Sherlock Holmes 09: Those Halcyon Days [Part 2] [Blackwood/Coward]
Title: Those Halcyon Days
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Length: 21,200 words
Rating: At the very, very most R.
Also now crossposted to AO3 here.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
Blackwood left it til late on Wednesday to call; Nicholas had almost begun to believe that he hadn’t found the time to escape his father. What was more remarkable was that Carlyle failed to announce his arrival; instead, Nicholas had the fright of his life as he stepped into the garden to find his friend stood beside the fountain, his head skywards and the most uncanny smile across his face.
“I didn’t hear you arrive,” Nicholas broached, and came to stand beside him. “Have you been here long?”
The smile on Blackwood’s face widened; Nicholas couldn’t say it was a comforting sight. “I told Carlyle not to bother you. I admit that I came here as much for solitude as for your company. I do like your garden.”
“Is everything alright?” Nicholas almost blurted the question in his haste to say it; but it did little to dissipate the strange smile on his friend’s face.
“A strange question. Yes; and at the same time, resoundingly no.” The smile left him. “Father’s changed his inheritance. John’s to be head of the family, not I.”
Nicholas stared at him. “Do you know why?”
“No.” He turned away for a moment; when he faced Nicholas again, the smile was back in place. “Don’t look like that; I’m happy, Nick, really, I am. I’m - free.”
“Free?”
“Of politics, of sycophantism, of wasting my life away in some damned, musty room, surrounded by incompetent flatfoots with their heads full of love of themselves and their country. I can do - anything, Nick!”
“Anything,” Nicholas echoed, his voice bland. The idea petrified him. He was his father’s son, and always had been; Nicholas was born a man to serve, not a man for freedom.
“Anything. We could sail for Vienna tomorrow morning if we wanted - ”
“Not before the party,” Nicholas found himself saying; “your father would never forgive you.”
Blackwood’s smile faltered, transformed; became warm and simple. His hand took hold of Nicholas’ arm; they were almost intolerably close. That half-heartbeat of superfluous affection exhilarated him beyond his comprehension; Nicholas’ hand moved of its own accord; became a finger’s breadth, a whisper away from his friend’s face, and a sudden, sickening desire to grab and touch seized him. But he stayed his hand; Blackwood’s incredible, incessant eyes froze him; and for a moment, Nicholas was sure he intended -
- and Blackwood stepped away, his face down. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have planned, tonight. I had hoped to.”
“It’s quite alright,” Nicholas mumbled, eyes on the far wall, utterly confused. “You have - a lot on your mind.”
Blackwood snorted. “Quite.” He walked away across the lawn without another word; Nicholas felt almost sick to watch him go. He had never been so gripped with fear in his life, so absolutely certain he had made some huge, horrific mistake but at the same time completely incapable of identifying what. He understood, for the first time, his friend’s inexorable, inescapable independence; but what terrified him more was his own reliance, watching Blackwood walk away without as much as a backwards glance, how swiftly his life would tumble apart if his friend chose to make it so.
Blackwood paused at the top of the steps; looked back, once, over his shoulder; Nicholas knew, with a numbing relief, he was forgiven.
Emily elected to spend the majority of the following week with her fiancée, leaving Nicholas alone. He wandered the miniature library, selecting charts, papers and big, heavy books of law in preparation for their trip to the continent, ascertaining which documents they’d need for each respective country, how much of each currency and the swiftest method of transportation. His father didn’t protest at the books removed from his private library and strewn across Nicholas’ bed, and, considering how uncharacteristic this was of him, it gave Nicholas hope that he approved of their travelling. Emily stuck her head around the door late Friday evening once she returned from Thomas’, and did nothing more to disturb him than gently kiss the top of his head. He caught hold of her hand on his shoulder, and she smiled at him before leaving the room.
It was well into the small hours before he decided to take to bed, propping a Baedeker against his knee and squinting to read it in the dim light. A noise from the street made him start, and he peered at the open window regretfully, considering languidly whether it was worth leaving his bed to cross the room and close it. The noise failed to cease; it grew, in fact, closer to their house, until a loud bang on the front door made him startle out of bed and drop the book to the floor. He listened to the house being raised from their beds, then to Carlyle opening the door and apparently letting the intruder in to the parlour; moments later, a knock came on his own door, and Nicholas stood from the bed to open it.
“I’m sorry to wake you, sir,” Carlyle said, voice rather unnecessarily hushed.
“You didn’t; I was still up reading. What’s the commotion? Is someone hurt?”
“Not exactly, sir. It’s Mr. Blackwood - I’ve let him into the parlour. Should I have a bed made up for him in here, sir?”
Nicholas stared at him in wonder. “Yes, I suppose you should - there’s no chance of him getting home this late. I’ll go see to him.”
Carlyle gestured at the maids loitering in the corridor and pointed to the far side of the room, muttering swift instructions. Nicholas was interrupted halfway down the landing by Emily, hanging nervously on the doorframe. “Who is it, Nick?”
“Harry, apparently,” he murmured back to her. “Go back to bed, I’ll see to him.” She looked ready to argue for a moment, but gave up with a slight shrug, and her door clicked shut. Nicholas descended the stairs a little warily, the hallway floor only dimly lit and treacherous; he battled his way to the parlour and closed the door behind him. Inside, Blackwood was slumped against the writing-desk, fingers curled against the wood, and Nicholas could tell by the set of his shoulders and the glaze of his eye he was drunk. “What’s this about, Harry?” he asked, approaching slowly. “Shouldn’t you be at your brother’s?”
Blackwood made a vicious noise, which startled Nicholas fervently; he gently took the bottle from his hand and pressed a glass of water in its place, which Blackwood drained instantly. “Come up to bed, Harry,” he murmured, and Blackwood started sharply. “I’ve had Carlyle make you one up in my room.”
“Quite,” he replied, absently, and allowed himself to be led up the stairs like a child. They met no one on their way up the stairs, and Nicholas silently thanked Carlyle for his discretion; once inside the room he didn’t trust himself enough to undress his friend, and instead removed his shoes and his waistcoat until his shirt remained, arranging him comfortably on the pile of pillows and blankets Carlyle had constructed. With Thomas now in his lodging in St James’, the guest room was unoccupied, but with Blackwood in this state Nicholas preferred to keep him close at hand, however improper it may have seemed. He followed Blackwood to bed, Baedeker abandoned on the side-table, but found it quite impossible to sleep, choosing instead to spend hours staring at the gently-snoring figure of his friend sprawled across the mattress on the floor.
Blackwood didn’t emerge from Nicholas’ room until late the following morning, closer to lunch than breakfast, and leant quietly against the door of the drawing-room where Nicholas sat studying the evening paper from the night before. “Good morning,” Nicholas said, quietly, and Blackwood, marginally dishevelled, took a seat nearby. “I missed out on reading this last night - Emily hoarded it for the editorials. She’s gone to see Thomas, and Father’s with friends from Parliament til late afternoon.” Blackwood remained silent. “I can have Carlyle make up the spare bedroom, if you’d like.”
He let out a long breath. “Yes.” He glanced across the room. “It’s unlike you not to have questions.”
“Believe me, Harry, I’m bristling with them, but I thought you might prefer something to eat before I assailed you. If the drink’s not affected your appetite too adversely.”
“Please.” Nicholas called for Carlyle, asking him quietly to prepare the bedroom and bring them a light lunch; the drawing-room was the most pleasant room to eat in during summer, as its huge windows often caught a wayward breeze, and the fact it backed onto the garden and not the street outside allowed them more privacy. They sat in silence, with Nicholas content to read the newspaper, and Blackwood occupied with staring blankly at the space between his feet; presently, Carlyle brought the lunch, setting it on the low table between their chairs.
Blackwood began, eventually, playing idly with his fingers. “It was dull as Hell last night, Nick, I wish you could have been there. I might not have made such a fool of myself if you had.” He glanced quickly to the door. “Might we go outside?”
“Of course.” They took the circuitous path around the outskirts, which trailed from the fountain, round the lawn in a loop and finished in a hidden bench stuffed behind the rhododendrons.
“I learnt the reason for my father’s change of heart.” Nicholas stared, feeling his stomach bubble with dread. “It’s a matter of my parentage.” Recognising the perplexity in Nicholas’ face, he sighed. “Of which they are not.”
“You were adopted?”
“He wasn’t so kind to indulge to me the whys and wherefores, but I can guess that it wasn’t through the conventional system, or it would have been impossible to keep scandal at bay for so long.”
They entered the clump of rhododendron bushes, completely obscured from view of the house, and he settled onto the bench with his arms resting across his thighs. Nicholas elected to stand, leaning back against the cool brick wall marking the bottom of the garden. “He gave you no clue as to who your parents are?” Blackwood shook his head. “What are you going to do?”
“As much as revealing my father for the vile and specious man that he is would give me unutterable amounts of pleasure, I can’t live with the shame that would cause my mother - who I suspect not to be entirely innocent, but was probably forced silent by my father - or my brother, who was as ignorant as I in the matter. Living the lie of Lord Blackwood’s son will have to do. For the meantime...” He stared absently at his hands. “I can’t go back there. Not for a little while, at least.”
“You’re more than welcome here,” Nicholas said, hurriedly. “God knows my father will be ecstatic to have you under his roof. Emily will forever be asking questions, but I’ve had twenty-two long years of experience denying her exactly what she wants. And if you decide you need to get out of the city, my aunt has a house in Devon we can use.”
Blackwood stared at him for a long while, before he stood to shake his hand. “Thank you. It’s reassuring to know that at least one friend wasn’t merely that because of my peerage.”
Nicholas smiled, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s my father’s role; it was never mine.”
Blackwood took a step towards him, and Nicholas found himself immobile against the wall, staring up into Blackwood’s face, which was, as ever, indecipherable. He leant down, and just as Nicholas pulled in a breath to speak, moved in and kissed him viciously. Out of pure shock, they stayed, neither moving, for several clumsy moments - Nicholas’ brain worked frantically to catch up, until he decided to relax, and fanned his hand out against Blackwood’s chest, to which Blackwood pushed him rather harshly against the wall, a hand pressed against his waist. He was alarmed to find it spread what he could only describe as fire throughout him; Nicholas took in fitful breaths through his nose until Blackwood’s grip softened and, just as Nicholas had found something to say, Blackwood pulled away. “The house,” he muttered, a little breathless, “we should - ”
“Please stay,” Nicholas interrupted hurriedly, his voice faltering only a little. “Here, with us. Just for a little while.”
Blackwood looked at him, expression incomprehensible. “Of course.”
“I know it’s greatly against your nature, Emily, but I must insist you don’t ask questions.” Their carriage was picking its way through Westminster, on the way to dinner with Thomas; as much as Nicholas detested having to leave Blackwood alone in the house, tonight of all nights, propriety demanded he didn’t turn down Thomas’ invitation. “Or if you must, direct them at me, seeing as I’m far more experienced in ignoring you. You mustn’t bother Harry.”
“Of course not,” Emily said, drily, scowling out of the window. “One mustn’t bother Harry.”
In truth, he longed for her advice; he relied on her for so very much, and felt completely lost without her telling him what to do. But in this, not even Thomas could help him. He had no idea whether Blackwood could be trusted not to ruin him - in more ways than one - and he trusted his own ability to judge character even less. “You know that if I could tell you, I would.”
“Of course I do, but sometimes I fear you do these things just to be difficult.” They drew up outside Thomas’ house and Emily transformed into the stunning fiancée, and Nicholas the idyllic best man; Thomas helped her down from the carriage with a kiss on each cheek, and shook Nicholas’ hand warmly before ushering them inside. With Thomas’ departure at the end of the week, Emily was keen for them to spend as much time as possible together, and Nicholas, sorry to see his friend go, would have been glad for the occasion if it were not for Blackwood preying on his mind. Thomas entertained them both with scandalous stories from the Cyclades that Nicholas was sure they’d heard before, but laughed at nonetheless; he knew Thomas would notice his distraction, and silently hoped his friend would have the discretion not to question him over it.
“I’m sorry your father couldn’t be here,” Thomas said, gesturing for a second bottle of wine to be brought from the cellar.
“It’s a rare occasion when he’s not at work or hobnobbing with various aristocrats, I’m afraid,” Emily easily replied with a smile. “Ours was somewhat of a disadvantaged childhood in that respect, but he was merely trying to do best by us.” Barely repressing a snort, Nicholas took another sharp gulp of wine.
Thomas frowned. “Nicholas, you’re out of sorts this evening.”
Nicholas shot his friend an uneasy smile, hoping to dissuade him before he was questioned further. “A spot of hay fever, perhaps; there’s been a lot of muck rising from the river lately, and it plays havoc with my chest.”
Thomas looked at him knowingly, a single eyebrow raised. “And it’s got nothing to do with the mysterious guest you’re hoarding.”
“Thomas!” Emily scolded, having the decency to blush furiously. She turned to Nicholas quickly. “Honestly, Nick, I’ve told him nothing else, not so much as a name - ”
Nicholas stood, draining his glass. “It wasn’t your place to tell him anything at all,” he muttered, and gestured to the man skulking by the door to bring his effects.
“Nicholas, there’s no need for that,” Thomas said, rising from his chair. “Please sit down. Your sister’s been most resistant to all of my questions; she’s barely divulged anything, and only then through tangent.”
He snatched his coat from the servant’s arm and pushed on his hat. “My sister should learn to keep her head out of politics; it doesn’t suit her in the slightest.”
“At least let me call you a carriage,” Thomas protested, recognising irrefutability in the steadfast set of Nicholas’ shoulders, but he was already halfway to the door.
“Appreciated, but I could do with the walk.”
He was at the foot of the steps within moments, and to the end of the street in less than a minute; he thought about pausing to look for a sign of his sister between twitching curtains, but decided against it, turning instead with a sharp left. Truth be told, neither of them had deserved his anger, or his impertinent behaviour, and he knew it; he was well aware his frustrations lay elsewhere, and it was thoroughly unfair of him to punish his friend for them, but it had still stung to see the little confidence he had placed in his sister betrayed so readily.
He chose a circuitous route home, pausing for a while in St James’ park to stare absently into the lake, Buckingham Palace still resplendent in the dwindling, abstract light. The coolness and stillness of the water against his fingertips made him think of a time, months ago, when he had thrown pebbles into a fountain, and he bit back a sigh. Their trip to Vienna was impossible, since it required Lord Blackwood’s funding, and even if he was still willing to give it, Nicholas doubted Blackwood would accept it; he uneasily wondered whether his agreement to it in the first place had been a pre-emptive move against the betrayal he intended towards his son, and he found himself thinking, peerage or no, it wasn’t beneath him.
In any rate, this afternoon, in his own damn garden, Blackwood had -
He stared, eyes unfocused, at the water. Something huge and horrific was amounting; he could feel it as a prickle under his skin, an unfathomable, queasy lump in his gut which refused to dissipate. Raw terror slid uneasily beneath the ribcage; lusting for something so terribly and yet so afraid of what it would mean -
He caught sight of his reflection in the water, and for a moment the potential for corruption he saw there stole his breath away.
He passed a hand over his face. Even at this hour, he could pick up a hansom from beside the Palace, and be home within the hour; at length, Nicholas rose from the lakeside and picked his way across the murky park.
Some years ago, Nicholas had made an arrangement with Carlyle that, if he hadn’t risen by the eleventh hour, he should be woken without fail; on coming to wake him, Carlyle seemed puzzled to find Nicholas, fully conscious, sat listlessly at his writing-desk. Nicholas explained his behaviour loosely with a headache, and even if Carlyle found it unconvincing, his sheer professionalism meant he took the statement without comment, laying his breakfast on a nearby stool. Nicholas casually inquired as to who was in the house, and was surprised to learn he was alone; although he could easily guess the whereabouts of his family, the fact that Blackwood had left without warning startled him a little.
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Only back to the house, sir, to pick up a few effects, or so I understand. He planned to be back late afternoon at the outmost.”
Nicholas sat, contemplative, his eyes affixed distantly on the window, and eventually Carlyle left him to brood. Truth be told, he was unsure whether he preferred to hear that Blackwood would be returning or not; a hasty departure overnight would surely have dampened the pointless hope stewing in him - though what the hope was for exactly still escaped him - and yet he’d felt such a surge of relief to learn his friend hadn’t abandoned him after all. He allowed himself a lengthy sigh, and stood, glancing around the room for his effects. Thomas was due to sail the following day, and it would be unfair more than impertinent not to pay a visit before his departure, especially when he needed to apologise for his behaviour the previous night; with no reason to hang about the house, he dressed himself, explained his whereabouts to Carlyle in the hall, and stepped down onto the street.
Victoria Square was alight with activity when Nicholas turned the corner. Thomas’ people swarmed across the road outside, to-ing and fro-ing with what Nicholas recognised as the drawing-room armoire amongst other furniture, overseen by the man himself, pestered constantly by several important-looking gentlemen who stood around and appeared to never cease speaking. Nicholas was relieved not to see his sister about, and stepped neatly across the square; Thomas pushed his advisors aside mid-sentence on spying his old friend, and took him, smiling heartily, back inside the house. The rooms looked empty and unoccupied, with the sparse remains of the house being hastily covered by dustsheets, but the parlour was still almost fully kitted. Nicholas refused Thomas’ insistences for both food and drink, and apologised at length for his behaviour the night before.
“It’s quite alright, Nick, I knew you were out of sorts. I’ve been your friend for most of my life, and sometimes I think I understand your own thoughts far better than you do.” He looked at him closely. “And you do forgive Emily for telling me, don’t you? I’d hate to leave you two in one of your spats.”
“Of course I forgive her; knowing as little as she does, it was amazing she resisted from speculating scandalously and spreading filthy lies all across London.”
“Unbelievably, she might even have decided to grow up.” Thomas crossed to the uncovered liquor cabinet, and poured a lick of brandy into his glass. “Forgive me if I do - I need something before going out to face the hordes again.” He cradled the glass to his chest, slouching slightly against the wall, and examined Nicholas closely. “You are being careful, aren’t you?” he said, softly, at length. “The world’s no kinder a place than when... well, when we were young.”
Nicholas drew his eyes slowly from the window to his friend. “If there’s one thing you can rely on me for, Thomas, it’s care.” He curled his fingers about themselves and wished for something to drink. “What are you having the furniture moved for? Surely you can’t plan to take it all with you.”
Thomas shook his head. “Had a man in from Debenham and Storr’s to survey the house at Emily’s instruction. The previous tenants left all their furniture for us to dispose of, which was a damn nuisance, but we made a pretty penny selling off their unwanted heirlooms.” Nicholas drily thought it was very like the both of them to turn such an occasion into a financial opportunity, but, then again, perhaps that was the reason Thomas had a position in government and he found himself unwanted and unemployed.
A baffled and battered boy whom Thomas later revealed to be the old cook’s apprentice stuck his head around the door and asked them, begging your pardon, whether Mr Hamilton would come out the front to help solve a dispute over a coffee table, and Nicholas left him to it. Thomas’ return had caused somewhat of a maelstrom of excitement within his ascetic family, and it felt odd to bid him farewell; without him Nicholas’ life would inevitably returning to the mundane, though Blackwood’s presence promised to dispel a little of the boredom. Still, Thomas had promised to be back before the year was out, seeing as he had to find the time to properly court his sister.
On arriving home, Carlyle curtly informed him that Blackwood was waiting for him in Lord Coward’s study; Nicholas dithered at the bottom of the stairs, torn between making a run for it and facing his demons. He had not spoken to his friend since yesterday in the garden, and had received nothing back in return; a better man would cross the hall and at least resolve the impasse with his friend, but Nicholas was not a better man, and he took a grasp on the cool banister and ascended to his bedroom.
Nicholas took the time to sit with his sister once the morning came. She was often silly and impetuous, but it was obvious to a blind man that she cared deeply for Thomas, and although Emily was nothing if not obstinate, to face such a long separation would be a depressing challenge even for the most obstinate of people. She certainly appreciated Nicholas’ company, wrapped in her quilt and not yet dressed despite the blazing light spread-eagled in irregular patterns across the carpet.
“Thomas was joking about the womanly things I should get up to in his absence,” she said drily, leafing absently through the paper with one hand. “He says I should campaign for women’s rights just for something to do. I think I quite surprised him by being rather taken with the idea.”
“Ironic that you have the head for politics and I don’t,” Nicholas muttered darkly. “It’s only a matter of time before Father asks Harry for some favour or other to get either me or himself a seat.”
“Well, Jennifer’s joined the WLA,” Emily continued absently.
“The what?”
“The Women’s Liberal Association. The London one. They’re quite famous. Honestly, Nick, it’s like you don’t even read.”
Nicholas wanted to make a comment about having more important things on his mind, but the amount of questions this would prompt in his sister and the self-inflicted brooding that would occur really weren’t worth trumping the argument. “What time is Thomas’ train?”
“Half two. He’s decided to get a ship from the south coast, but I wish he were going cross-country. The idea of him at sea makes me nervous.”
“He’s hardly going to become a pirate.” She glanced up from her paper, and they shared a smile at the thought of their friend haughtily strutting around in voluminous shirts and demanding doubloons at swordpoint. “You are... happy, aren’t you, Emily?”
She looked up at him. “What nonsense are you blathering now?”
He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I never imagined you married - not in any sensible manner, in any rate. You’re not just doing this because of something silly?”
“You mean something along the lines of pleasing you, or, God forbid, Father? Or because it is what is acceptable? Nicholas, your accusations of subservience wound me.” She smiled a little. “I must admit at first the idea of doing something so morally acceptable disgusted me, but saying that the women of this family have a disreputable history is somewhat of an understatement, and Thomas is a gentleman and the best I’m ever going to get. Yes, Nicholas, I am marrying him because it is, unfortunately, seen as ‘proper’; but he does make me happy.”
“You wanted me to marry once,” he said, quietly.
She looked at him closely. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it would have made your life any easier if you had.”
“It would be certainly more... normal.”
“Boring,” she disagreed amiably, and he smiled. “I don’t think you could ever lead a boring life.” Nicholas didn’t argue; for once, he decided, the two of them agreed.
The front door slammed on Nicholas’ sister at around quarter to two, and from his bedroom window he watched her sashaying down the street like a force of nature. He recognised the Hamilton family carriage perched on the kerb just as she disappeared inside, and with a smile at the scandal of the fiancées travelling unaccompanied he turned away. For a moment, he stared at the patterned carpet sprawled across the floor, and it dawned upon him he was completely alone with Blackwood. He came out onto the landing, and listened for signs of life; none from upstairs, but the gentle sound of pacing in his father’s study below told him in an instant what he wanted to know. He crept down the stairs and stood at their foot, equidistant from the front door and that of the study, the recurring nightmare from the day before. Knowing that heading out of the house or back to his room led to no resolve, he crossed the foyer and quietly opened the door.
Blackwood was slumped against Lord Coward’s desk, staring inattentively at the strip of floor between the curves of his feet; on raising his head, Nicholas observed the starch pallor of his face, the rings reminiscent of bruises which spanned below his eyes. “You look unwell.” Blackwood didn’t reply; he kept his eyes on Nicholas, and failed to suppress a shudder. Against all of his better judgement, Nicholas crossed the room and stood nervously in front of him, though he stopped short of placing his hand on his shoulder as he longed to. “Maybe you should - ”
Blackwood’s hand clamped across his mouth, and Nicholas jerked back in fear, wrenching it away as swiftly as it had been placed. Blackwood straightened, and Nicholas hurriedly backed away, suddenly finding himself afraid; fighting fiercely the panic in his chest, he stood his ground and carefully eyed his friend, slowly approaching. He stopped only when Nicholas was well within arm’s reach, and almost reluctantly placed a hot hand on either side of his waist before Nicholas threw himself onto him and kissed him. Blackwood responded in force until something seemed to prevent him and he shoved Nicholas away, taking a few steps back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Nick - ” Somewhat helplessly, he shook his head. “What you’re asking of me - not only is it illegal, it is - immoral.”
Hardly able to believe that this was the source of Blackwood’s trepidation, Nicholas couldn’t help but snort. He stared at him in overwhelming frustration; he was as confused and frightened - if not more - but had cast aside his crises when he had chosen to enter the office - and in doing so he, against all of his better judgement, he had given Blackwood his trust. Completely, and irrevocably.
“I don’t - ” He blindly shook his head. “ - understand - when you talk it’s full of danger and rebellion, and here we are, and all I’m asking of you is - ” He stopped, stared at him mindlessly, choking on the panic engulfing him.
“It is a sin,” Blackwood said, eventually, and Nicholas felt a cold shudder wash slowly up his spine. The notion had far from escaped Nicholas’ own conscience, but he had pushed it aside, fear and scorn in equal measure - but mostly because for Blackwood he was willing to.
He was willing to do anything.
He had no argument to return to his friend, and the energy and will to stay with him drained instantly. But when he made to leave, Blackwood seized his arm, holding his gaze and refusing to release his grip, expression sincere, concerned. “I needed to - I meant you no offence.”
“I don’t think you could ever say anything more offensive.”
“I do want - ” Blackwood stepped towards him again, a hand placed across his shoulder. The clock on the mantle showed the time to be ten-past two. Nicholas’ eyes slid shut as Blackwood reluctantly, carefully, leant down and kissed him again, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his palms tingling. “I want - ”
Nicholas wondered where his sister would be, now.
He stepped hesitantly towards the door, and with one hand on the handle held the other back towards Blackwood in invitation.
Knowing Thomas, Nicholas decided, they’d be at the station, ridiculously early for the train. She’d stay to wave him off, because that was proper, and probably even have a white handkerchief to do it with, too.
Blackwood walked across the room, and for the briefest moment, took his hand.
The door of his room slammed shut. Nicholas did not move from the bed.
He thought of his sister; he wondered if she’d returned from the train station. Perhaps she decided to elope, or was tragically killed on her way home. Wayward carriage, loose rail track. Perhaps she never even made it to the station.
He only came across his friend again hours later, the lazy afternoon drifting into quiet evening.
When he entered the guest room, Blackwood’s few possessions were already boxed. The sight brought terror to him; he had delayed from finding him for fear of what he would see, and the unmistakeable sight left him frozen. He could argue, plead with him; but he knew from Blackwood’s inability to as much as look at him it would do no good. Blackwood himself was leaning against the window frame, peering into the street for the hansom doubtless already called for. “I’ve decided to leave.”
Nicholas toyed with the flap of a bag. “Back to your parents?”
“No.”
“Then where will you go?”
“I don’t know.” He marched from the window, pointlessly rearranging the bedsheets, determined to occupy his hands.
Nicholas wet his lips. Outside, the unmistakeable sound of the carriage pulling up echoed through the window; Carlyle opening the front door. “Will you write?”
Blackwood scanned the boxes, tucked one beneath his arm and left the room. He paused in the hallway beyond. “I expect not,” he replied, descended the stairs until he was no longer in Nicholas’ sight, and did not look back.
He made no excuses to his sister; he had none to make, and besides, she took one look at him and understood him perfectly. “What a right pair we make,” she muttered, smiling, and drew a hand across his forehead. “Did he say where he was going?” He shook his head. “You probably frightened him, Nick,” she said, softly. “If it were me, I’d be terrified.” His sister knew; but of course she did. He hadn’t been able to keep a secret from her since he was thirteen.
The scandal to follow cost Lord Blackwood dearly, though only in the short-term. The gossip over his family’s shifted inheritance was nothing compared to his eldest’s sudden disappearance; it was the cause of newspaper speculation for weeks on end. When even the most tenacious minds of London’s press couldn’t locate him, Nicholas briefly flirted with the idea of a private investigator, but Emily quietly pointed out that Lord Blackwood would presumably have them all long under his employment.
Besides, he thoroughly believed Blackwood didn’t want to be found.
Lord Coward worked himself into a frenzy. He spent the months currying favour with new MPs, his only tenuous links to Parliament broken or far abroad; his children saw even less of him than usual, which was, in itself, remarkable. Emily had once drily remarked she thought it impossible that there were as many hours in the day as their father chose to work at the Commons.
Whether it was hubris, fate or just sod’s law, politics finally had its toll on Lord Coward, and when Nicholas returned home on the 23rd September he found the priest had been called for and the surgeon was long gone.
His sister met him, impassive, in the hallway, and led him into their father’s study. “Apoplexy, the surgeon called it,” she muttered, crossing over to the liquor cabinet. “Becoming more common, apparently; Flaubert died of it only last year, you know.” The statement tore a terrified hole in his gut, and he stared uncomprehending out of the window as Emily took a long, unladylike swig from the brandy bottle.
“Will he live?”
Emily shook her head, and Nicholas took his own in his hands. He was the new Lord Coward by the time the week was out.
He took to his room, and left Emily to sort out the proceedings. She wrote to Thomas immediately, and, having caught him docked at Cartagena, had him back in London by the end of the following week; she gathered friends and family, arranged the funeral all in her brother’s name.
Neither of them mentioned Blackwood, save for once; she entered his room before bed, a piece of paper in her hand. “I had Carlyle ask around, and I’ve fished up the addresses of some of his friends. I don’t know if they’d happen to know more than you, but I thought it could be a start. If you wanted to tell him, that is.”
He stared at the list. The names were unfamiliar, save for one; Alex Duvall. The months suddenly felt like years.
Nicholas picked up his pen.
Part Three
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Length: 21,200 words
Rating: At the very, very most R.
Also now crossposted to AO3 here.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
Blackwood left it til late on Wednesday to call; Nicholas had almost begun to believe that he hadn’t found the time to escape his father. What was more remarkable was that Carlyle failed to announce his arrival; instead, Nicholas had the fright of his life as he stepped into the garden to find his friend stood beside the fountain, his head skywards and the most uncanny smile across his face.
“I didn’t hear you arrive,” Nicholas broached, and came to stand beside him. “Have you been here long?”
The smile on Blackwood’s face widened; Nicholas couldn’t say it was a comforting sight. “I told Carlyle not to bother you. I admit that I came here as much for solitude as for your company. I do like your garden.”
“Is everything alright?” Nicholas almost blurted the question in his haste to say it; but it did little to dissipate the strange smile on his friend’s face.
“A strange question. Yes; and at the same time, resoundingly no.” The smile left him. “Father’s changed his inheritance. John’s to be head of the family, not I.”
Nicholas stared at him. “Do you know why?”
“No.” He turned away for a moment; when he faced Nicholas again, the smile was back in place. “Don’t look like that; I’m happy, Nick, really, I am. I’m - free.”
“Free?”
“Of politics, of sycophantism, of wasting my life away in some damned, musty room, surrounded by incompetent flatfoots with their heads full of love of themselves and their country. I can do - anything, Nick!”
“Anything,” Nicholas echoed, his voice bland. The idea petrified him. He was his father’s son, and always had been; Nicholas was born a man to serve, not a man for freedom.
“Anything. We could sail for Vienna tomorrow morning if we wanted - ”
“Not before the party,” Nicholas found himself saying; “your father would never forgive you.”
Blackwood’s smile faltered, transformed; became warm and simple. His hand took hold of Nicholas’ arm; they were almost intolerably close. That half-heartbeat of superfluous affection exhilarated him beyond his comprehension; Nicholas’ hand moved of its own accord; became a finger’s breadth, a whisper away from his friend’s face, and a sudden, sickening desire to grab and touch seized him. But he stayed his hand; Blackwood’s incredible, incessant eyes froze him; and for a moment, Nicholas was sure he intended -
- and Blackwood stepped away, his face down. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have planned, tonight. I had hoped to.”
“It’s quite alright,” Nicholas mumbled, eyes on the far wall, utterly confused. “You have - a lot on your mind.”
Blackwood snorted. “Quite.” He walked away across the lawn without another word; Nicholas felt almost sick to watch him go. He had never been so gripped with fear in his life, so absolutely certain he had made some huge, horrific mistake but at the same time completely incapable of identifying what. He understood, for the first time, his friend’s inexorable, inescapable independence; but what terrified him more was his own reliance, watching Blackwood walk away without as much as a backwards glance, how swiftly his life would tumble apart if his friend chose to make it so.
Blackwood paused at the top of the steps; looked back, once, over his shoulder; Nicholas knew, with a numbing relief, he was forgiven.
Emily elected to spend the majority of the following week with her fiancée, leaving Nicholas alone. He wandered the miniature library, selecting charts, papers and big, heavy books of law in preparation for their trip to the continent, ascertaining which documents they’d need for each respective country, how much of each currency and the swiftest method of transportation. His father didn’t protest at the books removed from his private library and strewn across Nicholas’ bed, and, considering how uncharacteristic this was of him, it gave Nicholas hope that he approved of their travelling. Emily stuck her head around the door late Friday evening once she returned from Thomas’, and did nothing more to disturb him than gently kiss the top of his head. He caught hold of her hand on his shoulder, and she smiled at him before leaving the room.
It was well into the small hours before he decided to take to bed, propping a Baedeker against his knee and squinting to read it in the dim light. A noise from the street made him start, and he peered at the open window regretfully, considering languidly whether it was worth leaving his bed to cross the room and close it. The noise failed to cease; it grew, in fact, closer to their house, until a loud bang on the front door made him startle out of bed and drop the book to the floor. He listened to the house being raised from their beds, then to Carlyle opening the door and apparently letting the intruder in to the parlour; moments later, a knock came on his own door, and Nicholas stood from the bed to open it.
“I’m sorry to wake you, sir,” Carlyle said, voice rather unnecessarily hushed.
“You didn’t; I was still up reading. What’s the commotion? Is someone hurt?”
“Not exactly, sir. It’s Mr. Blackwood - I’ve let him into the parlour. Should I have a bed made up for him in here, sir?”
Nicholas stared at him in wonder. “Yes, I suppose you should - there’s no chance of him getting home this late. I’ll go see to him.”
Carlyle gestured at the maids loitering in the corridor and pointed to the far side of the room, muttering swift instructions. Nicholas was interrupted halfway down the landing by Emily, hanging nervously on the doorframe. “Who is it, Nick?”
“Harry, apparently,” he murmured back to her. “Go back to bed, I’ll see to him.” She looked ready to argue for a moment, but gave up with a slight shrug, and her door clicked shut. Nicholas descended the stairs a little warily, the hallway floor only dimly lit and treacherous; he battled his way to the parlour and closed the door behind him. Inside, Blackwood was slumped against the writing-desk, fingers curled against the wood, and Nicholas could tell by the set of his shoulders and the glaze of his eye he was drunk. “What’s this about, Harry?” he asked, approaching slowly. “Shouldn’t you be at your brother’s?”
Blackwood made a vicious noise, which startled Nicholas fervently; he gently took the bottle from his hand and pressed a glass of water in its place, which Blackwood drained instantly. “Come up to bed, Harry,” he murmured, and Blackwood started sharply. “I’ve had Carlyle make you one up in my room.”
“Quite,” he replied, absently, and allowed himself to be led up the stairs like a child. They met no one on their way up the stairs, and Nicholas silently thanked Carlyle for his discretion; once inside the room he didn’t trust himself enough to undress his friend, and instead removed his shoes and his waistcoat until his shirt remained, arranging him comfortably on the pile of pillows and blankets Carlyle had constructed. With Thomas now in his lodging in St James’, the guest room was unoccupied, but with Blackwood in this state Nicholas preferred to keep him close at hand, however improper it may have seemed. He followed Blackwood to bed, Baedeker abandoned on the side-table, but found it quite impossible to sleep, choosing instead to spend hours staring at the gently-snoring figure of his friend sprawled across the mattress on the floor.
Blackwood didn’t emerge from Nicholas’ room until late the following morning, closer to lunch than breakfast, and leant quietly against the door of the drawing-room where Nicholas sat studying the evening paper from the night before. “Good morning,” Nicholas said, quietly, and Blackwood, marginally dishevelled, took a seat nearby. “I missed out on reading this last night - Emily hoarded it for the editorials. She’s gone to see Thomas, and Father’s with friends from Parliament til late afternoon.” Blackwood remained silent. “I can have Carlyle make up the spare bedroom, if you’d like.”
He let out a long breath. “Yes.” He glanced across the room. “It’s unlike you not to have questions.”
“Believe me, Harry, I’m bristling with them, but I thought you might prefer something to eat before I assailed you. If the drink’s not affected your appetite too adversely.”
“Please.” Nicholas called for Carlyle, asking him quietly to prepare the bedroom and bring them a light lunch; the drawing-room was the most pleasant room to eat in during summer, as its huge windows often caught a wayward breeze, and the fact it backed onto the garden and not the street outside allowed them more privacy. They sat in silence, with Nicholas content to read the newspaper, and Blackwood occupied with staring blankly at the space between his feet; presently, Carlyle brought the lunch, setting it on the low table between their chairs.
Blackwood began, eventually, playing idly with his fingers. “It was dull as Hell last night, Nick, I wish you could have been there. I might not have made such a fool of myself if you had.” He glanced quickly to the door. “Might we go outside?”
“Of course.” They took the circuitous path around the outskirts, which trailed from the fountain, round the lawn in a loop and finished in a hidden bench stuffed behind the rhododendrons.
“I learnt the reason for my father’s change of heart.” Nicholas stared, feeling his stomach bubble with dread. “It’s a matter of my parentage.” Recognising the perplexity in Nicholas’ face, he sighed. “Of which they are not.”
“You were adopted?”
“He wasn’t so kind to indulge to me the whys and wherefores, but I can guess that it wasn’t through the conventional system, or it would have been impossible to keep scandal at bay for so long.”
They entered the clump of rhododendron bushes, completely obscured from view of the house, and he settled onto the bench with his arms resting across his thighs. Nicholas elected to stand, leaning back against the cool brick wall marking the bottom of the garden. “He gave you no clue as to who your parents are?” Blackwood shook his head. “What are you going to do?”
“As much as revealing my father for the vile and specious man that he is would give me unutterable amounts of pleasure, I can’t live with the shame that would cause my mother - who I suspect not to be entirely innocent, but was probably forced silent by my father - or my brother, who was as ignorant as I in the matter. Living the lie of Lord Blackwood’s son will have to do. For the meantime...” He stared absently at his hands. “I can’t go back there. Not for a little while, at least.”
“You’re more than welcome here,” Nicholas said, hurriedly. “God knows my father will be ecstatic to have you under his roof. Emily will forever be asking questions, but I’ve had twenty-two long years of experience denying her exactly what she wants. And if you decide you need to get out of the city, my aunt has a house in Devon we can use.”
Blackwood stared at him for a long while, before he stood to shake his hand. “Thank you. It’s reassuring to know that at least one friend wasn’t merely that because of my peerage.”
Nicholas smiled, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s my father’s role; it was never mine.”
Blackwood took a step towards him, and Nicholas found himself immobile against the wall, staring up into Blackwood’s face, which was, as ever, indecipherable. He leant down, and just as Nicholas pulled in a breath to speak, moved in and kissed him viciously. Out of pure shock, they stayed, neither moving, for several clumsy moments - Nicholas’ brain worked frantically to catch up, until he decided to relax, and fanned his hand out against Blackwood’s chest, to which Blackwood pushed him rather harshly against the wall, a hand pressed against his waist. He was alarmed to find it spread what he could only describe as fire throughout him; Nicholas took in fitful breaths through his nose until Blackwood’s grip softened and, just as Nicholas had found something to say, Blackwood pulled away. “The house,” he muttered, a little breathless, “we should - ”
“Please stay,” Nicholas interrupted hurriedly, his voice faltering only a little. “Here, with us. Just for a little while.”
Blackwood looked at him, expression incomprehensible. “Of course.”
“I know it’s greatly against your nature, Emily, but I must insist you don’t ask questions.” Their carriage was picking its way through Westminster, on the way to dinner with Thomas; as much as Nicholas detested having to leave Blackwood alone in the house, tonight of all nights, propriety demanded he didn’t turn down Thomas’ invitation. “Or if you must, direct them at me, seeing as I’m far more experienced in ignoring you. You mustn’t bother Harry.”
“Of course not,” Emily said, drily, scowling out of the window. “One mustn’t bother Harry.”
In truth, he longed for her advice; he relied on her for so very much, and felt completely lost without her telling him what to do. But in this, not even Thomas could help him. He had no idea whether Blackwood could be trusted not to ruin him - in more ways than one - and he trusted his own ability to judge character even less. “You know that if I could tell you, I would.”
“Of course I do, but sometimes I fear you do these things just to be difficult.” They drew up outside Thomas’ house and Emily transformed into the stunning fiancée, and Nicholas the idyllic best man; Thomas helped her down from the carriage with a kiss on each cheek, and shook Nicholas’ hand warmly before ushering them inside. With Thomas’ departure at the end of the week, Emily was keen for them to spend as much time as possible together, and Nicholas, sorry to see his friend go, would have been glad for the occasion if it were not for Blackwood preying on his mind. Thomas entertained them both with scandalous stories from the Cyclades that Nicholas was sure they’d heard before, but laughed at nonetheless; he knew Thomas would notice his distraction, and silently hoped his friend would have the discretion not to question him over it.
“I’m sorry your father couldn’t be here,” Thomas said, gesturing for a second bottle of wine to be brought from the cellar.
“It’s a rare occasion when he’s not at work or hobnobbing with various aristocrats, I’m afraid,” Emily easily replied with a smile. “Ours was somewhat of a disadvantaged childhood in that respect, but he was merely trying to do best by us.” Barely repressing a snort, Nicholas took another sharp gulp of wine.
Thomas frowned. “Nicholas, you’re out of sorts this evening.”
Nicholas shot his friend an uneasy smile, hoping to dissuade him before he was questioned further. “A spot of hay fever, perhaps; there’s been a lot of muck rising from the river lately, and it plays havoc with my chest.”
Thomas looked at him knowingly, a single eyebrow raised. “And it’s got nothing to do with the mysterious guest you’re hoarding.”
“Thomas!” Emily scolded, having the decency to blush furiously. She turned to Nicholas quickly. “Honestly, Nick, I’ve told him nothing else, not so much as a name - ”
Nicholas stood, draining his glass. “It wasn’t your place to tell him anything at all,” he muttered, and gestured to the man skulking by the door to bring his effects.
“Nicholas, there’s no need for that,” Thomas said, rising from his chair. “Please sit down. Your sister’s been most resistant to all of my questions; she’s barely divulged anything, and only then through tangent.”
He snatched his coat from the servant’s arm and pushed on his hat. “My sister should learn to keep her head out of politics; it doesn’t suit her in the slightest.”
“At least let me call you a carriage,” Thomas protested, recognising irrefutability in the steadfast set of Nicholas’ shoulders, but he was already halfway to the door.
“Appreciated, but I could do with the walk.”
He was at the foot of the steps within moments, and to the end of the street in less than a minute; he thought about pausing to look for a sign of his sister between twitching curtains, but decided against it, turning instead with a sharp left. Truth be told, neither of them had deserved his anger, or his impertinent behaviour, and he knew it; he was well aware his frustrations lay elsewhere, and it was thoroughly unfair of him to punish his friend for them, but it had still stung to see the little confidence he had placed in his sister betrayed so readily.
He chose a circuitous route home, pausing for a while in St James’ park to stare absently into the lake, Buckingham Palace still resplendent in the dwindling, abstract light. The coolness and stillness of the water against his fingertips made him think of a time, months ago, when he had thrown pebbles into a fountain, and he bit back a sigh. Their trip to Vienna was impossible, since it required Lord Blackwood’s funding, and even if he was still willing to give it, Nicholas doubted Blackwood would accept it; he uneasily wondered whether his agreement to it in the first place had been a pre-emptive move against the betrayal he intended towards his son, and he found himself thinking, peerage or no, it wasn’t beneath him.
In any rate, this afternoon, in his own damn garden, Blackwood had -
He stared, eyes unfocused, at the water. Something huge and horrific was amounting; he could feel it as a prickle under his skin, an unfathomable, queasy lump in his gut which refused to dissipate. Raw terror slid uneasily beneath the ribcage; lusting for something so terribly and yet so afraid of what it would mean -
He caught sight of his reflection in the water, and for a moment the potential for corruption he saw there stole his breath away.
He passed a hand over his face. Even at this hour, he could pick up a hansom from beside the Palace, and be home within the hour; at length, Nicholas rose from the lakeside and picked his way across the murky park.
Some years ago, Nicholas had made an arrangement with Carlyle that, if he hadn’t risen by the eleventh hour, he should be woken without fail; on coming to wake him, Carlyle seemed puzzled to find Nicholas, fully conscious, sat listlessly at his writing-desk. Nicholas explained his behaviour loosely with a headache, and even if Carlyle found it unconvincing, his sheer professionalism meant he took the statement without comment, laying his breakfast on a nearby stool. Nicholas casually inquired as to who was in the house, and was surprised to learn he was alone; although he could easily guess the whereabouts of his family, the fact that Blackwood had left without warning startled him a little.
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Only back to the house, sir, to pick up a few effects, or so I understand. He planned to be back late afternoon at the outmost.”
Nicholas sat, contemplative, his eyes affixed distantly on the window, and eventually Carlyle left him to brood. Truth be told, he was unsure whether he preferred to hear that Blackwood would be returning or not; a hasty departure overnight would surely have dampened the pointless hope stewing in him - though what the hope was for exactly still escaped him - and yet he’d felt such a surge of relief to learn his friend hadn’t abandoned him after all. He allowed himself a lengthy sigh, and stood, glancing around the room for his effects. Thomas was due to sail the following day, and it would be unfair more than impertinent not to pay a visit before his departure, especially when he needed to apologise for his behaviour the previous night; with no reason to hang about the house, he dressed himself, explained his whereabouts to Carlyle in the hall, and stepped down onto the street.
Victoria Square was alight with activity when Nicholas turned the corner. Thomas’ people swarmed across the road outside, to-ing and fro-ing with what Nicholas recognised as the drawing-room armoire amongst other furniture, overseen by the man himself, pestered constantly by several important-looking gentlemen who stood around and appeared to never cease speaking. Nicholas was relieved not to see his sister about, and stepped neatly across the square; Thomas pushed his advisors aside mid-sentence on spying his old friend, and took him, smiling heartily, back inside the house. The rooms looked empty and unoccupied, with the sparse remains of the house being hastily covered by dustsheets, but the parlour was still almost fully kitted. Nicholas refused Thomas’ insistences for both food and drink, and apologised at length for his behaviour the night before.
“It’s quite alright, Nick, I knew you were out of sorts. I’ve been your friend for most of my life, and sometimes I think I understand your own thoughts far better than you do.” He looked at him closely. “And you do forgive Emily for telling me, don’t you? I’d hate to leave you two in one of your spats.”
“Of course I forgive her; knowing as little as she does, it was amazing she resisted from speculating scandalously and spreading filthy lies all across London.”
“Unbelievably, she might even have decided to grow up.” Thomas crossed to the uncovered liquor cabinet, and poured a lick of brandy into his glass. “Forgive me if I do - I need something before going out to face the hordes again.” He cradled the glass to his chest, slouching slightly against the wall, and examined Nicholas closely. “You are being careful, aren’t you?” he said, softly, at length. “The world’s no kinder a place than when... well, when we were young.”
Nicholas drew his eyes slowly from the window to his friend. “If there’s one thing you can rely on me for, Thomas, it’s care.” He curled his fingers about themselves and wished for something to drink. “What are you having the furniture moved for? Surely you can’t plan to take it all with you.”
Thomas shook his head. “Had a man in from Debenham and Storr’s to survey the house at Emily’s instruction. The previous tenants left all their furniture for us to dispose of, which was a damn nuisance, but we made a pretty penny selling off their unwanted heirlooms.” Nicholas drily thought it was very like the both of them to turn such an occasion into a financial opportunity, but, then again, perhaps that was the reason Thomas had a position in government and he found himself unwanted and unemployed.
A baffled and battered boy whom Thomas later revealed to be the old cook’s apprentice stuck his head around the door and asked them, begging your pardon, whether Mr Hamilton would come out the front to help solve a dispute over a coffee table, and Nicholas left him to it. Thomas’ return had caused somewhat of a maelstrom of excitement within his ascetic family, and it felt odd to bid him farewell; without him Nicholas’ life would inevitably returning to the mundane, though Blackwood’s presence promised to dispel a little of the boredom. Still, Thomas had promised to be back before the year was out, seeing as he had to find the time to properly court his sister.
On arriving home, Carlyle curtly informed him that Blackwood was waiting for him in Lord Coward’s study; Nicholas dithered at the bottom of the stairs, torn between making a run for it and facing his demons. He had not spoken to his friend since yesterday in the garden, and had received nothing back in return; a better man would cross the hall and at least resolve the impasse with his friend, but Nicholas was not a better man, and he took a grasp on the cool banister and ascended to his bedroom.
Nicholas took the time to sit with his sister once the morning came. She was often silly and impetuous, but it was obvious to a blind man that she cared deeply for Thomas, and although Emily was nothing if not obstinate, to face such a long separation would be a depressing challenge even for the most obstinate of people. She certainly appreciated Nicholas’ company, wrapped in her quilt and not yet dressed despite the blazing light spread-eagled in irregular patterns across the carpet.
“Thomas was joking about the womanly things I should get up to in his absence,” she said drily, leafing absently through the paper with one hand. “He says I should campaign for women’s rights just for something to do. I think I quite surprised him by being rather taken with the idea.”
“Ironic that you have the head for politics and I don’t,” Nicholas muttered darkly. “It’s only a matter of time before Father asks Harry for some favour or other to get either me or himself a seat.”
“Well, Jennifer’s joined the WLA,” Emily continued absently.
“The what?”
“The Women’s Liberal Association. The London one. They’re quite famous. Honestly, Nick, it’s like you don’t even read.”
Nicholas wanted to make a comment about having more important things on his mind, but the amount of questions this would prompt in his sister and the self-inflicted brooding that would occur really weren’t worth trumping the argument. “What time is Thomas’ train?”
“Half two. He’s decided to get a ship from the south coast, but I wish he were going cross-country. The idea of him at sea makes me nervous.”
“He’s hardly going to become a pirate.” She glanced up from her paper, and they shared a smile at the thought of their friend haughtily strutting around in voluminous shirts and demanding doubloons at swordpoint. “You are... happy, aren’t you, Emily?”
She looked up at him. “What nonsense are you blathering now?”
He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I never imagined you married - not in any sensible manner, in any rate. You’re not just doing this because of something silly?”
“You mean something along the lines of pleasing you, or, God forbid, Father? Or because it is what is acceptable? Nicholas, your accusations of subservience wound me.” She smiled a little. “I must admit at first the idea of doing something so morally acceptable disgusted me, but saying that the women of this family have a disreputable history is somewhat of an understatement, and Thomas is a gentleman and the best I’m ever going to get. Yes, Nicholas, I am marrying him because it is, unfortunately, seen as ‘proper’; but he does make me happy.”
“You wanted me to marry once,” he said, quietly.
She looked at him closely. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it would have made your life any easier if you had.”
“It would be certainly more... normal.”
“Boring,” she disagreed amiably, and he smiled. “I don’t think you could ever lead a boring life.” Nicholas didn’t argue; for once, he decided, the two of them agreed.
The front door slammed on Nicholas’ sister at around quarter to two, and from his bedroom window he watched her sashaying down the street like a force of nature. He recognised the Hamilton family carriage perched on the kerb just as she disappeared inside, and with a smile at the scandal of the fiancées travelling unaccompanied he turned away. For a moment, he stared at the patterned carpet sprawled across the floor, and it dawned upon him he was completely alone with Blackwood. He came out onto the landing, and listened for signs of life; none from upstairs, but the gentle sound of pacing in his father’s study below told him in an instant what he wanted to know. He crept down the stairs and stood at their foot, equidistant from the front door and that of the study, the recurring nightmare from the day before. Knowing that heading out of the house or back to his room led to no resolve, he crossed the foyer and quietly opened the door.
Blackwood was slumped against Lord Coward’s desk, staring inattentively at the strip of floor between the curves of his feet; on raising his head, Nicholas observed the starch pallor of his face, the rings reminiscent of bruises which spanned below his eyes. “You look unwell.” Blackwood didn’t reply; he kept his eyes on Nicholas, and failed to suppress a shudder. Against all of his better judgement, Nicholas crossed the room and stood nervously in front of him, though he stopped short of placing his hand on his shoulder as he longed to. “Maybe you should - ”
Blackwood’s hand clamped across his mouth, and Nicholas jerked back in fear, wrenching it away as swiftly as it had been placed. Blackwood straightened, and Nicholas hurriedly backed away, suddenly finding himself afraid; fighting fiercely the panic in his chest, he stood his ground and carefully eyed his friend, slowly approaching. He stopped only when Nicholas was well within arm’s reach, and almost reluctantly placed a hot hand on either side of his waist before Nicholas threw himself onto him and kissed him. Blackwood responded in force until something seemed to prevent him and he shoved Nicholas away, taking a few steps back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Nick - ” Somewhat helplessly, he shook his head. “What you’re asking of me - not only is it illegal, it is - immoral.”
Hardly able to believe that this was the source of Blackwood’s trepidation, Nicholas couldn’t help but snort. He stared at him in overwhelming frustration; he was as confused and frightened - if not more - but had cast aside his crises when he had chosen to enter the office - and in doing so he, against all of his better judgement, he had given Blackwood his trust. Completely, and irrevocably.
“I don’t - ” He blindly shook his head. “ - understand - when you talk it’s full of danger and rebellion, and here we are, and all I’m asking of you is - ” He stopped, stared at him mindlessly, choking on the panic engulfing him.
“It is a sin,” Blackwood said, eventually, and Nicholas felt a cold shudder wash slowly up his spine. The notion had far from escaped Nicholas’ own conscience, but he had pushed it aside, fear and scorn in equal measure - but mostly because for Blackwood he was willing to.
He was willing to do anything.
He had no argument to return to his friend, and the energy and will to stay with him drained instantly. But when he made to leave, Blackwood seized his arm, holding his gaze and refusing to release his grip, expression sincere, concerned. “I needed to - I meant you no offence.”
“I don’t think you could ever say anything more offensive.”
“I do want - ” Blackwood stepped towards him again, a hand placed across his shoulder. The clock on the mantle showed the time to be ten-past two. Nicholas’ eyes slid shut as Blackwood reluctantly, carefully, leant down and kissed him again, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his palms tingling. “I want - ”
Nicholas wondered where his sister would be, now.
He stepped hesitantly towards the door, and with one hand on the handle held the other back towards Blackwood in invitation.
Knowing Thomas, Nicholas decided, they’d be at the station, ridiculously early for the train. She’d stay to wave him off, because that was proper, and probably even have a white handkerchief to do it with, too.
Blackwood walked across the room, and for the briefest moment, took his hand.
The door of his room slammed shut. Nicholas did not move from the bed.
He thought of his sister; he wondered if she’d returned from the train station. Perhaps she decided to elope, or was tragically killed on her way home. Wayward carriage, loose rail track. Perhaps she never even made it to the station.
He only came across his friend again hours later, the lazy afternoon drifting into quiet evening.
When he entered the guest room, Blackwood’s few possessions were already boxed. The sight brought terror to him; he had delayed from finding him for fear of what he would see, and the unmistakeable sight left him frozen. He could argue, plead with him; but he knew from Blackwood’s inability to as much as look at him it would do no good. Blackwood himself was leaning against the window frame, peering into the street for the hansom doubtless already called for. “I’ve decided to leave.”
Nicholas toyed with the flap of a bag. “Back to your parents?”
“No.”
“Then where will you go?”
“I don’t know.” He marched from the window, pointlessly rearranging the bedsheets, determined to occupy his hands.
Nicholas wet his lips. Outside, the unmistakeable sound of the carriage pulling up echoed through the window; Carlyle opening the front door. “Will you write?”
Blackwood scanned the boxes, tucked one beneath his arm and left the room. He paused in the hallway beyond. “I expect not,” he replied, descended the stairs until he was no longer in Nicholas’ sight, and did not look back.
He made no excuses to his sister; he had none to make, and besides, she took one look at him and understood him perfectly. “What a right pair we make,” she muttered, smiling, and drew a hand across his forehead. “Did he say where he was going?” He shook his head. “You probably frightened him, Nick,” she said, softly. “If it were me, I’d be terrified.” His sister knew; but of course she did. He hadn’t been able to keep a secret from her since he was thirteen.
The scandal to follow cost Lord Blackwood dearly, though only in the short-term. The gossip over his family’s shifted inheritance was nothing compared to his eldest’s sudden disappearance; it was the cause of newspaper speculation for weeks on end. When even the most tenacious minds of London’s press couldn’t locate him, Nicholas briefly flirted with the idea of a private investigator, but Emily quietly pointed out that Lord Blackwood would presumably have them all long under his employment.
Besides, he thoroughly believed Blackwood didn’t want to be found.
Lord Coward worked himself into a frenzy. He spent the months currying favour with new MPs, his only tenuous links to Parliament broken or far abroad; his children saw even less of him than usual, which was, in itself, remarkable. Emily had once drily remarked she thought it impossible that there were as many hours in the day as their father chose to work at the Commons.
Whether it was hubris, fate or just sod’s law, politics finally had its toll on Lord Coward, and when Nicholas returned home on the 23rd September he found the priest had been called for and the surgeon was long gone.
His sister met him, impassive, in the hallway, and led him into their father’s study. “Apoplexy, the surgeon called it,” she muttered, crossing over to the liquor cabinet. “Becoming more common, apparently; Flaubert died of it only last year, you know.” The statement tore a terrified hole in his gut, and he stared uncomprehending out of the window as Emily took a long, unladylike swig from the brandy bottle.
“Will he live?”
Emily shook her head, and Nicholas took his own in his hands. He was the new Lord Coward by the time the week was out.
He took to his room, and left Emily to sort out the proceedings. She wrote to Thomas immediately, and, having caught him docked at Cartagena, had him back in London by the end of the following week; she gathered friends and family, arranged the funeral all in her brother’s name.
Neither of them mentioned Blackwood, save for once; she entered his room before bed, a piece of paper in her hand. “I had Carlyle ask around, and I’ve fished up the addresses of some of his friends. I don’t know if they’d happen to know more than you, but I thought it could be a start. If you wanted to tell him, that is.”
He stared at the list. The names were unfamiliar, save for one; Alex Duvall. The months suddenly felt like years.
Nicholas picked up his pen.
Part Three