Victorian Boy || l.s. ✔︎

BONUS: HARRY & LOUIS

A/N: This is Harry's first summer at Warwick. It takes place after the last chapter, XXVII, but before the epilogue.

"Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth."

―Henry David Thoreau, Walden

It was summer and Warwick was in full bloom.

Barren vines, wilted bluebells and fruitless apricot trees roused from their slumber in the spring and ripened upon Harry's arrival early June. Gone too was the raucous laughter of men. The house was instead filled with the melody of female voices. Eleanor was being fitted for her wedding gown. Though the wedding was months away the event was so lavish they had already decided on the guest list, invitations, music, menu, and commissioned a portrait, which was to be painted by England's most renowned artist, John Everett Millais. Louis spared no expense.    

Harry and Louis were to go to the riverbank that afternoon but the Duke was occupied in his office with a merchant who was importing a selection of rare truffles from around the world for the occasion.

Harry's own wedding was fast approaching, though it would be a modest affair with few guests. He came from a small family with almost no acquaintances. He didn't begrudge Louis his popularity, quite the contrary. The thought of hosting such a grand event terrified him.    

He wandered the sunlit halls with his hands behind his back, following the sound of female voices, and peeked through the doors of the solarium.

"Out! Out! Out!" The seamstress fussed. "No gentlemen allowed!"

"Let him in," he heard Eleanor say. "I want to hear his opinion." She was standing on a riser before a gilded mirror with various fabrics pinned to her slip. Her younger sisters were running around with veils on their heads.

"What do you think, Harry, taffeta or lace?"

He saw that she was clutching the lace a little more tightly than the taffeta and reaffirmed her own opinion. "Lace."

She smiled. "You know, I think you're right!"

The seamstress shoved a pincushion in his hands. "If you insist on staying, make yourself useful."

Harry followed the seamstress around with the pincushion as she adjusted the bodice and hem. Eleanor's little sister, Ruth, place a veil on his head and they all temporarily forgot that he was a boy.

"I wonder what it's like to be deflowered by a Duke," Eleanor's middle sister, Mary, mused on the divan twirling her long dark tresses.

Harry froze. He and Eleanor exchanged a look in the mirror.

Her older more cynical sister, Penelope, said, "A man of his wealth and status doesn't deflower a woman he ravages her. I'm sure he's a brute."

"And I'm sure he's tender," Mary sniffed.

Ruth's lip quivered. "Oh dear, I hope he's tender, Ellie!"

"Enough!" the seamstress scolded. "Relations between a husband and wife are sacred, not parlour talk."

One of the girls peeked at the unfinished wedding portrait until the drape fell to the floor.

"Mary!"

Harry looked upon the portrait. The likeness was incredible, with vibrant colours and seamless brushwork, their complexions smooth as porcelain. Louis looked like a devoted husband and Eleanor a regal wife. It would hang in the library beside the portraits of his parents and ancestors dating back to the Battle of Bosworth.