Fic: A Most Brilliant Dance, Chapter 2
Full Headers [here].
Ryan/Spencer, Brendon/Jon
PG-13
77'000 words.
Written by softlyforgotten and zarah5v2.
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A Most Brilliant Dance
Chapter 2
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Monsters - Band of Horses
Spencer loves Hertfordshire when the rising sun bathes its roofs in golden morning light, grass glittering from residual dew, the world still quiet as it wakes up to a new day. When he makes it back to Longbourn, the house is already alive with voices. Someone’s playing the pianoforte, most likely Brendon judging by the effortless flow of notes, but it seems a little looser than usual, Brendon making it up as he goes along.
The music cuts off abruptly to the excited sound of their mother’s voice. Spencer quickens his steps. He stayed out longer than he intended anyway, and chances are he’ll already be berated for missing breakfast.
Upon entering the living room, however, his mother merely bestows a bright smile upon him. “Oh, there you are,” she says, but there’s no reproach in her tone. Spencer isn’t sure he’s relieved or unsettled. He quirks his lips at Brendon, who remains sitting on the piano stool and spreads his hands in front of him, shrugging with a sheepishly pleased look in his eyes.
“Guess what just came from Netherfield,” Mrs Smith crows. She grabs a sheet from the table beside the pianoforte and hurries towards Spencer.
“The announcement that Mr Walker is going to marry Mr Ross, and we’re kindly invited to the wedding?” Spencer suggests, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
Brendon hides his grin behind one hand. “I hear they sent a carriage to bring a confectioner in from London, for the cakes,” he says. It sounds faintly choked with laughter.
“Mr Walker, marry Mr Ross!” Mrs Smith exclaims, as if the mere thought personally offends her. “I don’t want to hear anymore of this madness. No, Spencer, look at this.” She continues before Spencer actually has a chance to look at whatever it is she’s waving at him. “It’s an invitation. For Brendon. Apparently, Mr Walker was so enchanted with him that he wants Brendon to join them for dinner.”
“Mother,” Brendon says quickly. He can’t quite hide the blush that spreads from his ears down to his cheeks, though.
“Brendon, that’s wonderful,” Spencer says, and means it.
“You have to help him choose his clothes,” Mrs Smith says. “You know he’ll just put on what he’s most comfortable with otherwise, and I will not tolerate it.”
“Of course,” Spencer says. “In fact…” He reaches for Brendon’s hand, and Brendon allows Spencer to pull him to his feet. “In fact, we’re going to take a look at his clothes right now.”
“Nothing too colorful,” she calls after them. “We want him to look like a gentleman!” But they’re halfway up the stairs already, Brendon half a step behind Spencer as they enter their room and close the door with an audible click, echoing down the corridor.
“So,” Spencer says.
Brendon grins back. “So,” he says.
Spencer sits down on their bed, the mattress giving a little beneath his weight. It’s grown soft and tired over the years. “So, Mr Walker is still engaging and really nice, I take it?” he asks, then shakes his head. “Oh, wait, I forgot. It’s Jon, isn’t it?”
“Shut up,” Brendon says, but his grin doesn’t waver as he flops down on the bed next to Spencer, unselfconsciously and yet oddly graceful. Sometimes, Spencer envies his ease and cheerful disposition; Spencer is usually too aware of other people’s eyes on him to move as freely as Brendon does. “You know,” Brendon speaks right into his thoughts. “It would be even better if you could come with me.”
“And risk spending an evening seated beside the charming Mr Ross, striving to make light-hearted conversation?” Spencer asks wryly. “Thanks, but I’d rather not.”
“Wonder what he’d consider to be a conversation topic worthy of his time,” Brendon says. He crosses his arms behind his head, gazing up at the ceiling. Light pours in through the window, turning his eyes a warm chocolate brown, and Spencer is hit with a sudden burst of affection for him. He lies down beside Brendon, propping himself up on one elbow.
If Walker really is as taken with Brendon as Spencer thinks he is, Spencer is going to miss having him around at all times. At least Netherfield isn’t very far.
“I’m sure he thinks himself very profound,” Spencer replies; slightly belated, but Brendon doesn’t call him on it. “He’s probably read all of Thomas Hobbes’ works and has very clever ideas about it.”
“You have read most of Hobbes’ work,” Brendon says.
“That’s different,” Spencer says.
Brendon lets his head fall to the side, hair a mess on the bedspread. “Really,” he says, dripping sarcasm. Spencer thinks it might have been a mistake to teach Brendon how to let his words say one thing, and his tone the other.
“Really,” he confirms. “Because I read it out of curiosity, and not to prove anything to anyone.”
“Right,” Brendon says. His voice takes on a dreamy quality, a hint of mischief in his eyes as he adds, “You know, Brendon, I really do think current politics place too little emphasis on the consent of the governed. It really should be a sovereign’s primary concern, shouldn’t it?”
“That’s not Hobbes,” Spencer corrects. “It’s John Locke.”
“Your point being?” Brendon stretches his arms above his head, still comfortably sprawled on the bed. When Spencer doesn’t reply, Brendon laughs brightly. “Maybe Mr Ross and you would have a range of profound ideas to discuss, after all.”
“Certainly,” Spencer says. “As soon as he acquires a new personality.”
Sunlight tangles in Brendon’s hair, lighting his eyes. “I take it you’re not complaining about his looks, then.”
Spencer decides to ignore him.
*
For all that the twins could hardly shut up about the two wealthy, good-looking men moving into Netherfield a mere two days earlier, they are easily distracted by the news of a regiment of soldiers to be stationed in Hertfordshire. Many young, potentially handsome men clearly are an improvement to only two, especially considering one already seems to have expressed a certain amount of interest in Brendon’s company.
Spencer mostly tries to block their excited chatter, but he doesn’t quite succeed. He gives up when he finds that he has started reading the same page three times over, places the book face down on the wooden bench below the kitchen window, and goes inside to find Brendon. Hopefully, their mother will have stopped fussing over Brendon’s new haircut by now.
“I’ll look like an idiot arriving by horse,” Brendon protests when Spencer finds him and Mrs Smith in the dining room. His lower lip is set in a pout, a habit Spencer tends to mock mercilessly, but Brendon seems genuinely unhappy as he frowns at their mother, then turns to Mr Smith. His expression is pleading. “Father, can’t I take the carriage? Please?”
“We need it on the fields today,” Mrs Smith answers in his stead. Mr Smith sighs tiredly, winks at Spencer and turns a page of his newspaper.
“You want him to go on horseback?” Spencer clarifies.
“It will be perfectly fine, just you wait,” Mrs Smith says. She sounds vaguely satisfied with herself. Spencer holds Brendon’s eyes for a moment, but once their mother has made up her mind, nothing short of a miracle will stop her. He shrugs and glances outside. Through the small windows, he can see only a small stretch of the sky but what he sees is covered by dark clouds, grey and heavy.
*
The letter comes late that evening, delivered by a drenched messenger who stops for a cup of tea in the servant’s quarters to dry off. It’s been raining steadily for hours now, since Brendon left, and Spencer rips open the letter impatiently and scans through it as fast as he can, leveling a glare at his mother once he’s done.
“Sick,” he pronounces. “Brendon’s sick. Thankfully, Mr Walker has offered to look after him until the worst of his fever is over. Mr Walker thinks it would be unwise to move him before then.”
Mrs Smith smiles beatifically. “Poor child,” she says. “Still, he will be in far better comfort there than he would be at home-”
“Don’t you dare,” Spencer hisses, suddenly furious. “Don’t try and pretend like you didn’t plan this all along, like-”
“Darling, I can hardly control the weather,” she protests, but there is the same self-satisfied glint in her eye that Spencer recognized earlier. “I simply think that this will be a marvelous way for them to further get to know each other-”
“He’s ill,” Spencer snaps. “Bad headache, sore throat, fe-”
“Oh, Spencer, really,” Mrs Smith says. “He’s got a cold. Stop being so dramatic.”
Spencer glares at her. “You’re a vicious old schemer,” he says, and Mrs Smith rolls her eyes. Spencer sighs and throws the letter on the table.
“I’m going to get an early night’s sleep,” Spencer says. “I shall go to Netherfield first thing in the morning.”
*
He sets out later than he had hoped; it’s a little after nine by the time he escapes from Longbourn, and the sun is bright and warm on the drying landscape. It’s a nice day, warm and pleasant, and the more Spencer thinks about it, the less he is in a hurry, so he decides to walk rather than ride. It’s nice, too, to have an actual excuse to walk for a mile or so over the fields and not be scolded for lazily idling away the hours. Spencer shoves his hands in his pockets and hums old songs to himself as he walks, and only half-wishes that he had Brendon to sing rounds or talk with.
His trousers start to get rather muddy, the countryside still wet with yesterday’s downpour, but Spencer can’t seem to feel worried about anything in particular today. He’ll spend as little time with the masters of the house as possible, he reasons, and Brendon won’t care about the state of his clothing, anyway. He bites his lip at that thought; Brendon is friendly and gets on well with strangers, but even so he must be feeling a little out of sorts by having forced his company on the house. On top of this, Brendon is a kind of clingy patient, and Spencer’s not sure what he’ll do without someone to lie beside him and rub his back. Spencer hopes with sudden vehemence that Ross hasn’t been around Brendon - if he has, Spencer’s sure the other man’s been unpleasant and, well, ten thousand a year or not, Spencer’s not adverse to slipping something nasty in Ross’s meal.
It’s almost ironic, really, that it’s with this dour thought that he rounds a corner of the path and slams straight into someone, hard enough to knock the breath out of him and to make him lose his balance. He flails for a moment before hands clasp firmly at his shoulders, steadying him, and Ross blinks down at him in confused silence.
“Oh,” Spencer says, stepping backwards hastily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. Uh.”
“Mr Smith,” Ross says, quietly, and bows a little. Spencer flushes red and bows back; trust Ross to bring to attention his lack of propriety.
“Are you here to see your friend?” Ross asks.
“Yes,” Spencer says. “If it’s not too much trouble.” He stops, and Ross regards him impassively, apparently having nothing to say to that. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, “Would you be so kind as to give me directions to Brendon’s room?”
“I’ll show you,” Ross says, and turns abruptly, starting off towards Netherfield. Spencer stands still for a moment, staring at Ross’s back, but after a second Ross looks over his shoulder, face blank, and Spencer hurries to catch up with him. Ross walks with slow, easy strides but he moves surprisingly quickly and Spencer feels a little stupid, trotting alongside him.
They walk in uncomfortable silence; Ross keeps his face ahead to the house and Spencer sneaks sideway glances at him. The silence seems even more pointed with the rustle of their boots in the long grass and the birds singing and the low mooing of cows nearby, and finally Spencer searches for something to say and blurts out, “I hope I didn’t disturb you, just now.”
Ross looks at him with a faintly surprised expression. “No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
Spencer nods, feeling even more like an idiot, and falls vengefully silent. Damn Ross and his priggy, snobby manners, he thinks. He hopes, for Brendon’s sake and for his own, that Walker doesn’t spend too much time with his friend.
He looks at Ross again almost by accident, but Ross’s face is as composed as ever, hands clasped behind his back, face turned just slightly up to the sky.
*
Brendon is propped up on pillows when Spencer appears in the doorway, looking pale with a hoarse cough that makes him double up in two every few minutes, but his eyes are bright and his smile is taking up most of his face. Spencer suspects this might have to do with the fact that Jon Walker is sitting beside his bed, waving his hands around and making strange faces.
“Um,” Spencer says, but he smiles and when Brendon looks up he beams even more, if that’s possible.
“Spence!” Brendon exclaims. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” Spencer says. “And stay, for a little while, if that’s-”
“Stay as long as you need,” Jon says comfortably, getting to his feet. “I’m sure it’ll be good for Brendon to have some family close. I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Bye,” Brendon says, eyes following Jon to the door, and Spencer grins and ducks his head, echoes Brendon’s goodbye. Jon closes the door carefully behind him and Spencer looks at Brendon, raises an eyebrow. Brendon goes bright red. “Shut up,” he says, and Spencer laughs. Brendon giggles for a moment, but then he starts coughing again and Spencer moves to the side of the bed, climbs on next to him and combs his hand through Brendon’s hair lightly until Brendon can breathe properly again.
“Urgh,” Brendon says, making a face. “You shouldn’t come so close, Spence, I’ll breathe sick germs all over you.”
“I’ll survive,” Spencer says. “Not everyone tumbles into the closest bed at the slightest hint of the sniffles, you know.” Brendon raises a weak fist to thump Spencer lightly in the arm and Spencer settles down next to him comfortably, loops an arm behind Brendon’s shoulders.
“So is everyone treating you kindly?” Spencer asks. “Do you need me to stage a rescue mission?”
“I’m fine,” Brendon says, sinking back slightly, turning his face towards Spencer. Spencer bites his lip; Brendon does look really sick, pale and sweaty and there are dark bags under his eyes. “Everyone’s being very nice. The servants are all very friendly, and Jon keeps me company.”
“How generous of him,” Spencer says dryly, and Brendon turns pink.
“What’s going on at home?” Brendon asks, and Spencer doesn’t mention that Brendon hasn’t been gone a full day yet, because he knows Brendon gets homesick strangely fast. Instead, he talks about the twins’ excitement over the arrival of the militia, and how one of the maids accidentally dyed one of Mr Smith’s shirts bright pink this morning, when it somehow got slipped in with a pile of ribbons. He’s just talking about the Francis Bacon book he ordered a while ago that should be arriving any day now when a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye makes him look up.
“What is it?” Brendon enquires, and Spencer frowns, staring through the slight space where the door is ajar to the brightly lit corridor outside Brendon’s room.
He shakes his head, and does not mention how he is almost sure he saw Ross’s lean form standing at the doorway for a moment.
*
Brendon doesn’t look well. He’s not quite as sad and miserable as he usually is when sick, but Spencer suspects that might have plenty to do with Walker’s lengthy visit earlier that afternoon, and little to do with the actual state of Brendon’s health.
He spends a good part of the day sleeping, curled in on himself with occasional shudders trembling through his body. Spencer leaves his side only once, in order to fetch a basin of fresh water. The trip ends in him wandering through a maze of marble hallways, utterly lost as he passes painting after painting until he runs into a light-blonde haired woman in expensive clothes. Spencer doesn’t miss her disdainful glance at the stained bottoms of his pants.
When she introduces herself as Walker’s cousin Jac Vanek, he can’t help but hope that Brendon won’t have to spend too much time around these people. Given time, their haughtiness might rub off even on someone as unpretentious at Brendon.
But then, Walker seems perfectly nice and untainted. Brendon just might escape unscathed.
Miss Vanek smiles, if a little thinly. “Why didn’t you just send a servant for fresh water?”
Of course, Spencer thinks. That’s probably the way all errands are handled in this house; he should have thought of it. Rather than admit as much out loud, Spencer returns her smile, and he manages to maintain his grip on it even as Ross chooses that moment to emerge from the same room Miss Vanek just left. “Mr Ross,” Spencer greets, bowing in Ross’s direction. Ross returns the gesture and steps up beside Vanek, turning a feather-adorned hat over in his hands.
Due to his momentary distraction, Spencer remembers to answers Vanek’s question slightly belatedly. “I felt like stretching my legs for a moment, so I thought I might as well do it myself.”
“How is your friend doing?” Ross asks, unexpectedly. He doesn’t sound as if he particularly cares, but Spencer appreciates the sentiment for the effort it probably took.
“Oh, yes,” Vanek inserts quickly, leaning forward. “Dear Brendon, is he feeling any better? I did not have a chance to visit him today, though I sat with him for nearly an hour yesterday.” Spencer looks at her, trying to hide his surprise. She doesn’t really seem to be the type to play mother to a sick person who’s basically a stranger to her. Then he catches the covert look she gives Ross from beneath lowered lashes, seeking approval, and all right, that makes more sense.
Although Spencer seriously doubts she’ll win herself any points with Ross by displaying any kind of soft-heartedness. But then, who is he to judge other people’s mating dances.
“His condition has hardly improved since this morning,” Spencer tells them, although he speaks mostly to Ross. “I’m afraid we’ll have to trespass on your hospitality a while longer.”
“I take it you’ll want to stay with him to make personally sure he’s recovering well?” Ross asks. It could be a trick question for all that Spencer can tell; neither Ross’s tone nor his face give any indication as to whether he’s implying that Spencer might doubt their capability to look after Brendon. Or as to whether Ross would prefer if at least Spencer left as soon as possible. A glance at Vanek doesn’t clear things up. Despite assumedly knowing Ross for quite some time, she seems just as out of her depth as Spencer.
It’s Ross, though. So Spencer goes with the assumption that yes, Ross is implying both bad manners on Spencer’s part as well as wishing him out of the house, and preferably yesterday.
He smiles and knows it’ll look fake. “I’d rather stay with him, yes. I’m sure you’d be perfectly able to care for his well-being, but it’s always better to have family around. Besides,” he pauses and lifts his shoulders. “You probably have more important things to do than waste your time on idle conversations.”
A brief frown passes over Ross’s face before he smoothes it over. “Um, yes, I suppose so,” he says, already turning to leave. Over his shoulder, he adds, “Well, Jon already assured you that you and your friend are welcome to stay as long as it takes for him to return to full health. I’m assuming I’ll see you at dinner then, Mr Smith.”
Spencer didn’t plan on attending. He’s too surprised to come up with a good excuse, however. “I don’t think I’ll have anything appropriate to wear,” is all that he manages to think of.
“That won’t be a problem,” Vanek says, just as Ross pauses and turns. Her smile is verging on insulting. “We’ll just have one of the servants set out something for you. It might not be quite up to your usual standards, but it will be clean, at the very least.”
Spencer sketches a bow and bites his tongue to hold back a sharp retort. He’s surprised to find that Ross gives Vanek the same hard look Spencer remembers from their first meeting.
As far as Spencer is concerned, Ross and Vanek are perfectly matched. Apparently, Ross doesn’t quite share this sentiment, but then, maybe Vanek doesn’t have anything to say that he considers worth his while.
*
Spencer closes the door to Brendon’s room with his hip, careful not to spill any water from the basin he balances in his hands. Brendon looks up at his entrance, smiling weakly in greeting.
“There are some seriously strange people in this house,” Spencer tells him.
“I hope you don’t consider me one of them,” Walker says, looking up from an armchair near the window, and Spencer didn’t see him. He curses inwardly at his own carelessness and hopes his mother will never hear about him accidentally slighting his host. There’s a book in Walker’s lap, opened to the third page. It seems that he and Brendon had more interesting things to talk about.
For the second time that day, Spencer nearly forgets his manners. He bows unsteadily, the basin in his hands swaying. Since Walker remains seated, the answering bow looks cheerfully awkward.
“Certainly not, Mr Walker,” Spencer finally manages to reply. “I was merely talking about one of your servants.” He prays that he isn’t blushing. He thinks he might be, though, and turns away to set the basin down on Brendon’s bedside table.
“One of my servants, really.” Walker’s tone is amused, and Spencer is pretty sure that he doesn’t believe a word. “Well, be that as it may. I’m surprised to find that you’re still addressing me by my last name. Didn’t we agree on first names already? I’d rather not be confused with my father, if you please.”
“We didn’t, actually,” Spencer says. He has a feeling Walker’s forgetfulness might have something to do with the distraction Brendon clearly poses for him.
“Oh. All right.” Walker places the book on the windowsill and gets to his feet, grinning at Spencer with just a short sideways glance at Brendon. “Well then,” Walker says. “I’m Jon.”
“Spencer,” Spencer says. Just then, Brendon is attacked by another coughing fit, doubling over, his eyes squeezed shut. Sweat is gleaming on his brow, and when Spencer places a hand on his forehead to feel his temperature, he almost starts. He would love to put some distance between himself and some of the mansion’s more unpleasant occupants, but there is no doubt in his mind that Brendon won’t be fit for transportation anytime soon.
Spencer exhales slowly and wets a piece of cloth, wiping Brendon’s face while Walker-while Jon stands at the side of the bed, shifting his weight, clearly wanting to help but not knowing how. Spencer has mostly forgiven him for his unfortunate choice in a best friend. Anyone who makes Brendon smile this toothily, despite his obvious discomfort, is fine with Spencer.
A servant calls Jon away not too long after that, and Spencer sits down on the edge of Brendon’s bed. “All right,” he says. He spreads his hands flat on the bedspread and grins at Brendon. “I give. He’s perfect.”
“Yes.” Brendon nods, then has to fight another cough. “Yes, he is,” he repeats as soon as he can speak again, voice hoarse. “So, what kind of strange people did you run into?”
“No one important,” Spencer says. He means it.
*
A maid brings up a neatly folded pile of clothes for him later that evening, as promised, and Brendon watches and laughs weakly as Spencer makes a face at her retreating back.
“It’s not her fault,” Brendon says.
“I don’t see why they even want me to eat with them,” Spencer grumbles, pulling off his muddy clothes. “They couldn’t make their dislike of us clearer if they tried.” Brendon looks crestfallen and Spencer sighs. “Jon excluded, Brendon, come on. I think the only reason your Mr Walker begrudges my visit is that I take up so much of your time.”
“Okay,” Brendon says, sounding doubtful. Spencer rolls his eyes and pulls the shirt on over his head, buttons it up. Brendon can be hard to convince of something when he’s trying to be careful, and Spencer’s not going to engage in an argument now when Brendon will inevitably pull the ‘I’m sick, you should be nice to me’ card.
Instead he shifts his shoulders a little while he buttons his vest, grimacing. The shirt is just a little tight across his shoulders, the pants a little short, but hopefully nothing that they will notice. Still, Spencer feels a little bit like he’s about to go down and face some terrible ordeal, and he makes a face at himself in the mirror, adjusting his cuffs. In the background, he can see Brendon watching him with amused eyes, but Brendon doesn’t say anything and Spencer doesn’t challenge him, just pushes his hands through his hair in a futile attempt to make it lie flat.
“God,” he says, sniffing at the sleeve of his shirt. “Their clothes even smell rich.”
“You’re a snob,” Brendon says comfortably.
“Probably,” Spencer admits, “but the better kind. Not like them.”
“What, them, the denizens of hell?” Brendon asks, mouth twitching.
“You’re no comfort at all,” Spencer tells him crossly, but he crosses over to smooth Brendon’s hair back and touch his cheek lightly before he heads downstairs.
Brendon blinks up at him, smiles sleepily and says, “You’ll do fine.”
*
Spencer is not, thankfully, the last person into the dining room; when he gets there, Jon and Vanek are waiting but Ross is nowhere to be seen. He hesitates a little awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, until Jon catches sight of him and walks forward to lead him into the room and launch into a very funny story about falling off his horse when they were vacationing last year in France.
Jon’s amusing and easy to talk to, and Spencer feels at ease almost immediately, despite Vanek’s slightly disdainful gaze whenever she looks at him. After about fifteen minutes, though, he’s wondering when dinner’s going to be served, when he’s going to be able to get back up to Brendon, and Jon looks at the clock on the wall and sighs.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I’d best go and find Ryan. He loses track of the time, sometimes.” Spencer has trouble for a moment, struggling to think who Ryan is and then he realizes with a startled, soft laugh that Jon means Ross. He looks up, half-smiling at his own foolishness, to see Vanek watching him with her pretty nose slightly crinkled.
He smiles politely at her and asks, “How are you enjoying Hertfordshire, Miss Vanek?”
“It certainly is very, ah, interesting,” she says, and Spencer does his best not to snarl at her.
He offers another tight smile, instead. “I always find a change of scenery to be very diverting. Good for one’s health, too.”
“For a short time, perhaps,” she answers, sounding bored. Spencer stares at the floor and Vanek turns away, drums her fingernails against the armrest of a chair. In the light of the room, she looks hard and brittle and old, even though she can’t be much older than Spencer. She looks experienced and Spencer feels like he might as well have small bits of hay wound in his hair. He exhales (too loudly; Vanek flicks an amused glance at him) and fiddles with a lock of hair that won’t sit properly.
Finally, thank God, Jon comes back with Ross trailing behind him. Ross’s face is blank, as usual, and Spencer thinks it must be awfully boring to be friends with him, and turns his face away so that no one sees his smirk. When he looks back at the group, though, Ross is watching him, but when Spencer looks straight at him Ross lifts one shoulder in a shrug and turns away.
Dinner is served, the food richer and more varied than Spencer has even seen before. Even Sir Beckett can’t boast of meals like this, and Spencer tries not to look too awed. Jon and Vanek talk about people back in London, and Vanek spends at least twenty minutes reminiscing about a party hosted by people Spencer has never heard of for people he had never heard of. He’d feel more awkward, except Jon catches his eye and winks at him and Spencer has to duck his head so that he doesn’t giggle too obviously.
Ross doesn’t say much at all, despite Vanek’s continuous attempts to draw him into conversation; he spends a lot of time gazing out the window and he eats slowly, looking faraway from the company present. Spencer even thinks he hears Ross humming at one point, but he dismisses it as stupid; Ross is too concerned about appearing well-bred to do anything as strange as that, Spencer figures.
He manages to escape the evening mostly without incident, but eventually Vanek says, “We’ll make up a spare bedroom for you, Mr Smith. It may be a little musty, but you didn’t give us much notice. I hope it will suffice.” She raises one slight, perfectly shaped eyebrow at him, and Spencer feels a knot of dislike form in his stomach. He forces himself to answer politely, though; Brendon would probably be upset, he reminds himself, if Spencer insulted Jon’s family.
“You needn’t trouble yourselves, thank you,” Spencer says. “Brendon and I are used to sharing, and I’d prefer to stay with him while he’s ill.”
He realizes a little too late what he’s said; Ross is staring at him, and Vanek smothers her smile with a serviette. Only Jon seems unconcerned, spooning up a little more of the apricot tart. Spencer can feel his cheeks going pink even before Vanek speaks again.
“You share a bed?” she asks.
“My parents adopted Brendon when we were very young,” Spencer says, quietly. “I consider him in all but blood my brother.”
“Of course,” Vanek drawls. “I’m sure many of the families round here do such things. Houses do seem to be a little on the small side.” She pauses and then adds, “How charmingly… provincial.”
Spencer stares at his hands on the table and counts in his head, but he thinks he probably sounds a little sulky when he looks up, forces a smile and says, “Excuse me, I think I might go to bed. It’s been a long day.”
He stands up, and it’s all too clear that he’s leaving because of Vanek. Probably they usually sit around and talk about their snobby friends for hours, he thinks miserably, and here he is going to bed just before nine. Jon looks kind of disheartened, and Spencer feels guilty.
There’s a scraping sound, though, and he looks over to see Ross standing, too. Ross is almost smiling; there is a softness to his face when he looks at Jon, anyway. “Me, too,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jon. Miss Vanek. Mr Smith.”
Spencer nods his head and repeats the same goodbyes, then turns to walk after the door. As he does, Vanek looks straight at him and drawls, either oblivious to or enjoying Spencer’s crimson face, “Why, Mr Smith, I can see your ankles. Those trousers are very short.”
“Yes,” Ross says out of nowhere, looking back over his shoulder. “He’s a fair bit taller than me, after all.”
Spencer blinks, astonished, and Ross holds the door open, waiting patiently. When Spencer walks past, he recognizes with a start the scent of the clothes he is wearing.
“Good night,” Ross says.
*
Brendon is sleeping when Spencer gets back and Spencer is unfairly glad; he doesn’t really feel like dealing with Brendon’s questions right now. He strips off his clothes almost viciously, but ends up draping them neatly over a chair - they’re not his, after all. He blows out all but one of the candles and crawls in next to Brendon, and he’s almost glad for Brendon’s illness, because Spencer’s freezing and Brendon is boiling hot against him.
He presses his cheek to Brendon’s back and tries to go to sleep without much success. The shadows cast by the flickering wick seem ominous, and when Spencer twists to a certain angle he catches sight of blurry shapes in the mirror and it always gives him a shock. He keeps thinking about Vanek and the way she had stared at him, and he hates that these people are making him feel worthless.
After a little while, Brendon stirs and mumbles, voice thick with sleep, “How was dinner?”
Spencer laughs roughly. “Weird,” he says. “This house is strange, Brendon. Get better soon.”
*
Brendon doesn’t look much better the next morning. He’s still too pale, too tired, still doesn’t feel like eating more than a few bites. The doctor assures them that the fever has gone down considerably, though, so Spencer feels confident enough to leave Brendon and Jon alone for a while. The room was starting to feel suffocating anyway.
He intends to wander the gardens for a while, but on his way to the main staircase, he passes a room in which a huge piano resides. He’s not Brendon; the sight of a beautiful music instrument doesn’t make his fingers itch with desire. He can still appreciate the polished black wood, however, reflecting the blue of the sky outside. It is appealing.
When he crosses the room, a board creaks under his shoes, and he almost feels like a small child sneaking around in places he shouldn’t be. The piano bench is slightly too tall for him, making him have to bend down at an awkward angle. It’ll be perfect for Brendon, Spencer thinks as he arranges his fingers on the shining keys.
He needs a moment to remember how to play before the notes come to him and he starts in on an easy, light-hearted piece Brendon taught him years ago, as a good way to warm up his hands. Spencer hasn’t been playing much lately, stumbling a little over some of the melody, but the piano still makes his playing sound better than it ever did at home. The notes float clear and perfect up into the air, lingering near the window for a moment before they escape into the late morning.
Spencer didn’t hear any movement, so when he finishes the song and looks up to find Ross standing in the doorway, he has to suppress a jerk of surprise. A jerk of surprise. No, really. He’s sure Ross would have found it as charmingly provincial as Vanek - just another thing to add to their list of reasons why Spencer and Brendon don’t fit into their social circle.
Spencer inclines his head briefly, and Ross does the same, taking a step into the room. “You play?” he asks. There’s a faint note of surprise in his eyes, although it makes room for indifference almost instantly.
“Not as well as Brendon does,” Spencer says. He places his hands lightly on his thighs, not trusting his own control enough to rest them anywhere near the keys. He’s uncomfortably aware that the sitting position pulls his pants - Ross’s pants, really - far enough up to reveal his ankles.
“Oh.” Ross nods and comes further into the room, stepping up to gaze out of the window. His back is a perfectly straight line, and Spencer wonders what he’s even doing here. “I always found that Jon’s piano here is quite forgiving of small imperfections,” Ross says, after a moment of silence.
“You play?” Spencer echoes Ross’s earlier question, trying to infuse it with the same tone of blasé surprise Ross has apparently perfected to an art form.
There might be the faintest smile twisting the corners of Ross’s mouth. “Not as well as some of my friends do,” he says. “I prefer the guitar, myself.”
This time, Spencer really does have to hide his surprise. While playing the piano is considered somewhat of a requirement for anyone moving in higher social circles, playing the guitar certainly isn’t. It doesn’t seem to suit someone as concerned with outward appearances as Ross clearly is. Which only serves to convince Spencer further of how strange this house is.
God, he can’t wait to get out of here. It will be a comfort not to have to watch his steps quite so carefully anymore, always cautious of running into yet another social trap.
“Anyway,” Ross says, turning away from the window, and Spencer realizes that he’s been silent for too long. Ross’s hands are laced behind his back, his face as unreadable as ever. “I see your whole family arrived to make sure Mr Urie is in capable hands, so I suppose you’ll want to meet them as soon as possible.”
“What?” Spencer says, blinking a little stupidly.
A smile flits over Ross’s face, most likely in silent mockery. “I just observed the arrival of their carriage,” he says. “They all seem very excited to be here.”
Spencer bites down on his desire to mutter a curse. He rises quickly, hoping to intercept his family before they can voice any truly embarrassing opinions, also before the twins start talking about how nice the officers are, and look, this ribbon here, one of the officers bought it for them, isn’t it just lovely? Please, God, no.
It’s not as if Vanek needed any more reasons to look down upon them. How wonderful, being able to count on one’s family to make a bad impression.
“Excuse me,” Spencer says. “I guess I’d better go meet them and lead them straight to Brendon’s room.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” Ross says. Unexpectedly, he falls into step beside Spencer, and Spencer thinks about asking him not to come along, but there’s really no polite way to do that. Besides, there really isn’t much hope that Ross would be willing to miss out on Spencer’s inevitable discomfort at having his family trail the hallways of Netherfield, wide-eyed and… charmingly provincial, indeed.
Spencer loves his family, he does. But sometimes, he wishes his father would take upon himself the effort of reigning both the twins and his mother in when the situation really called for it. If any of them spoil Brendon’s chances at happiness, Spencer will find a way to make them regret it. Hopefully.
*
Mrs Smith is wearing her best hat and a wide smile, glancing around the dining room in obvious awe. The twins aren’t much better, while Anne’s face rivals Ross’s in its expression of being utterly unimpressed. Fortunately, Jon seems to be taking it fairly well. Spencer quite possibly likes him even more for it.
“What a splendid house you have here, Mr Walker,” Mrs Smith crows. “It’s so spacious, and those statues at the stairs are so lovely, and this room here is just beautiful, really.”
“It is,” Jon says easily, his voice warm and friendly.
“You should see his mansion near London,” Vanek injects, something like cruel satisfaction in the smile she bestows upon Mrs Smith. Spencer almost misses the eyebrow she raises at Ross, once more standing at the window with his back half-turned to them. “It’s even more spacious, with many more lovely statues.”
“Is that so?” Mrs Smith asks, oblivious.
“Mother,” Spencer says. He tries to make it sound like a request and not like the warning he would much rather voice. “Aren’t you here to see how Brendon is doing?”
“Of course,” she says quickly. Spencer rises from the couch, and after a moment, she gets to her feet as well. He breathes a sigh of relief.
“Mr Walker,” Marianne speaks up excitedly. She remains seated and leans forward a little, elbows on her knees. “You should hold a ball here! It would be perfect, you could invite everyone, even the officers, and there is so much space here that it would be the perfect room for dancing, it would be wonderful!”
“I’m sure Jon would prefer to make that decision himself, without you putting him on the spot like this,” Spencer interrupts, giving her a warning glare. That hardly ever works anymore, but he supposes it’s worth a try.
“A ball, huh,” Jon says. He seems to mull the thought over for a moment before he lifts his shoulders and nods, smiling. “A ball. Actually, why not? As soon as Brendon has returned to full health, you shall name a date and time.”
Spencer tries not to flinch at the twins’ excited squeals. A glance at Vanek proves that he’s not the only one who doesn’t particularly like the thought of Jon holding a ball here, inviting the whole town and providing ample of opportunities for a considerably large part of Spencer’s family to make a spectacle out of themselves. He only hopes it won’t shed bad light on Brendon.
For the time being, Jon doesn’t appear particularly daunted by the display of impropriety. Spencer prays it will stay that way.
He glances over at the window to find that Ross has turned away completely, but the tilt of his head shows that he’s listening intently, most likely storing every single embarrassing detail away for later dissection with Vanek.
*
Dinner is a quiet affair that evening. Vanek repeatedly tries to engage Ross in a conversation about current developments at the Court, citing the names of acquaintances Spencer neither knows nor cares to know, but Ross doesn’t seem inclined to humor her. Both he and Jon seem distracted, and more than once, Spencer looks up to find Ross’s eyes resting on his face.
It’s… unsettling, to say the least, and he excuses himself fairly soon under the pretence of wanting to check up on Brendon. It’s not really a pretence, though; he does want to check up on Brendon, but since Brendon has spent most of the day sleeping, his coughs receding, it’s nothing that couldn’t have waited for another half hour.
*
The days pass quickly at Netherfield. Spencer avoids going downstairs as much as possible, eats all of his meals but dinner with Brendon up in the guest room, and only occasionally goes out for a breath of fresh air. Sometimes Jon will walk with him, and Spencer enjoys it; Jon is good company, and doesn’t always feel the need to speak, which Spencer appreciates. Evading awkward silences is, he thinks grimly, one of the banes of his life. Other times, though, he’ll simply go alone, walk through the grounds by himself - Netherfield has perhaps the most beautiful property in the whole county.
He never stays out for long, anyway, always conscious of Brendon sick and locked up in his room, or the possibility of running into some of the house’s less pleasant occupants. Vanek, thankfully, he never has to see outside of the dreaded evening meals, but Ross has picked up an odd habit of springing out when Spencer least expects him, and engaging Spencer in two or three minutes of stilted, cold conversation. Sometimes, Spencer thinks that what Ross needs more than anything is for someone to punch him in the face, and startle his distant manners right out of him. Spencer would volunteer quite cheerfully for the job.
He spends a lot of time thinking (somewhat guiltily, knowing exactly what kind of unhappy face Brendon would make at such thoughts) that Jon couldn’t possibly be worth the company of people such as these, but then he talks with Jon for a little, or watches Jon talk to Brendon, and is forced to swallow his own words. Nevertheless, he can’t pretend it is anything but a relief when Brendon’s fever comes down, when Brendon can sleep through a whole night peacefully again, his sore throat and aching head fading to a hollow cough.
Spencer sends for the carriage to pick them up by a carefully phrased letter, not wanting his family to descend in full force upon the household again. The coach arrives mercifully empty around midday, and Brendon and Spencer troop downstairs to say their goodbyes.
Jon, Spencer notes with amusement as they walk out to the waiting carriage, looks somewhat put out, if not a little sulky, by this turn of events. Brendon, though, is restored to his cheerful self, chattering brightly and beaming at Jon every time Jon turns to look at him, and it’s kind of impossible to be unhappy straight to Brendon’s face when the full force of his charm is turned upon you.
At the carriage, Brendon’s smile dims a little, as if it has only just now dawned upon him that in order to return home he’s also going to have to leave Jon. Spencer rolls his eyes a little but understands when Brendon turns to smile politely at Vanek first, and then Ross (he even smiles brightly at Ross. Spencer actually sees the other man blink a little in confusion, and thinks that probably Ross isn’t used to nice people). Spencer looks away when Brendon turns back to Jon; sees Brendon’s hands shoved uneasily in his pockets and knows that Brendon wants to hug Jon but can’t.
“Thank you for your company,” Spencer says, with a frosty smile to Vanek. “I’ve had a most entertaining time.”
“And you yours,” she says, equally cold. When Spencer turns around to bow to Ross, he looks like he’s half-smiling, and Spencer bristles.
“Mr Ross,” he says frigidly and bows.
“Mr Smith,” Ross answers.
Spencer shakes Jon’s hand and smiles warmly at him. “Thanks,” he says, and Jon waves it away with an easy hand.
“Come back soon,” he says.
“The ball’s in a few days, is it not? I’ll see you then.” Spencer grins and adds, “Let’s hope Brendon’s up to dancing.”
“I’m always up to dancing,” Brendon says cheerfully from where he’s been settled in the coach, a rug wrapped around his thin shoulders.
“I’ll hold you to that, I warn you,” Jon tells him.
“I hope so,” Brendon says, and looks up at Jon through his eyelashes, the corner of his mouth curving up into a smile. Jon actually takes a step back, looking bewildered, and Spencer grins and turns away.
Perhaps in a finally act of public humiliation that is necessary for closure to the whole damn awkward stay at Netherfield, he stumbles a little climbing into the carriage. He barely has time to think, though, before there is a warm hand at his waist, steadying him and helping him up.
Spencer turns and looks over his shoulders, eyes huge and confused, but Ross is already walking away.
*
Brendon may be well enough to go home, but Spencer suspects he is still a little under the weather; he dozes off a little way out of Netherfield, lulled by the steady rhythm of the horse and coach, and sleeps the whole half hour it takes to get home. Spencer tucks the blanket around him so that he doesn’t get cold and then sits back on his seat, closes his eyes. He doesn’t sleep, but he can feel the oppressiveness of continually being around Ross and Vanek and having to watch one’s manners and behavior always slipping away from him, and the air on the way home is clean and cool.
He shakes Brendon awake when they pull onto their road, and Brendon blinks with sleepy surprise at Longbourn looming up in front of him. “I could swear I only closed my eyes for a second,” he murmurs, and then he climbs out of the coach and is promptly jumped upon by all of Spencer’s younger sisters.
About half of them detach themselves to cling to Spencer once he disembarks, too, and the coachman shakes the reins of the horse and takes it off to the stable. “It’s been so boring here without you two,” Elinor says, and in a rare show of genuine affection Anne presses a warm kiss to his cheek. Spencer grins down at them both.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get inside, and you can tell me what you’ve all been up to.”
“Oh,” Marianne says, releasing Brendon from her tight grip. “We’ve got to tell you about The Cousin.”
The capitals in her voice are clearly audible, and Spencer grimaces, knowing exactly what cousin she is talking about, despite the fact that both Mr and Mrs Smith have plenty of siblings, each with plenty offspring of their own. To allow for doubts, he raises an eyebrow, and Anne nods, directing a dark glare at the ground.
Spencer’s grandfather was a strange, difficult old man, particularly towards his later days, and was hardly satisfied with anything any one of his children were doing. Spencer’s father though, as the oldest of the children, caused his father’s particular anger when he married Spencer’s mother, who was not considered a wise match (Mrs Smith, Spencer had realized with affection over the years, had always been as she was now; a warm-hearted but small-minded, gossipy, nosy woman).
As a result, Spencer’s grandfather had written a vicious clause into his will that dictated that none of Mr Smith’s children were to inherit Longbourn after the event of Mr Smith’s death, and that instead it was to pass to one of his younger brother’s sons. His brother, once a pastor and now long since dead, had only one son, a Frank Iero, whom Spencer had never met.
“Well?” Spencer asks grimacing, as they walk towards the house, Brendon listening curiously. “What about The Cousin?”
“He sent a letter this morning,” Anne informs him gravely. “He’s coming to stay. He’ll be here by tomorrow evening.”
“Mother says he’s going to size up the property,” Elinor adds, a little tearfully. “And decide which of us he’ll keep on as servants! Mother says we must be careful of our virtue, and-”
“Oh, shut it,” Spencer says impatiently. “He’s going to inherit the house, not us. And I’m sure he’s a gentleman, no matter what Mother’s hysterical diatribes have led you to believe.” He pauses and then adds, a trifle bitterly, “It’s not his fault, anyway.”
“It is strange,” Brendon points out. “And a little rude, too, to thrust yourself so abruptly upon people’s hospitality.”
“I don’t think we can really call judgment on that just now,” Spencer says dryly, and Brendon giggles.
“Whatever happens,” Brendon says, “we’ll be polite. That’s what we always do, right?”
“Being polite is boring,” Marianne says.
“I suppose that’s why you’re not very good at it,” Spencer says casually, and is immediately tackled by an indignant sixteen year old. He laughs and pulls her into a headlock, rubbing his knuckles into her scalp while she yelps for mercy, and suddenly they’re all involved, Elinor climbing onto Brendon’s back and clinging there, no matter how he tosses and tries to buck her off, Anne a little wary at first until Marianne trips her up and she has to wreak revenge. They tumble into the house in a pile of flailing limbs, considerably muddy despite the short walk up the pathway, out of breath with bright eyes (and Brendon looks a little pale again, Spencer thinks absently, making a note to hustle him up to rest as soon as possible).
“Well,” Mr Smith says wryly, looking up from his paper. “Welcome home, boys.”
_______________
Chapter 3
Ryan/Spencer, Brendon/Jon
PG-13
77'000 words.
Written by softlyforgotten and zarah5v2.
================
A Most Brilliant Dance
Chapter 2
_________
Monsters - Band of Horses
Spencer loves Hertfordshire when the rising sun bathes its roofs in golden morning light, grass glittering from residual dew, the world still quiet as it wakes up to a new day. When he makes it back to Longbourn, the house is already alive with voices. Someone’s playing the pianoforte, most likely Brendon judging by the effortless flow of notes, but it seems a little looser than usual, Brendon making it up as he goes along.
The music cuts off abruptly to the excited sound of their mother’s voice. Spencer quickens his steps. He stayed out longer than he intended anyway, and chances are he’ll already be berated for missing breakfast.
Upon entering the living room, however, his mother merely bestows a bright smile upon him. “Oh, there you are,” she says, but there’s no reproach in her tone. Spencer isn’t sure he’s relieved or unsettled. He quirks his lips at Brendon, who remains sitting on the piano stool and spreads his hands in front of him, shrugging with a sheepishly pleased look in his eyes.
“Guess what just came from Netherfield,” Mrs Smith crows. She grabs a sheet from the table beside the pianoforte and hurries towards Spencer.
“The announcement that Mr Walker is going to marry Mr Ross, and we’re kindly invited to the wedding?” Spencer suggests, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
Brendon hides his grin behind one hand. “I hear they sent a carriage to bring a confectioner in from London, for the cakes,” he says. It sounds faintly choked with laughter.
“Mr Walker, marry Mr Ross!” Mrs Smith exclaims, as if the mere thought personally offends her. “I don’t want to hear anymore of this madness. No, Spencer, look at this.” She continues before Spencer actually has a chance to look at whatever it is she’s waving at him. “It’s an invitation. For Brendon. Apparently, Mr Walker was so enchanted with him that he wants Brendon to join them for dinner.”
“Mother,” Brendon says quickly. He can’t quite hide the blush that spreads from his ears down to his cheeks, though.
“Brendon, that’s wonderful,” Spencer says, and means it.
“You have to help him choose his clothes,” Mrs Smith says. “You know he’ll just put on what he’s most comfortable with otherwise, and I will not tolerate it.”
“Of course,” Spencer says. “In fact…” He reaches for Brendon’s hand, and Brendon allows Spencer to pull him to his feet. “In fact, we’re going to take a look at his clothes right now.”
“Nothing too colorful,” she calls after them. “We want him to look like a gentleman!” But they’re halfway up the stairs already, Brendon half a step behind Spencer as they enter their room and close the door with an audible click, echoing down the corridor.
“So,” Spencer says.
Brendon grins back. “So,” he says.
Spencer sits down on their bed, the mattress giving a little beneath his weight. It’s grown soft and tired over the years. “So, Mr Walker is still engaging and really nice, I take it?” he asks, then shakes his head. “Oh, wait, I forgot. It’s Jon, isn’t it?”
“Shut up,” Brendon says, but his grin doesn’t waver as he flops down on the bed next to Spencer, unselfconsciously and yet oddly graceful. Sometimes, Spencer envies his ease and cheerful disposition; Spencer is usually too aware of other people’s eyes on him to move as freely as Brendon does. “You know,” Brendon speaks right into his thoughts. “It would be even better if you could come with me.”
“And risk spending an evening seated beside the charming Mr Ross, striving to make light-hearted conversation?” Spencer asks wryly. “Thanks, but I’d rather not.”
“Wonder what he’d consider to be a conversation topic worthy of his time,” Brendon says. He crosses his arms behind his head, gazing up at the ceiling. Light pours in through the window, turning his eyes a warm chocolate brown, and Spencer is hit with a sudden burst of affection for him. He lies down beside Brendon, propping himself up on one elbow.
If Walker really is as taken with Brendon as Spencer thinks he is, Spencer is going to miss having him around at all times. At least Netherfield isn’t very far.
“I’m sure he thinks himself very profound,” Spencer replies; slightly belated, but Brendon doesn’t call him on it. “He’s probably read all of Thomas Hobbes’ works and has very clever ideas about it.”
“You have read most of Hobbes’ work,” Brendon says.
“That’s different,” Spencer says.
Brendon lets his head fall to the side, hair a mess on the bedspread. “Really,” he says, dripping sarcasm. Spencer thinks it might have been a mistake to teach Brendon how to let his words say one thing, and his tone the other.
“Really,” he confirms. “Because I read it out of curiosity, and not to prove anything to anyone.”
“Right,” Brendon says. His voice takes on a dreamy quality, a hint of mischief in his eyes as he adds, “You know, Brendon, I really do think current politics place too little emphasis on the consent of the governed. It really should be a sovereign’s primary concern, shouldn’t it?”
“That’s not Hobbes,” Spencer corrects. “It’s John Locke.”
“Your point being?” Brendon stretches his arms above his head, still comfortably sprawled on the bed. When Spencer doesn’t reply, Brendon laughs brightly. “Maybe Mr Ross and you would have a range of profound ideas to discuss, after all.”
“Certainly,” Spencer says. “As soon as he acquires a new personality.”
Sunlight tangles in Brendon’s hair, lighting his eyes. “I take it you’re not complaining about his looks, then.”
Spencer decides to ignore him.
*
For all that the twins could hardly shut up about the two wealthy, good-looking men moving into Netherfield a mere two days earlier, they are easily distracted by the news of a regiment of soldiers to be stationed in Hertfordshire. Many young, potentially handsome men clearly are an improvement to only two, especially considering one already seems to have expressed a certain amount of interest in Brendon’s company.
Spencer mostly tries to block their excited chatter, but he doesn’t quite succeed. He gives up when he finds that he has started reading the same page three times over, places the book face down on the wooden bench below the kitchen window, and goes inside to find Brendon. Hopefully, their mother will have stopped fussing over Brendon’s new haircut by now.
“I’ll look like an idiot arriving by horse,” Brendon protests when Spencer finds him and Mrs Smith in the dining room. His lower lip is set in a pout, a habit Spencer tends to mock mercilessly, but Brendon seems genuinely unhappy as he frowns at their mother, then turns to Mr Smith. His expression is pleading. “Father, can’t I take the carriage? Please?”
“We need it on the fields today,” Mrs Smith answers in his stead. Mr Smith sighs tiredly, winks at Spencer and turns a page of his newspaper.
“You want him to go on horseback?” Spencer clarifies.
“It will be perfectly fine, just you wait,” Mrs Smith says. She sounds vaguely satisfied with herself. Spencer holds Brendon’s eyes for a moment, but once their mother has made up her mind, nothing short of a miracle will stop her. He shrugs and glances outside. Through the small windows, he can see only a small stretch of the sky but what he sees is covered by dark clouds, grey and heavy.
*
The letter comes late that evening, delivered by a drenched messenger who stops for a cup of tea in the servant’s quarters to dry off. It’s been raining steadily for hours now, since Brendon left, and Spencer rips open the letter impatiently and scans through it as fast as he can, leveling a glare at his mother once he’s done.
“Sick,” he pronounces. “Brendon’s sick. Thankfully, Mr Walker has offered to look after him until the worst of his fever is over. Mr Walker thinks it would be unwise to move him before then.”
Mrs Smith smiles beatifically. “Poor child,” she says. “Still, he will be in far better comfort there than he would be at home-”
“Don’t you dare,” Spencer hisses, suddenly furious. “Don’t try and pretend like you didn’t plan this all along, like-”
“Darling, I can hardly control the weather,” she protests, but there is the same self-satisfied glint in her eye that Spencer recognized earlier. “I simply think that this will be a marvelous way for them to further get to know each other-”
“He’s ill,” Spencer snaps. “Bad headache, sore throat, fe-”
“Oh, Spencer, really,” Mrs Smith says. “He’s got a cold. Stop being so dramatic.”
Spencer glares at her. “You’re a vicious old schemer,” he says, and Mrs Smith rolls her eyes. Spencer sighs and throws the letter on the table.
“I’m going to get an early night’s sleep,” Spencer says. “I shall go to Netherfield first thing in the morning.”
*
He sets out later than he had hoped; it’s a little after nine by the time he escapes from Longbourn, and the sun is bright and warm on the drying landscape. It’s a nice day, warm and pleasant, and the more Spencer thinks about it, the less he is in a hurry, so he decides to walk rather than ride. It’s nice, too, to have an actual excuse to walk for a mile or so over the fields and not be scolded for lazily idling away the hours. Spencer shoves his hands in his pockets and hums old songs to himself as he walks, and only half-wishes that he had Brendon to sing rounds or talk with.
His trousers start to get rather muddy, the countryside still wet with yesterday’s downpour, but Spencer can’t seem to feel worried about anything in particular today. He’ll spend as little time with the masters of the house as possible, he reasons, and Brendon won’t care about the state of his clothing, anyway. He bites his lip at that thought; Brendon is friendly and gets on well with strangers, but even so he must be feeling a little out of sorts by having forced his company on the house. On top of this, Brendon is a kind of clingy patient, and Spencer’s not sure what he’ll do without someone to lie beside him and rub his back. Spencer hopes with sudden vehemence that Ross hasn’t been around Brendon - if he has, Spencer’s sure the other man’s been unpleasant and, well, ten thousand a year or not, Spencer’s not adverse to slipping something nasty in Ross’s meal.
It’s almost ironic, really, that it’s with this dour thought that he rounds a corner of the path and slams straight into someone, hard enough to knock the breath out of him and to make him lose his balance. He flails for a moment before hands clasp firmly at his shoulders, steadying him, and Ross blinks down at him in confused silence.
“Oh,” Spencer says, stepping backwards hastily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. Uh.”
“Mr Smith,” Ross says, quietly, and bows a little. Spencer flushes red and bows back; trust Ross to bring to attention his lack of propriety.
“Are you here to see your friend?” Ross asks.
“Yes,” Spencer says. “If it’s not too much trouble.” He stops, and Ross regards him impassively, apparently having nothing to say to that. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, “Would you be so kind as to give me directions to Brendon’s room?”
“I’ll show you,” Ross says, and turns abruptly, starting off towards Netherfield. Spencer stands still for a moment, staring at Ross’s back, but after a second Ross looks over his shoulder, face blank, and Spencer hurries to catch up with him. Ross walks with slow, easy strides but he moves surprisingly quickly and Spencer feels a little stupid, trotting alongside him.
They walk in uncomfortable silence; Ross keeps his face ahead to the house and Spencer sneaks sideway glances at him. The silence seems even more pointed with the rustle of their boots in the long grass and the birds singing and the low mooing of cows nearby, and finally Spencer searches for something to say and blurts out, “I hope I didn’t disturb you, just now.”
Ross looks at him with a faintly surprised expression. “No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
Spencer nods, feeling even more like an idiot, and falls vengefully silent. Damn Ross and his priggy, snobby manners, he thinks. He hopes, for Brendon’s sake and for his own, that Walker doesn’t spend too much time with his friend.
He looks at Ross again almost by accident, but Ross’s face is as composed as ever, hands clasped behind his back, face turned just slightly up to the sky.
*
Brendon is propped up on pillows when Spencer appears in the doorway, looking pale with a hoarse cough that makes him double up in two every few minutes, but his eyes are bright and his smile is taking up most of his face. Spencer suspects this might have to do with the fact that Jon Walker is sitting beside his bed, waving his hands around and making strange faces.
“Um,” Spencer says, but he smiles and when Brendon looks up he beams even more, if that’s possible.
“Spence!” Brendon exclaims. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” Spencer says. “And stay, for a little while, if that’s-”
“Stay as long as you need,” Jon says comfortably, getting to his feet. “I’m sure it’ll be good for Brendon to have some family close. I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Bye,” Brendon says, eyes following Jon to the door, and Spencer grins and ducks his head, echoes Brendon’s goodbye. Jon closes the door carefully behind him and Spencer looks at Brendon, raises an eyebrow. Brendon goes bright red. “Shut up,” he says, and Spencer laughs. Brendon giggles for a moment, but then he starts coughing again and Spencer moves to the side of the bed, climbs on next to him and combs his hand through Brendon’s hair lightly until Brendon can breathe properly again.
“Urgh,” Brendon says, making a face. “You shouldn’t come so close, Spence, I’ll breathe sick germs all over you.”
“I’ll survive,” Spencer says. “Not everyone tumbles into the closest bed at the slightest hint of the sniffles, you know.” Brendon raises a weak fist to thump Spencer lightly in the arm and Spencer settles down next to him comfortably, loops an arm behind Brendon’s shoulders.
“So is everyone treating you kindly?” Spencer asks. “Do you need me to stage a rescue mission?”
“I’m fine,” Brendon says, sinking back slightly, turning his face towards Spencer. Spencer bites his lip; Brendon does look really sick, pale and sweaty and there are dark bags under his eyes. “Everyone’s being very nice. The servants are all very friendly, and Jon keeps me company.”
“How generous of him,” Spencer says dryly, and Brendon turns pink.
“What’s going on at home?” Brendon asks, and Spencer doesn’t mention that Brendon hasn’t been gone a full day yet, because he knows Brendon gets homesick strangely fast. Instead, he talks about the twins’ excitement over the arrival of the militia, and how one of the maids accidentally dyed one of Mr Smith’s shirts bright pink this morning, when it somehow got slipped in with a pile of ribbons. He’s just talking about the Francis Bacon book he ordered a while ago that should be arriving any day now when a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye makes him look up.
“What is it?” Brendon enquires, and Spencer frowns, staring through the slight space where the door is ajar to the brightly lit corridor outside Brendon’s room.
He shakes his head, and does not mention how he is almost sure he saw Ross’s lean form standing at the doorway for a moment.
*
Brendon doesn’t look well. He’s not quite as sad and miserable as he usually is when sick, but Spencer suspects that might have plenty to do with Walker’s lengthy visit earlier that afternoon, and little to do with the actual state of Brendon’s health.
He spends a good part of the day sleeping, curled in on himself with occasional shudders trembling through his body. Spencer leaves his side only once, in order to fetch a basin of fresh water. The trip ends in him wandering through a maze of marble hallways, utterly lost as he passes painting after painting until he runs into a light-blonde haired woman in expensive clothes. Spencer doesn’t miss her disdainful glance at the stained bottoms of his pants.
When she introduces herself as Walker’s cousin Jac Vanek, he can’t help but hope that Brendon won’t have to spend too much time around these people. Given time, their haughtiness might rub off even on someone as unpretentious at Brendon.
But then, Walker seems perfectly nice and untainted. Brendon just might escape unscathed.
Miss Vanek smiles, if a little thinly. “Why didn’t you just send a servant for fresh water?”
Of course, Spencer thinks. That’s probably the way all errands are handled in this house; he should have thought of it. Rather than admit as much out loud, Spencer returns her smile, and he manages to maintain his grip on it even as Ross chooses that moment to emerge from the same room Miss Vanek just left. “Mr Ross,” Spencer greets, bowing in Ross’s direction. Ross returns the gesture and steps up beside Vanek, turning a feather-adorned hat over in his hands.
Due to his momentary distraction, Spencer remembers to answers Vanek’s question slightly belatedly. “I felt like stretching my legs for a moment, so I thought I might as well do it myself.”
“How is your friend doing?” Ross asks, unexpectedly. He doesn’t sound as if he particularly cares, but Spencer appreciates the sentiment for the effort it probably took.
“Oh, yes,” Vanek inserts quickly, leaning forward. “Dear Brendon, is he feeling any better? I did not have a chance to visit him today, though I sat with him for nearly an hour yesterday.” Spencer looks at her, trying to hide his surprise. She doesn’t really seem to be the type to play mother to a sick person who’s basically a stranger to her. Then he catches the covert look she gives Ross from beneath lowered lashes, seeking approval, and all right, that makes more sense.
Although Spencer seriously doubts she’ll win herself any points with Ross by displaying any kind of soft-heartedness. But then, who is he to judge other people’s mating dances.
“His condition has hardly improved since this morning,” Spencer tells them, although he speaks mostly to Ross. “I’m afraid we’ll have to trespass on your hospitality a while longer.”
“I take it you’ll want to stay with him to make personally sure he’s recovering well?” Ross asks. It could be a trick question for all that Spencer can tell; neither Ross’s tone nor his face give any indication as to whether he’s implying that Spencer might doubt their capability to look after Brendon. Or as to whether Ross would prefer if at least Spencer left as soon as possible. A glance at Vanek doesn’t clear things up. Despite assumedly knowing Ross for quite some time, she seems just as out of her depth as Spencer.
It’s Ross, though. So Spencer goes with the assumption that yes, Ross is implying both bad manners on Spencer’s part as well as wishing him out of the house, and preferably yesterday.
He smiles and knows it’ll look fake. “I’d rather stay with him, yes. I’m sure you’d be perfectly able to care for his well-being, but it’s always better to have family around. Besides,” he pauses and lifts his shoulders. “You probably have more important things to do than waste your time on idle conversations.”
A brief frown passes over Ross’s face before he smoothes it over. “Um, yes, I suppose so,” he says, already turning to leave. Over his shoulder, he adds, “Well, Jon already assured you that you and your friend are welcome to stay as long as it takes for him to return to full health. I’m assuming I’ll see you at dinner then, Mr Smith.”
Spencer didn’t plan on attending. He’s too surprised to come up with a good excuse, however. “I don’t think I’ll have anything appropriate to wear,” is all that he manages to think of.
“That won’t be a problem,” Vanek says, just as Ross pauses and turns. Her smile is verging on insulting. “We’ll just have one of the servants set out something for you. It might not be quite up to your usual standards, but it will be clean, at the very least.”
Spencer sketches a bow and bites his tongue to hold back a sharp retort. He’s surprised to find that Ross gives Vanek the same hard look Spencer remembers from their first meeting.
As far as Spencer is concerned, Ross and Vanek are perfectly matched. Apparently, Ross doesn’t quite share this sentiment, but then, maybe Vanek doesn’t have anything to say that he considers worth his while.
*
Spencer closes the door to Brendon’s room with his hip, careful not to spill any water from the basin he balances in his hands. Brendon looks up at his entrance, smiling weakly in greeting.
“There are some seriously strange people in this house,” Spencer tells him.
“I hope you don’t consider me one of them,” Walker says, looking up from an armchair near the window, and Spencer didn’t see him. He curses inwardly at his own carelessness and hopes his mother will never hear about him accidentally slighting his host. There’s a book in Walker’s lap, opened to the third page. It seems that he and Brendon had more interesting things to talk about.
For the second time that day, Spencer nearly forgets his manners. He bows unsteadily, the basin in his hands swaying. Since Walker remains seated, the answering bow looks cheerfully awkward.
“Certainly not, Mr Walker,” Spencer finally manages to reply. “I was merely talking about one of your servants.” He prays that he isn’t blushing. He thinks he might be, though, and turns away to set the basin down on Brendon’s bedside table.
“One of my servants, really.” Walker’s tone is amused, and Spencer is pretty sure that he doesn’t believe a word. “Well, be that as it may. I’m surprised to find that you’re still addressing me by my last name. Didn’t we agree on first names already? I’d rather not be confused with my father, if you please.”
“We didn’t, actually,” Spencer says. He has a feeling Walker’s forgetfulness might have something to do with the distraction Brendon clearly poses for him.
“Oh. All right.” Walker places the book on the windowsill and gets to his feet, grinning at Spencer with just a short sideways glance at Brendon. “Well then,” Walker says. “I’m Jon.”
“Spencer,” Spencer says. Just then, Brendon is attacked by another coughing fit, doubling over, his eyes squeezed shut. Sweat is gleaming on his brow, and when Spencer places a hand on his forehead to feel his temperature, he almost starts. He would love to put some distance between himself and some of the mansion’s more unpleasant occupants, but there is no doubt in his mind that Brendon won’t be fit for transportation anytime soon.
Spencer exhales slowly and wets a piece of cloth, wiping Brendon’s face while Walker-while Jon stands at the side of the bed, shifting his weight, clearly wanting to help but not knowing how. Spencer has mostly forgiven him for his unfortunate choice in a best friend. Anyone who makes Brendon smile this toothily, despite his obvious discomfort, is fine with Spencer.
A servant calls Jon away not too long after that, and Spencer sits down on the edge of Brendon’s bed. “All right,” he says. He spreads his hands flat on the bedspread and grins at Brendon. “I give. He’s perfect.”
“Yes.” Brendon nods, then has to fight another cough. “Yes, he is,” he repeats as soon as he can speak again, voice hoarse. “So, what kind of strange people did you run into?”
“No one important,” Spencer says. He means it.
*
A maid brings up a neatly folded pile of clothes for him later that evening, as promised, and Brendon watches and laughs weakly as Spencer makes a face at her retreating back.
“It’s not her fault,” Brendon says.
“I don’t see why they even want me to eat with them,” Spencer grumbles, pulling off his muddy clothes. “They couldn’t make their dislike of us clearer if they tried.” Brendon looks crestfallen and Spencer sighs. “Jon excluded, Brendon, come on. I think the only reason your Mr Walker begrudges my visit is that I take up so much of your time.”
“Okay,” Brendon says, sounding doubtful. Spencer rolls his eyes and pulls the shirt on over his head, buttons it up. Brendon can be hard to convince of something when he’s trying to be careful, and Spencer’s not going to engage in an argument now when Brendon will inevitably pull the ‘I’m sick, you should be nice to me’ card.
Instead he shifts his shoulders a little while he buttons his vest, grimacing. The shirt is just a little tight across his shoulders, the pants a little short, but hopefully nothing that they will notice. Still, Spencer feels a little bit like he’s about to go down and face some terrible ordeal, and he makes a face at himself in the mirror, adjusting his cuffs. In the background, he can see Brendon watching him with amused eyes, but Brendon doesn’t say anything and Spencer doesn’t challenge him, just pushes his hands through his hair in a futile attempt to make it lie flat.
“God,” he says, sniffing at the sleeve of his shirt. “Their clothes even smell rich.”
“You’re a snob,” Brendon says comfortably.
“Probably,” Spencer admits, “but the better kind. Not like them.”
“What, them, the denizens of hell?” Brendon asks, mouth twitching.
“You’re no comfort at all,” Spencer tells him crossly, but he crosses over to smooth Brendon’s hair back and touch his cheek lightly before he heads downstairs.
Brendon blinks up at him, smiles sleepily and says, “You’ll do fine.”
*
Spencer is not, thankfully, the last person into the dining room; when he gets there, Jon and Vanek are waiting but Ross is nowhere to be seen. He hesitates a little awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, until Jon catches sight of him and walks forward to lead him into the room and launch into a very funny story about falling off his horse when they were vacationing last year in France.
Jon’s amusing and easy to talk to, and Spencer feels at ease almost immediately, despite Vanek’s slightly disdainful gaze whenever she looks at him. After about fifteen minutes, though, he’s wondering when dinner’s going to be served, when he’s going to be able to get back up to Brendon, and Jon looks at the clock on the wall and sighs.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I’d best go and find Ryan. He loses track of the time, sometimes.” Spencer has trouble for a moment, struggling to think who Ryan is and then he realizes with a startled, soft laugh that Jon means Ross. He looks up, half-smiling at his own foolishness, to see Vanek watching him with her pretty nose slightly crinkled.
He smiles politely at her and asks, “How are you enjoying Hertfordshire, Miss Vanek?”
“It certainly is very, ah, interesting,” she says, and Spencer does his best not to snarl at her.
He offers another tight smile, instead. “I always find a change of scenery to be very diverting. Good for one’s health, too.”
“For a short time, perhaps,” she answers, sounding bored. Spencer stares at the floor and Vanek turns away, drums her fingernails against the armrest of a chair. In the light of the room, she looks hard and brittle and old, even though she can’t be much older than Spencer. She looks experienced and Spencer feels like he might as well have small bits of hay wound in his hair. He exhales (too loudly; Vanek flicks an amused glance at him) and fiddles with a lock of hair that won’t sit properly.
Finally, thank God, Jon comes back with Ross trailing behind him. Ross’s face is blank, as usual, and Spencer thinks it must be awfully boring to be friends with him, and turns his face away so that no one sees his smirk. When he looks back at the group, though, Ross is watching him, but when Spencer looks straight at him Ross lifts one shoulder in a shrug and turns away.
Dinner is served, the food richer and more varied than Spencer has even seen before. Even Sir Beckett can’t boast of meals like this, and Spencer tries not to look too awed. Jon and Vanek talk about people back in London, and Vanek spends at least twenty minutes reminiscing about a party hosted by people Spencer has never heard of for people he had never heard of. He’d feel more awkward, except Jon catches his eye and winks at him and Spencer has to duck his head so that he doesn’t giggle too obviously.
Ross doesn’t say much at all, despite Vanek’s continuous attempts to draw him into conversation; he spends a lot of time gazing out the window and he eats slowly, looking faraway from the company present. Spencer even thinks he hears Ross humming at one point, but he dismisses it as stupid; Ross is too concerned about appearing well-bred to do anything as strange as that, Spencer figures.
He manages to escape the evening mostly without incident, but eventually Vanek says, “We’ll make up a spare bedroom for you, Mr Smith. It may be a little musty, but you didn’t give us much notice. I hope it will suffice.” She raises one slight, perfectly shaped eyebrow at him, and Spencer feels a knot of dislike form in his stomach. He forces himself to answer politely, though; Brendon would probably be upset, he reminds himself, if Spencer insulted Jon’s family.
“You needn’t trouble yourselves, thank you,” Spencer says. “Brendon and I are used to sharing, and I’d prefer to stay with him while he’s ill.”
He realizes a little too late what he’s said; Ross is staring at him, and Vanek smothers her smile with a serviette. Only Jon seems unconcerned, spooning up a little more of the apricot tart. Spencer can feel his cheeks going pink even before Vanek speaks again.
“You share a bed?” she asks.
“My parents adopted Brendon when we were very young,” Spencer says, quietly. “I consider him in all but blood my brother.”
“Of course,” Vanek drawls. “I’m sure many of the families round here do such things. Houses do seem to be a little on the small side.” She pauses and then adds, “How charmingly… provincial.”
Spencer stares at his hands on the table and counts in his head, but he thinks he probably sounds a little sulky when he looks up, forces a smile and says, “Excuse me, I think I might go to bed. It’s been a long day.”
He stands up, and it’s all too clear that he’s leaving because of Vanek. Probably they usually sit around and talk about their snobby friends for hours, he thinks miserably, and here he is going to bed just before nine. Jon looks kind of disheartened, and Spencer feels guilty.
There’s a scraping sound, though, and he looks over to see Ross standing, too. Ross is almost smiling; there is a softness to his face when he looks at Jon, anyway. “Me, too,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jon. Miss Vanek. Mr Smith.”
Spencer nods his head and repeats the same goodbyes, then turns to walk after the door. As he does, Vanek looks straight at him and drawls, either oblivious to or enjoying Spencer’s crimson face, “Why, Mr Smith, I can see your ankles. Those trousers are very short.”
“Yes,” Ross says out of nowhere, looking back over his shoulder. “He’s a fair bit taller than me, after all.”
Spencer blinks, astonished, and Ross holds the door open, waiting patiently. When Spencer walks past, he recognizes with a start the scent of the clothes he is wearing.
“Good night,” Ross says.
*
Brendon is sleeping when Spencer gets back and Spencer is unfairly glad; he doesn’t really feel like dealing with Brendon’s questions right now. He strips off his clothes almost viciously, but ends up draping them neatly over a chair - they’re not his, after all. He blows out all but one of the candles and crawls in next to Brendon, and he’s almost glad for Brendon’s illness, because Spencer’s freezing and Brendon is boiling hot against him.
He presses his cheek to Brendon’s back and tries to go to sleep without much success. The shadows cast by the flickering wick seem ominous, and when Spencer twists to a certain angle he catches sight of blurry shapes in the mirror and it always gives him a shock. He keeps thinking about Vanek and the way she had stared at him, and he hates that these people are making him feel worthless.
After a little while, Brendon stirs and mumbles, voice thick with sleep, “How was dinner?”
Spencer laughs roughly. “Weird,” he says. “This house is strange, Brendon. Get better soon.”
*
Brendon doesn’t look much better the next morning. He’s still too pale, too tired, still doesn’t feel like eating more than a few bites. The doctor assures them that the fever has gone down considerably, though, so Spencer feels confident enough to leave Brendon and Jon alone for a while. The room was starting to feel suffocating anyway.
He intends to wander the gardens for a while, but on his way to the main staircase, he passes a room in which a huge piano resides. He’s not Brendon; the sight of a beautiful music instrument doesn’t make his fingers itch with desire. He can still appreciate the polished black wood, however, reflecting the blue of the sky outside. It is appealing.
When he crosses the room, a board creaks under his shoes, and he almost feels like a small child sneaking around in places he shouldn’t be. The piano bench is slightly too tall for him, making him have to bend down at an awkward angle. It’ll be perfect for Brendon, Spencer thinks as he arranges his fingers on the shining keys.
He needs a moment to remember how to play before the notes come to him and he starts in on an easy, light-hearted piece Brendon taught him years ago, as a good way to warm up his hands. Spencer hasn’t been playing much lately, stumbling a little over some of the melody, but the piano still makes his playing sound better than it ever did at home. The notes float clear and perfect up into the air, lingering near the window for a moment before they escape into the late morning.
Spencer didn’t hear any movement, so when he finishes the song and looks up to find Ross standing in the doorway, he has to suppress a jerk of surprise. A jerk of surprise. No, really. He’s sure Ross would have found it as charmingly provincial as Vanek - just another thing to add to their list of reasons why Spencer and Brendon don’t fit into their social circle.
Spencer inclines his head briefly, and Ross does the same, taking a step into the room. “You play?” he asks. There’s a faint note of surprise in his eyes, although it makes room for indifference almost instantly.
“Not as well as Brendon does,” Spencer says. He places his hands lightly on his thighs, not trusting his own control enough to rest them anywhere near the keys. He’s uncomfortably aware that the sitting position pulls his pants - Ross’s pants, really - far enough up to reveal his ankles.
“Oh.” Ross nods and comes further into the room, stepping up to gaze out of the window. His back is a perfectly straight line, and Spencer wonders what he’s even doing here. “I always found that Jon’s piano here is quite forgiving of small imperfections,” Ross says, after a moment of silence.
“You play?” Spencer echoes Ross’s earlier question, trying to infuse it with the same tone of blasé surprise Ross has apparently perfected to an art form.
There might be the faintest smile twisting the corners of Ross’s mouth. “Not as well as some of my friends do,” he says. “I prefer the guitar, myself.”
This time, Spencer really does have to hide his surprise. While playing the piano is considered somewhat of a requirement for anyone moving in higher social circles, playing the guitar certainly isn’t. It doesn’t seem to suit someone as concerned with outward appearances as Ross clearly is. Which only serves to convince Spencer further of how strange this house is.
God, he can’t wait to get out of here. It will be a comfort not to have to watch his steps quite so carefully anymore, always cautious of running into yet another social trap.
“Anyway,” Ross says, turning away from the window, and Spencer realizes that he’s been silent for too long. Ross’s hands are laced behind his back, his face as unreadable as ever. “I see your whole family arrived to make sure Mr Urie is in capable hands, so I suppose you’ll want to meet them as soon as possible.”
“What?” Spencer says, blinking a little stupidly.
A smile flits over Ross’s face, most likely in silent mockery. “I just observed the arrival of their carriage,” he says. “They all seem very excited to be here.”
Spencer bites down on his desire to mutter a curse. He rises quickly, hoping to intercept his family before they can voice any truly embarrassing opinions, also before the twins start talking about how nice the officers are, and look, this ribbon here, one of the officers bought it for them, isn’t it just lovely? Please, God, no.
It’s not as if Vanek needed any more reasons to look down upon them. How wonderful, being able to count on one’s family to make a bad impression.
“Excuse me,” Spencer says. “I guess I’d better go meet them and lead them straight to Brendon’s room.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” Ross says. Unexpectedly, he falls into step beside Spencer, and Spencer thinks about asking him not to come along, but there’s really no polite way to do that. Besides, there really isn’t much hope that Ross would be willing to miss out on Spencer’s inevitable discomfort at having his family trail the hallways of Netherfield, wide-eyed and… charmingly provincial, indeed.
Spencer loves his family, he does. But sometimes, he wishes his father would take upon himself the effort of reigning both the twins and his mother in when the situation really called for it. If any of them spoil Brendon’s chances at happiness, Spencer will find a way to make them regret it. Hopefully.
*
Mrs Smith is wearing her best hat and a wide smile, glancing around the dining room in obvious awe. The twins aren’t much better, while Anne’s face rivals Ross’s in its expression of being utterly unimpressed. Fortunately, Jon seems to be taking it fairly well. Spencer quite possibly likes him even more for it.
“What a splendid house you have here, Mr Walker,” Mrs Smith crows. “It’s so spacious, and those statues at the stairs are so lovely, and this room here is just beautiful, really.”
“It is,” Jon says easily, his voice warm and friendly.
“You should see his mansion near London,” Vanek injects, something like cruel satisfaction in the smile she bestows upon Mrs Smith. Spencer almost misses the eyebrow she raises at Ross, once more standing at the window with his back half-turned to them. “It’s even more spacious, with many more lovely statues.”
“Is that so?” Mrs Smith asks, oblivious.
“Mother,” Spencer says. He tries to make it sound like a request and not like the warning he would much rather voice. “Aren’t you here to see how Brendon is doing?”
“Of course,” she says quickly. Spencer rises from the couch, and after a moment, she gets to her feet as well. He breathes a sigh of relief.
“Mr Walker,” Marianne speaks up excitedly. She remains seated and leans forward a little, elbows on her knees. “You should hold a ball here! It would be perfect, you could invite everyone, even the officers, and there is so much space here that it would be the perfect room for dancing, it would be wonderful!”
“I’m sure Jon would prefer to make that decision himself, without you putting him on the spot like this,” Spencer interrupts, giving her a warning glare. That hardly ever works anymore, but he supposes it’s worth a try.
“A ball, huh,” Jon says. He seems to mull the thought over for a moment before he lifts his shoulders and nods, smiling. “A ball. Actually, why not? As soon as Brendon has returned to full health, you shall name a date and time.”
Spencer tries not to flinch at the twins’ excited squeals. A glance at Vanek proves that he’s not the only one who doesn’t particularly like the thought of Jon holding a ball here, inviting the whole town and providing ample of opportunities for a considerably large part of Spencer’s family to make a spectacle out of themselves. He only hopes it won’t shed bad light on Brendon.
For the time being, Jon doesn’t appear particularly daunted by the display of impropriety. Spencer prays it will stay that way.
He glances over at the window to find that Ross has turned away completely, but the tilt of his head shows that he’s listening intently, most likely storing every single embarrassing detail away for later dissection with Vanek.
*
Dinner is a quiet affair that evening. Vanek repeatedly tries to engage Ross in a conversation about current developments at the Court, citing the names of acquaintances Spencer neither knows nor cares to know, but Ross doesn’t seem inclined to humor her. Both he and Jon seem distracted, and more than once, Spencer looks up to find Ross’s eyes resting on his face.
It’s… unsettling, to say the least, and he excuses himself fairly soon under the pretence of wanting to check up on Brendon. It’s not really a pretence, though; he does want to check up on Brendon, but since Brendon has spent most of the day sleeping, his coughs receding, it’s nothing that couldn’t have waited for another half hour.
*
The days pass quickly at Netherfield. Spencer avoids going downstairs as much as possible, eats all of his meals but dinner with Brendon up in the guest room, and only occasionally goes out for a breath of fresh air. Sometimes Jon will walk with him, and Spencer enjoys it; Jon is good company, and doesn’t always feel the need to speak, which Spencer appreciates. Evading awkward silences is, he thinks grimly, one of the banes of his life. Other times, though, he’ll simply go alone, walk through the grounds by himself - Netherfield has perhaps the most beautiful property in the whole county.
He never stays out for long, anyway, always conscious of Brendon sick and locked up in his room, or the possibility of running into some of the house’s less pleasant occupants. Vanek, thankfully, he never has to see outside of the dreaded evening meals, but Ross has picked up an odd habit of springing out when Spencer least expects him, and engaging Spencer in two or three minutes of stilted, cold conversation. Sometimes, Spencer thinks that what Ross needs more than anything is for someone to punch him in the face, and startle his distant manners right out of him. Spencer would volunteer quite cheerfully for the job.
He spends a lot of time thinking (somewhat guiltily, knowing exactly what kind of unhappy face Brendon would make at such thoughts) that Jon couldn’t possibly be worth the company of people such as these, but then he talks with Jon for a little, or watches Jon talk to Brendon, and is forced to swallow his own words. Nevertheless, he can’t pretend it is anything but a relief when Brendon’s fever comes down, when Brendon can sleep through a whole night peacefully again, his sore throat and aching head fading to a hollow cough.
Spencer sends for the carriage to pick them up by a carefully phrased letter, not wanting his family to descend in full force upon the household again. The coach arrives mercifully empty around midday, and Brendon and Spencer troop downstairs to say their goodbyes.
Jon, Spencer notes with amusement as they walk out to the waiting carriage, looks somewhat put out, if not a little sulky, by this turn of events. Brendon, though, is restored to his cheerful self, chattering brightly and beaming at Jon every time Jon turns to look at him, and it’s kind of impossible to be unhappy straight to Brendon’s face when the full force of his charm is turned upon you.
At the carriage, Brendon’s smile dims a little, as if it has only just now dawned upon him that in order to return home he’s also going to have to leave Jon. Spencer rolls his eyes a little but understands when Brendon turns to smile politely at Vanek first, and then Ross (he even smiles brightly at Ross. Spencer actually sees the other man blink a little in confusion, and thinks that probably Ross isn’t used to nice people). Spencer looks away when Brendon turns back to Jon; sees Brendon’s hands shoved uneasily in his pockets and knows that Brendon wants to hug Jon but can’t.
“Thank you for your company,” Spencer says, with a frosty smile to Vanek. “I’ve had a most entertaining time.”
“And you yours,” she says, equally cold. When Spencer turns around to bow to Ross, he looks like he’s half-smiling, and Spencer bristles.
“Mr Ross,” he says frigidly and bows.
“Mr Smith,” Ross answers.
Spencer shakes Jon’s hand and smiles warmly at him. “Thanks,” he says, and Jon waves it away with an easy hand.
“Come back soon,” he says.
“The ball’s in a few days, is it not? I’ll see you then.” Spencer grins and adds, “Let’s hope Brendon’s up to dancing.”
“I’m always up to dancing,” Brendon says cheerfully from where he’s been settled in the coach, a rug wrapped around his thin shoulders.
“I’ll hold you to that, I warn you,” Jon tells him.
“I hope so,” Brendon says, and looks up at Jon through his eyelashes, the corner of his mouth curving up into a smile. Jon actually takes a step back, looking bewildered, and Spencer grins and turns away.
Perhaps in a finally act of public humiliation that is necessary for closure to the whole damn awkward stay at Netherfield, he stumbles a little climbing into the carriage. He barely has time to think, though, before there is a warm hand at his waist, steadying him and helping him up.
Spencer turns and looks over his shoulders, eyes huge and confused, but Ross is already walking away.
*
Brendon may be well enough to go home, but Spencer suspects he is still a little under the weather; he dozes off a little way out of Netherfield, lulled by the steady rhythm of the horse and coach, and sleeps the whole half hour it takes to get home. Spencer tucks the blanket around him so that he doesn’t get cold and then sits back on his seat, closes his eyes. He doesn’t sleep, but he can feel the oppressiveness of continually being around Ross and Vanek and having to watch one’s manners and behavior always slipping away from him, and the air on the way home is clean and cool.
He shakes Brendon awake when they pull onto their road, and Brendon blinks with sleepy surprise at Longbourn looming up in front of him. “I could swear I only closed my eyes for a second,” he murmurs, and then he climbs out of the coach and is promptly jumped upon by all of Spencer’s younger sisters.
About half of them detach themselves to cling to Spencer once he disembarks, too, and the coachman shakes the reins of the horse and takes it off to the stable. “It’s been so boring here without you two,” Elinor says, and in a rare show of genuine affection Anne presses a warm kiss to his cheek. Spencer grins down at them both.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get inside, and you can tell me what you’ve all been up to.”
“Oh,” Marianne says, releasing Brendon from her tight grip. “We’ve got to tell you about The Cousin.”
The capitals in her voice are clearly audible, and Spencer grimaces, knowing exactly what cousin she is talking about, despite the fact that both Mr and Mrs Smith have plenty of siblings, each with plenty offspring of their own. To allow for doubts, he raises an eyebrow, and Anne nods, directing a dark glare at the ground.
Spencer’s grandfather was a strange, difficult old man, particularly towards his later days, and was hardly satisfied with anything any one of his children were doing. Spencer’s father though, as the oldest of the children, caused his father’s particular anger when he married Spencer’s mother, who was not considered a wise match (Mrs Smith, Spencer had realized with affection over the years, had always been as she was now; a warm-hearted but small-minded, gossipy, nosy woman).
As a result, Spencer’s grandfather had written a vicious clause into his will that dictated that none of Mr Smith’s children were to inherit Longbourn after the event of Mr Smith’s death, and that instead it was to pass to one of his younger brother’s sons. His brother, once a pastor and now long since dead, had only one son, a Frank Iero, whom Spencer had never met.
“Well?” Spencer asks grimacing, as they walk towards the house, Brendon listening curiously. “What about The Cousin?”
“He sent a letter this morning,” Anne informs him gravely. “He’s coming to stay. He’ll be here by tomorrow evening.”
“Mother says he’s going to size up the property,” Elinor adds, a little tearfully. “And decide which of us he’ll keep on as servants! Mother says we must be careful of our virtue, and-”
“Oh, shut it,” Spencer says impatiently. “He’s going to inherit the house, not us. And I’m sure he’s a gentleman, no matter what Mother’s hysterical diatribes have led you to believe.” He pauses and then adds, a trifle bitterly, “It’s not his fault, anyway.”
“It is strange,” Brendon points out. “And a little rude, too, to thrust yourself so abruptly upon people’s hospitality.”
“I don’t think we can really call judgment on that just now,” Spencer says dryly, and Brendon giggles.
“Whatever happens,” Brendon says, “we’ll be polite. That’s what we always do, right?”
“Being polite is boring,” Marianne says.
“I suppose that’s why you’re not very good at it,” Spencer says casually, and is immediately tackled by an indignant sixteen year old. He laughs and pulls her into a headlock, rubbing his knuckles into her scalp while she yelps for mercy, and suddenly they’re all involved, Elinor climbing onto Brendon’s back and clinging there, no matter how he tosses and tries to buck her off, Anne a little wary at first until Marianne trips her up and she has to wreak revenge. They tumble into the house in a pile of flailing limbs, considerably muddy despite the short walk up the pathway, out of breath with bright eyes (and Brendon looks a little pale again, Spencer thinks absently, making a note to hustle him up to rest as soon as possible).
“Well,” Mr Smith says wryly, looking up from his paper. “Welcome home, boys.”
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Chapter 3