Victorian Boy || l.s. ✔︎

CHAPTER IV

"One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it's left behind." 

― Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit

Harry left all his precious objects behind. His coin collection, dusted fossils, brass telescope, paint-chipped train set, books, sheet music, pearl fountain pen and a faded map of a world he'd never seen.

He looked at his bedroom one last time. Who was he without these objects? What would a boy with no life experience have to discuss with men of the world? Harry was suddenly seized with the urge to cancel the trip altogether when Charles came in to take the last of his luggage.

Charles, the bespectacled son of a watchmaker, took great pleasure in planning every last detail of the trip. He lived for this. He carried around a checklist, an itinerary and a contingency plan for every possible mishap that could befall them. He was actually excited to discover that there was a road closure on Wade's Causeway. He would have to devise an alternate route. More planning!

By the time Harry got to the carriage all of his belongings were neatly stowed and Achilles was locked in his crate. The farmhand who wrestled him in there had a bloody lip.

As they pulled away from the manor, Harry watched his home grow smaller and smaller until it was no bigger than a car on his train set.

Besides Achilles thrashing around in his crate like a convict, the journey was quite comfortable. Harry crossed his slender legs, breeches tucked snugly inside knee-high leather boots. He wore his surgical mask and gloves on the journey, and an austere black tailcoat and cravat since he was still in mourning. He gripped the silver horse head on his cane as he watched the afternoon sky and countryside roll by in a carousel of green and blue.

They dined in villages and retired at local inns for the evening. Harry was overwhelmed by the crowds, the noises and smells, like a lapdog who had never been let outside before.

The most rudimentary customs confused him. The first night when the innkeeper waited with his hand open for payment, Harry panicked. Though he possessed one of the most extensive coin collections in England he'd never actually used money for its intended purpose. He almost gave the man a set of 6th century Persian Sasanian silver when Charles quickly paid the sum from his change purse to spare Harry any further embarrassment.

As awkward as these exchanges were, Harry knew that social maneuvering among the gentry at Warwick House would prove much more difficult and complex.

Unlike Somerset Manor, which rested on rolling green countryside as far as the eye can see, the Warwick estate was surrounded by a thick forest. The carriage nearly lost a wheel navigating the rough terrain. Harry stuck his hand out the window and touched a sharp branch as though shaking the hand of an old acquaintance.

The house itself was cast in shadow from the foliage. The Baroque structure had two symmetrical wings and a crowning central dome with Corinthian pilasters. The coronets and cherubs that adorned the building were tinged green with moss from lack of sunlight.

The house had been restored since the fire. The parts rebuilt were lighter and mainly on the east wing, which was where the family had slept.

The horsekeeper greeted them at the gate and saw to Achilles and the carriage.

Then the door to the house opened.

Harry removed his hat and gripped his cane tightly, prepared to come face to face with Louis.

It wasn't Louis. It was his butler, a slight, frazzled man who kept checking his pocket watch.

"Welcome, welcome," he said without smiling, and helped Charles with the luggage.

The two men wrestled with the larger bags while Harry held onto his cane and hat. No one offered to take them from him.

Charles was not used to this kind of informality. As they carried the bags up the stone steps, he immediately launched into matters of servitude. "The Duke of Somerset rises at six and takes his breakfast in bed. A fire should be lit in his room before he rises and—"

The butler looked at him and laughed. "Six? In the morning? That's the hour these men retire!"

As they entered through the tall double doors, the butler, Theodore, explained that the interior of the home had been completely remodeled to Louis' liking after the fire, though there was still the taste of ash in the air.

The walls were blood red and the raucous laughter of men echoed from every room like the pulsing chambers of a heart.

Harry found himself staring at a family portrait that had been rescued but badly burned. He could make out Louis' father, a broad shouldered man with a playful grin, and his mother, who looked a lot like Louis, especially her iridescent blue eyes, which the artist was able to capture with flecks of gold. Louis was just a baby in the painting asleep in his mother's arms. His brothers' faces were almost completely blackened.

When Harry turned around, Charles was gone. He must have followed Theodore upstairs.

A large, ruddy-cheeked man with a rifle over his shoulder entered the foyer.

"Who called for a surgeon?" the man barked, more lumberjack than gentleman.

Surgeon? Harry thought. Then he remembered he was still wearing the mask. He tried to take it off but he was holding his cane and hat making it impossible to unfurl the tight knots Charles had fastened.

Then another man entered, a fop in a violet waistcoat, hosiery and breeches in the Parisian style with buckled high-heeled shoes. "He must be here for Oscar. Remember, he got that ghastly rash when he fucked a scullery maid at Longleat. Are you here to castrate him?"

"I'm not a—" Harry began, when another man entered.

"Roy, Frederick," puffed an older gentleman smoking a pipe. "Did you send for a surgeon? What in God's name happened?"

Roy leaned on his rifle. "Oscar fucked a scullery maid and this chap's here to cut his balls off."

"No, I'm not going to cut off anything!" Harry cried.

Frederick shrugged. "You're the doctor."

"I'm not a—"

Then a ginger with a funny walk entered the foyer, ears pricked.

"Speak of the devil," said Roy. "Oscar, the surgeon's here to cure you of the gift from your Longleat whore."

Oscar turned bright red. "Her name's Mabel!"

The men roared with laughter.

How would Harry endure an entire fortnight with these savages?

"If the surgeon isn't here to see Oscar," Frederick purred, "then, pray tell, who are you here to see?"

It was then that Harry spotted Louis.

He was upstairs leaning on the polished bannister with his arms folded, looking down at the scene with amusement.

"Me," said Louis, descending the staircase. "And he's no surgeon. Gentlemen, may I present to you the Duke of Somerset."

The men eyed him skeptically.

Louis was wearing a red tailcoat like the one he wore when they first met, only his cravat was untied and the top button of his shirt undone. Harry's eyes unwittingly fell to his exposed neck and collar bone.

He reached behind Harry's head and laced his fingers through his hair.

Harry stiffened.

Louis' nimble fingers swiftly unfastened the mask and drew it off his face.

"Welcome, friend."

A/N: Let the games begin! The next chapter will feature a horse race. Now that Harry's in Yorkshire I can finally move on to more important matters, like Louis' thighs.