Chapter 2, A Servant of Duty
May. 7th, 2008 10:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wellownedbkupTwo:
At the eastern edge of the Berrisford estate, where the Darlington woods grew rampant and began to eat away at the manicured lawns of their neighbor, sat a ruined folly. Anton’s father said it was a symbol of misspent youth, the excesses of previous generations. The old man could very well say so, after having devoted much of his youth to saving his family name from destitution. The excesses of previous generations, indeed.
When he was a child, Anton can remember watching his brother Fitzwilliam traipsing about with the Darlingtons—Simon, Oliver and David Doyle—in the woods whilst he learnt the workings of the estate. Where the boys around his brother's age would be playing heroes and villains, Anton was balancing ledgers and becoming a proper estate manager.
He first met Emilyanne Doyle there in the folly, halfway between their shared lands. At least, that’s what his mother told him before she died. They’d met there during a game of hide-and-seek on the gardens he'd been included is as a sort of supervision, young Emilyanne left breathless and giggling by the hared chase. She was closer to his brother’s 9 years of age than his own worldly wise 15 at the time, and little notice of her on his part. There had been a brief smile, and then hardheaded Anton had cracked his arm tripping over one of the stones that had fallen loose from the roof, and ended the game early. Ended his youth early and became the dutiful son his father needed him to be.
Anton remembers, sometimes, that ruined old grotto, half overgrown with ivy and rough with broken stones. No one goes there anymore, being deemed too dangerous for use, but not dangerous enough for removal. Anton has half a mind to remove it himself, after all the use it’s given him these many years. His arm still aches in the worst storms, a reminder and a warning, he imagines. But some part of him cannot seem to let it go. Something about it calls to him.
A torrent begins as she’s strolling at the ragged edge of a creek that separates her from the home of her childhood friends. There’s a box in her room that she keeps as a shrine to her youth, faded with the years that separated them until there’s only time for her to be remembered by her brothers and no one else. Inside the worn little chest are little flowers woven into a crown, smooth stones from the creek bed. She can count memories by the trinkets inside her little box. But the rain pours down as she contemplates years gone by and she barely has enough time to splash across to hide out in the miniature temple that provides the only shelter nearby that could be considered reliable.
As she shakes out her skirts, resigning herself to how hopeless it is to think she may get dry any time soon, she is joined by a man. He’s twice as soaked as she, cursing lightly and mussing his hair in an effort to shed some of the excess water. He shakes each limb comically, not noticing his audience in an effort to get dry.
He jumps as she lets out a soft chuckle, and turns in her direction, dark eyes trying to make clear the situation. She catches her breath at his striking visage, but covers quickly, gesturing lightly at his person. “I thought only pups dried themselves that way, but it appears I was wrong, milord.” She softens the turn of phrase with a smile and a muffled chuckle.
His lips quirk up in a rueful smile. “All men are dogs, my lady. But I did not realize that all women have as venomous a bite as a snake. Madam, you strike me to my very heart.”
She inclines her head. “Touché.” She presses a hand to her chest mockingly, adding, “Though I am wounded you think all women snakes, Antonin.” She takes pleasure in watching him become dumbfounded that she would know him, would call him by the name his family had always called him. She steps forward and rests a hand lightly on his arm before bussing his cheek lightly. “And I wanted you to know that all the Doyles are sorry to hear about the loss of your father.”
It is long moments before he can recall himself enough to speak. “Emilyanne?” This was the child he met in the folly those many years ago? He stares at her unguardedly, at sixes and sevens with the situation.
She nods and gives a rather watered down version of her usual smile. "I spoke with Wills last night. It was not the welcome home that he deserved, nor were they the circumstances under which we had hoped to see one another again. I am glad, though, to see you both once more. It's been too long." She blushes and steps quickly to the far edge of the folly where the roof is still partially intact, though the floor is cluttered with the crumbled stones of the ceiling. The rain continues to fall outside of this little bubble, the occupants shielded from the elements by curtains of ivy and purple clematis.
Long moments pass where he knows he should make some kind of comment, where he should thank her for her extended condolences. He cannot think anything beyond how this woman was his betrothed. "Wills did not tell me that you were at the ball last night," he blurts, not sure what he meant to say instead. She turns to him, a question in her wide brown eyes. He can't seem to think much beyond betrothed Emilyanne lovely betrothed and the silence begins to draw long again.
"I'm sure that he would have, had he thought seeing me was anything important, Antonin," she tries to reassure him. A fine shiver travels the length of her spine, and she wraps her arms tight around her chest against the cold she feels. With a soft curse, he sheds his jacket, which is little drier than what she's wearing but holds body warmth that he's sure she'll appreciate. He drapes it over her shoulders, rubbing his hands together and tucking them behind himself as he stares out at the storm.
He can't seem to think of a way to broach the subject of the arrangement agreed upon by their fathers concerning their future life. He still doesn't understand why the deceased viscount would have so little faith in his abilities on the marriage market. But Emilyanne is here now, made even more diminutive by his oversized coat. He hovers a little closer, compelled by some surge of warmth in his chest to keep her safe. They stay for long minutes, time strangely dilated here in a marble gazebo between their homes. It's only when the sound of rainfall has dwindled from the torrent to something scarce perceptible that they are released from their trance.
She hands over his coat before he has the chance to offer her a horse or carriage to travel home, as he remembers his stables are closer than her domicile. "I thank you, milord Berrisford, for your kindness this afternoon. But I fear it is long past time for me to return home. You'll understand if we part ways here?" The words have barely left her mouth before she bobs a quick curtsy and vanishes into the grey twilight.
Bemusement accompanies him the long, wet walk back to the empty foyer of home. He hands off the ruined jacket to Leigh, his butler, before slowly walking back towards the kitchens.
"Beg pardon, sir," Leigh interrupts with a discreet cough, "but there was a letter delivered for you from your father's solicitors. I took the liberty of having coffee and cold meats delivered to your study. I was led to believe you would want to see the contents of the letter immediately upon your arrival."
Anton forestalls a sigh and turns toward his study instead. "You are ever diligent, Leigh."
"Thank you, m'lord. Shall I call for supper, sir, or had you intended upon visiting the Darlington at-home?"
Anton pauses, calculating. He turns with a smile to Leigh. "It has been too long since we've seen our friends. Please inform Wills that we shall be dining out this evening."
Leigh bows slightly. "I shall see to the arrangements, m'lord."
At the eastern edge of the Berrisford estate, where the Darlington woods grew rampant and began to eat away at the manicured lawns of their neighbor, sat a ruined folly. Anton’s father said it was a symbol of misspent youth, the excesses of previous generations. The old man could very well say so, after having devoted much of his youth to saving his family name from destitution. The excesses of previous generations, indeed.
When he was a child, Anton can remember watching his brother Fitzwilliam traipsing about with the Darlingtons—Simon, Oliver and David Doyle—in the woods whilst he learnt the workings of the estate. Where the boys around his brother's age would be playing heroes and villains, Anton was balancing ledgers and becoming a proper estate manager.
He first met Emilyanne Doyle there in the folly, halfway between their shared lands. At least, that’s what his mother told him before she died. They’d met there during a game of hide-and-seek on the gardens he'd been included is as a sort of supervision, young Emilyanne left breathless and giggling by the hared chase. She was closer to his brother’s 9 years of age than his own worldly wise 15 at the time, and little notice of her on his part. There had been a brief smile, and then hardheaded Anton had cracked his arm tripping over one of the stones that had fallen loose from the roof, and ended the game early. Ended his youth early and became the dutiful son his father needed him to be.
Anton remembers, sometimes, that ruined old grotto, half overgrown with ivy and rough with broken stones. No one goes there anymore, being deemed too dangerous for use, but not dangerous enough for removal. Anton has half a mind to remove it himself, after all the use it’s given him these many years. His arm still aches in the worst storms, a reminder and a warning, he imagines. But some part of him cannot seem to let it go. Something about it calls to him.
A torrent begins as she’s strolling at the ragged edge of a creek that separates her from the home of her childhood friends. There’s a box in her room that she keeps as a shrine to her youth, faded with the years that separated them until there’s only time for her to be remembered by her brothers and no one else. Inside the worn little chest are little flowers woven into a crown, smooth stones from the creek bed. She can count memories by the trinkets inside her little box. But the rain pours down as she contemplates years gone by and she barely has enough time to splash across to hide out in the miniature temple that provides the only shelter nearby that could be considered reliable.
As she shakes out her skirts, resigning herself to how hopeless it is to think she may get dry any time soon, she is joined by a man. He’s twice as soaked as she, cursing lightly and mussing his hair in an effort to shed some of the excess water. He shakes each limb comically, not noticing his audience in an effort to get dry.
He jumps as she lets out a soft chuckle, and turns in her direction, dark eyes trying to make clear the situation. She catches her breath at his striking visage, but covers quickly, gesturing lightly at his person. “I thought only pups dried themselves that way, but it appears I was wrong, milord.” She softens the turn of phrase with a smile and a muffled chuckle.
His lips quirk up in a rueful smile. “All men are dogs, my lady. But I did not realize that all women have as venomous a bite as a snake. Madam, you strike me to my very heart.”
She inclines her head. “Touché.” She presses a hand to her chest mockingly, adding, “Though I am wounded you think all women snakes, Antonin.” She takes pleasure in watching him become dumbfounded that she would know him, would call him by the name his family had always called him. She steps forward and rests a hand lightly on his arm before bussing his cheek lightly. “And I wanted you to know that all the Doyles are sorry to hear about the loss of your father.”
It is long moments before he can recall himself enough to speak. “Emilyanne?” This was the child he met in the folly those many years ago? He stares at her unguardedly, at sixes and sevens with the situation.
She nods and gives a rather watered down version of her usual smile. "I spoke with Wills last night. It was not the welcome home that he deserved, nor were they the circumstances under which we had hoped to see one another again. I am glad, though, to see you both once more. It's been too long." She blushes and steps quickly to the far edge of the folly where the roof is still partially intact, though the floor is cluttered with the crumbled stones of the ceiling. The rain continues to fall outside of this little bubble, the occupants shielded from the elements by curtains of ivy and purple clematis.
Long moments pass where he knows he should make some kind of comment, where he should thank her for her extended condolences. He cannot think anything beyond how this woman was his betrothed. "Wills did not tell me that you were at the ball last night," he blurts, not sure what he meant to say instead. She turns to him, a question in her wide brown eyes. He can't seem to think much beyond betrothed Emilyanne lovely betrothed and the silence begins to draw long again.
"I'm sure that he would have, had he thought seeing me was anything important, Antonin," she tries to reassure him. A fine shiver travels the length of her spine, and she wraps her arms tight around her chest against the cold she feels. With a soft curse, he sheds his jacket, which is little drier than what she's wearing but holds body warmth that he's sure she'll appreciate. He drapes it over her shoulders, rubbing his hands together and tucking them behind himself as he stares out at the storm.
He can't seem to think of a way to broach the subject of the arrangement agreed upon by their fathers concerning their future life. He still doesn't understand why the deceased viscount would have so little faith in his abilities on the marriage market. But Emilyanne is here now, made even more diminutive by his oversized coat. He hovers a little closer, compelled by some surge of warmth in his chest to keep her safe. They stay for long minutes, time strangely dilated here in a marble gazebo between their homes. It's only when the sound of rainfall has dwindled from the torrent to something scarce perceptible that they are released from their trance.
She hands over his coat before he has the chance to offer her a horse or carriage to travel home, as he remembers his stables are closer than her domicile. "I thank you, milord Berrisford, for your kindness this afternoon. But I fear it is long past time for me to return home. You'll understand if we part ways here?" The words have barely left her mouth before she bobs a quick curtsy and vanishes into the grey twilight.
Bemusement accompanies him the long, wet walk back to the empty foyer of home. He hands off the ruined jacket to Leigh, his butler, before slowly walking back towards the kitchens.
"Beg pardon, sir," Leigh interrupts with a discreet cough, "but there was a letter delivered for you from your father's solicitors. I took the liberty of having coffee and cold meats delivered to your study. I was led to believe you would want to see the contents of the letter immediately upon your arrival."
Anton forestalls a sigh and turns toward his study instead. "You are ever diligent, Leigh."
"Thank you, m'lord. Shall I call for supper, sir, or had you intended upon visiting the Darlington at-home?"
Anton pauses, calculating. He turns with a smile to Leigh. "It has been too long since we've seen our friends. Please inform Wills that we shall be dining out this evening."
Leigh bows slightly. "I shall see to the arrangements, m'lord."
