just small talk.
Even if Brendon had been at the market, he doubted very much that Spencer would be visiting him this week. There were rumours, even this far from the city, that Prince Spencer had announced his intention to marry a commoner, and apparently it had caused quite a stir with his royal parents. Brendon couldn’t help the sadness he felt, but was bittersweet, when he thought that at least Spencer would be happy with the girl he’d chosen.
Perhaps they would meet again someday, when Brendon escaped his uncle’s home and made his way back into the city. Maybe when Spencer was king, he would stop by Brendon’s stall at the market and ask his opinion on affairs of the state, or maybe just Dupin’s newest publication, and Spencer would smile that achingly beautiful smile, and Brendon would force himself to be content.
*
Brendon was in the mill, bagging the cornmeal and separating Uncle Michael’s share of each load, when he heard a carriage approaching. He thought nothing of it--farmers and tradesmen often came to the mill to drop of and pick up loads or make purchases. He finished storing his uncle’s share and headed to the main house to clean up for dinner.
There were loud voices coming from the front of the house when he arrived, and though he couldn’t make out the details of the argument, he did hear mention of stealing, and it sounded quite fierce. Brendon wasn’t surprised. Since no one but himself and his uncle were allowed inside the mill, it was easy for Michael to take more than his fair share. Still, Brendon had known the day would come when one of the farmers caught him at it, and though he knew it was unkind to think it, Brendon was silently pleased his uncle had been found out.
Dinner still needed making, no matter what was going on in the front, and so Brendon washed his hands and started a pot of water to boil, then set to work on peeling the potatoes. After several minutes, the shouting died down to soft murmurs, and so Brendon was surprised when the kitchen door burst open with excessive force, and his Aunt Catherine came in, red in the face.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. She looked furious, but there was no time to ask her to clarify what the matter was, or for her to take her temper out on him, because behind her was Spencer, looking equally furious and heading for Brendon.
Brendon stumbled backwards, hit his knee on a chair, and stood frozen, waiting. Of course Spencer had discovered it had been him at the ball. His pouch had contained Spencer’s own book, which he’d lent to Brendon. And now Brendon must deal with the consequences of his hasty actions. He tried to steel himself for what was to come, lifted his chin with as much defiance as he could. He was not sorry for stealing a kiss, knowing it was all he would ever get.
Spencer grabbed him by the arms in a tight grip and Brendon’s heart felt as though it might burst from his chest. Except all the anger fled from Spencer’s face to be replaced with gentle concern and he said, “Brendon,” in a way Brendon had never heard his name spoken before. And then Spencer was holding him close, arms wrapped tightly around him.
Brendon couldn’t help but return the gesture, his dirty fingers clinging to Spencer’s soft overcoat. Spencer smelled vaguely sweet, and his embrace was warmer than the threadbare blanket Brendon used every night. His hug drove away the chill that had seemed to linger even after Brendon’s fever had broken. Brendon closed his eyes and buried his face in Spencer’s neck, and wished never to move from the spot.
There was murmuring behind them, and Brendon was reminded that his aunt was present, as well. The thought made him lift his head to look over Spencer’s shoulder, where Brendon could see his family gathered in the kitchen doorway, as well as Zachary and another man who was unfamiliar to him, all watching them.
“Spencer?” Brendon said uncertainly. “What’s go--” he was silenced by Spencer’s mouth pressed to his twice in quick succession. When Spencer’s eyes met his, Brendon could only stare blankly at him, aware somewhere in the peripheral of his mind of the reversal in their position from their first kiss.
“Do you know how many millers there are within a three hour cart ride of the city?” Spencer demanded of him, tone sharp, but mouth smiling.
Brendon shook his head mutely.
“Luckily your friend Greta from the market was able to help after the sixth day of searching. Lovely girl.”
“I like Greta,” Brendon said inanely.
Spencer gave him a shrewd look. “Not too much, I hope.”
“Too much?” Brendon echoed, baffled.
Spencer stepped back enough to put some space between their bodies and took both of Brendon’s hands in his own. With a gentle tug, he guided Brendon into the kitchen chair, and then went down on his knee. “You see, my main concern with naming the person whom I had chosen to marry was that I was uncertain that he would consent.”
Brendon was mostly busy trying to wrap his mind around the idea of anyone in their right mind refusing Spencer’s hand that it took him a moment to process the rest of what had been said. “He?”
Spencer smiled, face tilting close to Brendon’s, and Brendon wondered what it would be like to kiss him again, only longer. To mould his mouth around Spencer’s full bottom lip rather than the soft, almost insubstantial press of lips they’d exchanged so far. The mere thought made shivers go down Brendon’s spine, but from warmth, not cold. “Spencer?” he asked, heart so high in his throat he could barely get the name out.
“I was fairly certain of the answer when I found your pouch and realised it was you I’d spoken to in my receiving room, but as you pointed out, the person I named would, by royal decree, become my betrothed, and so instead I announced that the person of my choosing was the one whose foot fit these shoes.”
As Spencer spoke, the man with Zachary gave a wry smile and produced a pillow, upon which Brendon’s old boots sat. Brendon looked blankly from the shoes to Spencer’s face and back again, willing his pulse to cease its racing. Spencer could not mean what Brendon thought he did, and yet.
“Yes,” the man said, “and you wouldn’t believe how many of the noble ladies were happy to lay claim to a muddy pair of men’s boots in the ensuing riot, though amazingly it fit none of them. No matter how dainty the foot, it would not go in.”
Brendon’s foot wasn’t particularly small for a man’s, and it seemed to him that a lady’s foot should quite easily fit inside his boot. Unless Pete had done something special to it...Spencer lifted Brendon’s right foot to his knee, removing the work shoe from Brendon’s foot. His hand swept lightly up the curve of Brendon’s ankle, even such a simple touch making Brendon yearn for more.
The man offered Spencer the boot, and Spencer held it, poised at Brendon’s foot. “Would this shoe fit you, Brendon?” he asked.
Brendon had to swallow twice, and even then he did not trust his own voice. So instead of answering he pushed his foot forward into the boot, and even before it was fully on, Spencer was arching up to kiss him again, whispering against his mouth. “You’ll marry me, Brendon, say you’ll marry me.”
It was silly to cry now--Brendon had never been happier in his life, his chest was full to the bursting--but he couldn’t help the tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes. He nodded, murmured, “Yes,” and fit his mouth to Spencer’s just how he’d imagined doing, uncaring of who saw it.
And they lived happily ever after...