The Heartwood

Chapter 2

The Count of Heart Wood is transformed in the daylight. Asher observes the pale cheekbones as he slips gracefully into the chair - the hidden brass of the man's hair and the way his white shirt crisply folds around him in creases as he settles. The ghost from the garden party and from the dusky study is now made real with bones and structure and color. This comes from the severity of his shadow making his form obvious. Asher tries to consolidate this image of the man with what he remembers from previous spyings. Mr. Fry's eyes are like the soft blue sky along the horizon, grown paler with distance. His arms are exposed under starched sleeves rolled to the elbow and the untanned skin makes Asher think of stone angels from the cemetery around the church. Those arms move with reserved, curt gestures as the Count, with long fingers, strips himself of pristine gloves. He had been wearing them for the polishing which Asher had interrupted and should not ask about.

Clearly, the Count is not nearly as pleased as his impromptu guest is over this sudden arrangement.

Asher does not let the small iota of shame he feels distract him from peering curiously at the small velvet pouch that Mr. Fry places next to his gloves.

"I have asked for Mr. Durrant to prepare us some lunch," informs the Count.

"That is kind of you," Asher replies with utmost civility.

"It is a lovely day."

"I agree entirely."

Pleasantries exchanged, the Count falls silent and Asher concludes that the pause may be to unbalance him. His feet swing under him gaily. He taps a rhythm into the tabletop with little concern as his elder ponders whatever it is that elders ponder. Behind the birdsong and buzz of insects, a door closes somewhere.

This signals the arrival of a young man who carries a tray with a pair of glasses, a pitcher of tea and sandwiches. The spread shines under the rays of the sun and looks strange in the arms of a servant dressed so casually.

"Sirs," greets Mr. Durrant, and the Count tips his head.

"Thank you. I appreciate you taking the extra effort," comes a response from the Master of the house, no doubt implying that the extra effort is the singular fault of one individual. "Please see to the lawn under my study. I know how deeply you care for the garden."

Asher leans forward, commanding himself to not stare at the fare before him too deeply with wanting. A creature of formality (and as capable of manipulation and manners as any upper-class scion) he offers apologies instead.

"My sincerest regret, Mr. Durrant. Your lovely lawn had saved me from some trouble and I would love to admire its practicality as much as its beauty. It is the softest lawn this side of London."

Mr. Durrant keeps his face impassive. Barely. "Of course, Sir," he intones, not clear as to which of his superiors he is responding to. A small quirk of his jaw reveals a withheld display of amusement.

Asher beams sunnily and the Count closes his fist, not tightening it. He is not upset. "Tea?"

"Thank you, yes."

The drink is murky with spices floating on its surface. It will be brewed tea, left to steep in a cool, dark place since the morning. It will be bitter and require the sugar in the ornamental bowl with the silver spoon. The Count pours two glasses, handing one to his guest and then pushing forward the sweetener. Asher declines, wanting to appear grown up. He can suffer through a glass or two with the aid of a sandwich. He helps himself to two and the Count takes one.

"It's a long way from your parents' estate," comments Mr. Fry, at last.

"Not so long," Asher answers when he has a mouth free. "I met a kind farmer and explored, too."