"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight,
somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."
- Fyodor Dostoevsky -
.: 1. Returning Lost Property :.
Arthur glanced quickly toward the sky. Ominous clouds were moving in, promising a spectacle of a thunderstorm. Arthur usually loved rain, the sound of the pitter patter so soothing to his ears—but not today, the day when he had to walk to work, having lent a classmate his bike. He hadn't dressed warmly enough, either, having not realized that it would be such fowl weather later in the day.
Well, at least it's not raining yet.
As if right on cue, a cold drop splattered on his head, so sudden and detested by his warmer body that Arthur jumped ever so slightly in surprise. He still had at least a mile to go until he reached the theatre, and rain was never that lenient. He could either run for it, or risk pneumonia, considering the chilly wind as well.
The young actor subconsciously reached into his pocket and pulled out the sapphire ring, which he fumbled around with often out of habit. On an especially dreary day like today, the touch of the ring brought him a certain warmth that he could find nowhere else, the warmth of nostalgia and love.
Keeping the ring in his hand, Arthur started jogging to work, his sack of books bouncing against his back in a way that would get painful if the motion continued for long. His mind was somewhere else, however, as his thoughts meandered back to the past. It had been three years since Esmeralda passed away, and three years since he had vowed those promises to himself—and to Esmeralda. Part of his promise back then included finding the owner of this ring. It would be a pity for the man to never be reunited with such a beauty, and who knows? Maybe the man regretted giving it away, and was now searching for it desperately. Arthur was never a good judge of jewelry, considering he only ever held about two or three different gems in his hands in his life, but the ring seemed highly important. The sapphire was inlaid in an intricate and ornate silver band, complete with finely carved flowers and delicate looking leaves. The stone itself must have cost a fortune, but paired with the ring itself, it was probably priceless.
Arthur had never shown the ring to anyone else, knowing full well that he would most likely get labeled as a thief. After all, what sort of peasant, bordering on actor, would have a legitimate reason for possessing such a costly item? The last thing he wanted was for the ring to get lost in the mix; he would never be able to return it then, and he would have lost something that Esmeralda had clearly held dear.
Thinking on the past and on the ring, Arthur wasn't paying attention at all to where he was running. Thus, it was his mistake that he didn't step out of the way as a nobleman walked by in the opposite direction, as was the accepted practice for people with their difference in status.
Uttering a surprised yell, the young actor fell to the ground. In a natural reflex to catch himself with his hands, Arthur's grip loosened, and the ring was flung somewhere unknown. The young actor glanced up at the man's torso, and his face immediately paled. By the clothing, there was no doubt that the man before him was a nobleman, and god help Arthur: he had gotten mud on the man's pants from the splash of his fall.
Inside Arthur's mind, there was a very swift internal struggle as to whether or not he should put priority on the nobleman he had just bumped into, or the ring that he could very well have just lost. To anyone else, the solution would have been natural: kneel on the ground and beg for forgiveness. Who cared about some ring when you've just angered a nobleman? But this was Arthur, and the ring was the most important thing he owned.
In the end, politeness won out. His mother—his real mother—had raised him to be utmost "British" and respectful, telling him that he should carry with him the manners of a noble, even if he would always be labeled a peasant from the countryside. She even tried to teach him the London accent, which she spoke quite well—though the differences between her accent and his father's accent always confused Arthur as a child, making it almost impossible for the young man to learn until he was at least thirteen. But now, he had gotten it down almost completely, and it came naturally, save for the occasional stray word here and there that betrayed the location of his upbringing.
Arthur mentally prepared himself for a beating, having never had good experiences with nobles before, especially when their stewards would come to the farm's shop to buy goods and haggle his poor family down to practically nothing. They were a bunch of heartless bastards, but it was either he acted well—which anyone would tell you he could do—or he got beaten for it and would be late for work. The answer was obvious.
Despite his honest annoyance that the nobleman too hadn't been watching where he was going, Arthur acted perfectly polite and "lower class." Not making eye contact, he quickly scrambled to his knees and bowed his head. "My sincerest apologies, sir." Arthur wasn't scared. He had always been sure of himself, and based on their treatment of his family, he had always had a deep seated resentment for nobles. Nevertheless, despite his heart being strong, and the fact that he believed no nobleman could bring him down, Arthur thought he could be dead by tomorrow, based on the stories he's heard from his fellow actors and classmates. He tensed, waiting for any of the reactions he expected would happen.
However, the actual reaction was most surprising for the young actor: the nobleman chuckled. He chuckled. Was this some maniacal and evil cackle in disguise? It didn't sound like it... Arthur looked up, somewhere in his mind appalled by his own boldness. No regular peasant would dare look a nobleman in the eye so directly, but his curiosity got the best of him. Whatever he was ready to face, he wasn't ready to see what he actually did: a genuinely amused, slightly concerned, and some indescribable inquisitive look all coming from a fantastically handsome face. Nor was he ready to encounter those sharp blue eyes, alight with energy. Nor the messy yet combed hair that peeked out from underneath the top hat, all of which framed his indescribable face perfectly. Most of all, Arthur did not expect to see a white gloved hand extended to him to help him up.
Arthur stared at the hand wordlessly for a while. What was he supposed to do? Take it and dirty it with his muddy hands, or not take it and risk offending the man? In the end, Arthur took it, reasoning that nobles shouldn't extend a hand unless they meant it. And if this nobleman before him hadn't meant it, then the young actor's world view of the aristocracy would still hold solid.
But the man was true to his silent word. Arthur felt a gentle pressure as he was helped up. The young actor could feel through the gloves that Mr. Perfect Face's hands were smooth and un-calloused. This man had never done a day's work in his life. And now that Arthur had gotten a good look at the man, he could see that, based on the intricacy and craftsmanship of the embroidery on the man's glove, let alone his whole outfit, he had bumped into one of the more important members of the aristocracy. It was the worst thing that could have happened, next to bumping into the royal family itself. For all Arthur knew, this man in front of him could have fulfilled the last criteria as well.
Arthur immediately let go of the man's hand and apologized for having gotten mud on it, eliciting another delighted chuckle from Mr. Perfect Face. Bowing down, Arthur took the opportunity to scan the ground for that ring, so easily lost in the mud and gray cobblestones. It was nowhere to be found.
His attention was temporarily snapped back to the man before him when the man's soothing velvety voice spoke, "You're soaking wet. If I may, I own an establishment not too far from here where we could both find refuge from this disagreeable weather, Mister..."
"Kirkland! Arthur, I mean. Arthur Kirkland!" The young actor blushed. He was making a complete fool of himself, which was a relatively new experience, considering he usually was able to act perfectly in any which way in front of and with anyone. But in the face of this man, it was all he could do to keep from staring at that jawline. This aristocrat was having the wrong effect on Arthur with his stupid unexpected gentle voice. "I'm very sorr—"
He stopped mid-sentence as he heard an unmistakable klink to the right. Someone had probably just kicked the ring. His head snapped over to the direction, along with the nobleman's, who reached for the shining object and retrieved it before Arthur could do the same. The man's expression had changed ever so slightly, his eyebrows furrowing a little above suddenly shrewd eyes.
"How did you come into possession of this?" the man asked, glancing up with something more than just an inquisitive look.
Oh Lord. Arthur knew he was in trouble. He was in deep trouble. Not only would he be expected of theft, but the accusation would be coming from a nobleman. He would lose his job for sure, and any hope of a reputable future one, especially if this turned out to be some big scandal.
"I... uhh..."
A thunderclap interrupted his explanation, turning both of their attentions to the sky and the darkening clouds. Rain was coming down more frequently as the wind picked up to match the storm's intensity. Alfred scowled. He hated the rain.
"Nevermind. Let us get out of this infernal weather and get you dry first."
Arthur wasn't sure if he wanted to accompany the man off to one of his Evil Rich Man Establishments, but considering that the nobleman was still in possession of the ring, and didn't seem like he was going to let it go without a good explanation, the young actor really had no choice. At least the nobleman seemed to have an appreciation for fine jewelry, rather than some beggar who would pawn it off at the first opportunity. Arthur's mind could find some refuge in that fact as he walked off—oddly enough under a shared umbrella—toward... his work?
They arrived at the theatre within ten minutes, Arthur having run most of the way already before the incident occurred. The poor actor was shivering by now, both out of chill and out of apprehension. After all, he didn't really have a good story to tell, and the truth was not at all believable. Some woman who had gotten it as some sort of present from a nobleman, and then died and gave it to Arthur, who now wasn't selling it for sentimental reasons? Yeah, right.
"Good evening, sir," the doorman spoke, recognition showing in his eyes. Standing to attention, the doorman opened one of the grand double doors, and the two of them stepped inside the theatre—through the front door, of all places. Arthur's mind was still in awe that this man before him owned such a majestic establishment, let alone coincidentally the one at which he worked. At least he wouldn't have to worry about getting to work... though he wasn't sure this method of showing up was any better.
Arthur glanced at the nobleman beside him and saw that the man's boots, pants and gloves were soiled. Serves him right, he couldn't help thinking, despite the other polite side of him that felt guilt. It wasn't right to harbor all this resentment and rest it upon the shoulders of one man. After all, this specific aristocrat didn't seem so bad, but then again, who could tell? Maybe he was just buttering Arthur up for some sneak attack later.
"Arthur Kirkland, was it? Forgive me for not giving my name earlier. I'm—"
"Marquess Jones!" a voice called from the foot of the grand staircase. Arthur paled and his eyes widened. A marquess? He was definitely in bigger trouble than he thought. Plus, now that Mr. Bradley, the theatre manager, had found them, Arthur was sure to receive punishment from all sides.
A bright-smiling man placed himself between Arthur and the nobleman, giving Arthur a sharp look that spoke volumes about what the hapless actor was in store for later. Marquess Jones, on the other hand, glanced at Arthur inquisitively, wondering at the blatant familiarity between the theatre manager and the young man. How did those two know each other?
"I trust things are running smoothly, Mr. Bradley?"
"Of course, sir. I'm sorry that you had to get mixed in with this lot," the man replied, gesturing apologetically to Arthur's hunched figure behind him.
"It's quite all right, Mr. Bradley. I brought him with me. It seems like he was caught in the storm, just as I was. I thought it best to take him somewhere warm so that he might dry himself before some sickness develops." The second sharp look that Bradley gave Arthur did not escape Alfred's notice.
"Of course, sir. Arthur works here, after all." Arthur looked up just in time to see the nobleman raise a curious eyebrow, those blue eyes locking in with his own green ones. The young actor immediately averted his eyes as Mr. Bradley continued on, "He might have been late had it not been for your kind aid, sir."
Bradley jabbed Arthur in the stomach, causing the actor to bow over and cough out a rushed "Thank you." Though honestly, the actor would have probably arrived earlier had he not encountered Alfred.
The Marquess decided to ignore that violent action for the moment, though it angered him that Bradley would treat one of his actors so badly. There was no way that he was going to leave Arthur in Bradley's care in the man's current mood, for the nobleman was sure that bruises would be the least of Arthur's worries if that were to happen. The Marquess made a mental note to replace Bradley at the first opportunity, once he arrived back home. This theatre could do without the likes of him.
"Mr. Bradley," The Marquess spoke, his voice taking on an edge, "Don't you have something to attend to? Surely my theatre cannot run itself."
Bradley nodded nervously, that tone making him stand on edge. "Of course, sir. I'll... err... be taking my leave, then, sir." The manager took one last glance at Arthur and went off through the door that would lead backstage.
Arthur said nothing, his stomach churning at the day's events thus far. Not only was he shivering and soaking wet, but his bike was probably rusting somewhere (he treasured that contraption quite a bit), he had bumped into a noble who was now most likely to rage at him for being a thief, and he had gotten Bradley livid. Today could not be worse.
Marquess Jones looked upon the young, dripping actor with pity. The young man didn't look to be older than eighteen. What was he doing here, working at this theatre under Bradley's strict hands?
"Follow me," the Marquess uttered, turning a sharp left and walking down the hall. Arthur complied immediately, those words having been spoken with such well-practiced command. The man before him was no doubt a very high, very rich noble.
What have you gotten yourself into?
They entered a room at the end of the hall down which Arthur had never been allowed to walk, let alone venture through any of the doors lining it. The inside of the room was lavishly furnished, complete with ornate golden trimmings, paintings of cherubic angels on the high ceiling, and thick, crimson drapery. To Arthur, who had rarely seen such lavish decor in his life, save for the inside of the theatre hall itself, this seemed like a room befitting a castle. He would have stopped to stare in awe had his mind not been preoccupied by the matter at hand: the ring.
Arthur immediately deviated to the fireplace, his shivering body hungering for that beckoning warmth. The Marquess didn't seem to mind or pay attention to what the actor was doing. The man, instead, was pouring himself a glass—wait. Pouring two glasses—of scotch. Then, never ceasing to surprise Arthur with each new action, the man unshouldered his coat, hung it up, and proceeded to flop himself down on one of the armchairs.
"Ahhhh, it feels good to be in private once and for all, doesn't it?"
The actor was shocked; the man's accent had changed from complete aristocratic British to one tinged very slightly with... with what? Welsh? No. Irish? No. American? Yes. American. Wait—American? What was this man doing speaking in such a ignoble tongue all of a sudden? Or acting in such a socially unacceptable way? And, most importantly, how was Arthur supposed to react to this?
The Marquess glanced over at the silent, wide-eyed actor standing awkwardly by the fireplace. He couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. "Stop being so tense," the Marquess managed to utter amidst bouts of laughter which weren't being helped by Arthur's increasingly alarmed expression. "I'm not going to eat you." The Marquess picked up one of the scotch glasses and held it up to Arthur. "Here. Have a drink. It'll warm you up."
Arthur made no move toward the glass, half out of shock and half out of wariness. This might just be the most devious and crafty aristocratic ploy he had heard of yet. What if the man was waiting for him to make some move and then bam! The trap would be complete? Arthur didn't want to take that risk; he didn't know enough about aristocratic customs. Like, what if the man offering the scotch with his right hand was actually some secret signal for a duel, and accepting it would also mean accepting whatever fight came with it? Arthur had never held a real gun in his life, let alone shoot someone. And even if he did win, he would most likely be executed or forever incarcerated for murdering a noble.
"You're cute when you blush," the Marquess commented, making the actor turn even redder. Marquess Jones was highly amused as to how startled Arthur seemed to be reacting to the whole situation. Standing up, the Marquess walked over and placed the glass in Arthur's hand, letting go immediately. If the actor didn't hold on, then the glass would fall and shatter; simple as that.
The actor caught the glass and gripped it tightly, his opinion of nobles not at all improving by what he was witnessing. Not only was the aristocrat before him laughing at Arthur's expense, but the man was also such an intriguing mystery, so different and unpredictable compared to the nobility that Arthur thought he knew—based on stories—that he might just turn out to be the most evil of them all. What if he was so evil that even the aristocracy feared his odd ways? Arthur almost dropped the glass in worry. He couldn't be that unlucky, could he? God was understanding. Please, let God be understanding.
Arthur never let his eyes stray from the aristocrat as the man walked back to his armchair, his gait somehow seeming commanding and lazy all at once. And somewhere in there, the young actor noticed that the man looked awfully tired, and it wasn't the sort that came from a hard day's work; it was the sort of weariness that only rose from prolonged exposure to an especially taxing matter. Arthur knew that look from—surprise, surprise—his own parents, when they dealt with the nobility that "gave them their business." Those bastards were so damn selfish, and though Arthur could not yet pass judgment on this man before him, their difference in stature had already started the relationship—if any—off on the wrong foot.
"Anyways, Mister Kirkland—"
"Arthur. Call me Arthur," the young actor quickly interrupted. Mister Kirkland would forever be his father, and Arthur didn't like his father's name being soiled by passing through some bastard noble's lips. "Please," he added as a second thought, hoping it would sooth some possible aristocratic anger.
"Very well, Arthur." That amused smile never left the man's lips—a fact which Arthur knew quite well, considering his eyes refused to stray from that man's riveting face, no matter how much his mind panicked and told those eyes to stand down. "I still haven't properly introduced myself." The Marquess gave a half bow from where he was sitting, which, despite his odd positioning on the couch, still managed to look utmost graceful and noble. "My name is Alfred Jones—Marquess. Though," the man's eyes twinkled as he straightened up, "I suspect you might know my father better. Sir Edward Cavendish Harrington II, Duke of Devonshire." Alfred had the satisfaction of seeing Arthur's jaw drop in surprise, though the Marquess was impressed at how quickly the actor recovered to reply.
"I am very... ah... humbled to make your acquaintance," Arthur finally said, having spent a little bit of time searching for the right word. No well informed peasant could go without hearing of the Duke of Devonshire, whose steward haggled penniless people down the point where they seemed to be paying him to eat their crops. Little was known about the Duke himself, except the fact that he had been knighted for bravery in warfare, though there were many rumors flying about, as always. Many of the rumors were of the type which, if spoken even close to a noble's hearing, one could probably get hung on the spot for uttering. Such was the legend of the Devil Duke of Devonshire.
... And here was his offspring. In the flesh. Plopped down in a chair, offering scotch to Arthur Kirkland, peasant.
The young actor glanced at his own glass as if it were a viper. For all he knew, it could be just as poisonous as a viper. If this man really was the son of the Devil Duke—and there would be no reason for him to lie—then Arthur's initial hunch about him being the worst of all nobles might just be right on target.
However, not wanting to offend the man—though honestly not sure which alternative, poison or offense, was worse—Arthur took a small sip of the scotch. He winced, feeling the foul liquid burn its way down his esophagus. Scotch would be very bad for his projection on stage. But the Marquess had been right in saying that it would warm him up. He could feel the fire spread to his limbs, as the actual fire behind him warmed his back and slowly dried off his clothes.
"So... Arthur." The young actor watched with apprehension as Marquess Jones—who honestly should be called Marquess Harrington, and part of Arthur's mind was stuck on why that wasn't the case—played with the sapphire ring in his hand, having cleaned it off on his glove and now was watching it shine with dancing fire light. "How did you come to possess this object?"
This was the question, and though Arthur had been trying to think of a suitable answer for quite some time, nothing had come but the truth. And his mother had always taught him that telling the truth was the best way to go about things anyways. "God had a way of understanding and guiding," she would say. Arthur crossed his fingers and hoped dearly that God—who hadn't really proved his existence one way or another to the hapless actor—would lend some guidance now.
The actor shifted uncomfortably for a bit, sure that the action made him seem even guiltier of something terrible, when in honestly, he was wondering whether or not he could sit down, as he didn't trust his legs to receive the punishment standing. As much as he wanted to stick it to the man, Arthur wasn't the strongest when it came to pain, and he avoided it wherever he could. Plus, he couldn't go and upset the status quo like that; he was at least smart enough to realize that there were better, more passive ways to go about it. He hated that all his life, he had been like this: hating the aristocracy, yet too much of a coward to do anything about it. And too polite to boot. It was a war he could not win.
"Might I take a seat, first, sir?" Arthur asked tentatively, gesturing with his empty hand to the other armchair of the two facing the fireplace.
"Of course. Please."
The young actor took a seat in that all too comfortable looking chair, though honestly, it could have been a wooden stool, and he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, considering how tense he was. The man took a deep breath—here goes nothing—and started into his story, not sure what parts to say and what parts to leave out. He had to explain how he knew Esmeralda, which then meant he had to explain money for school, which then led to why he was going to acting school, which then led to his work here and why he had come to London in the first place. It was practically the whole past six years of his life laid bare for inspection.
It wasn't a nice feeling.
Alfred didn't interrupt at all as Arthur told his story, though he kept his eyes trained on the actor, who was obviously trying really hard not to look back. The handsome Marquess had that effect on people, though he'd never been happy about it. It did come in handy, sometimes, nevertheless.
When the young actor finished, he finally glanced up to gauge the Marquess's reaction, and his bushy eyebrows furrowed. What he saw wasn't what he expected. There were tears in the Marquess's eyes, and he was looking at the fireplace now, instead of at the actor. Other things in the man's demeanor had changed too: there was no longer that playful smirk, and those eyes didn't twinkle mischievously, but were rather serious, actually. Arthur never deemed himself a good story teller, and in fact, he had glanced right over Esmeralda's death, the memory still too raw in his mind to tell, especially to someone he barely knew. He had remembered getting angry when he mentioned her death, already reacting to the laughter that he had been expecting to get. But now he saw that his anger was unwarranted; this man before him seemed to be equally affected too—but why?
"She's... gone," Alfred whispered into the silence. Arthur said nothing, but his expression held the same confusion as before. It seemed the Marquess knew Esmeralda, based on his reaction and the way he had just said those words. Arthur could hear the sadness one possessed when someone one personally knew and liked—if not loved—died. If anything, he had spent countless hours rehearsing the difference between such a sadness and other sadnesses, like feigned sadness, or lovesick sadness—all in an effort to be the best actor out there. He could tell.
Alfred wiped his tears away and laughed a hollow laugh. "You must think me quite odd. I apologize." He tried to flash Arthur a bright smile, but what came across was more of a watery grimace that made the Marquess look absolutely pitiful. Arthur had to fight the human nature urge to hug the man—a fact which startled him beyond compare. The young actor never thought the day would come when he would have that urge toward another fully grown man, let alone an aristocrat, who was of a class which he hated with every fiber of his being. And somehow, irrationally, he grew to dislike Marquess Jones more because the man caused these weird feelings. Who did the guy think he was, coming into Arthur's life and messing it up like that? Arrogant lily-livered toadwart, Arthur thought, his mind, as always, deep in Shakespeare.
Despite that thought, however, Arthur could see that those were genuine tears, and it made his heart soften that someone else in the world would cry for Esmeralda. His mind was changing left and right about his opinion regarding this man.
"Let me offer you an explanation which I think will suffice," Alfred started. "I knew her, long ago. When I turned eighteen, my father gave me the family ring, which"—Alfred held the sapphire ring up in the space between them, which had gotten awfully small ever since the Marquess had sat up and leaned forward; it was almost conspiratorial—"as you've probably guessed, is this one right here."
Arthur was quite surprised. He had not guessed. Based on the way Esmeralda had said it on her deathbed, Arthur had expected someone much older, someone that Esmeralda would have known maybe twenty years ago. But this man couldn't have been much older than twenty anyways, and there was no way a child would be in possession of such a valuable object. Well, at least now he wouldn't have to keep wondering as to whom that ring belonged. He knew he would have to return it now, though he couldn't help but feel torn. It was his last physical connection to Esmeralda, after all.
Alfred paused for a bit, just for the same reason that Arthur had before. What to tell, and what to leave out? The Marquess's gut instinct about the man before him was one of trust, an instinctual reaction that seldom occurred with anyone else. Always not one to overthink things like this, Alfred trusted his quick judgment and went with it.
"I was supposed to use it to find someone suitable, court her, and marry her. But, for certain reasons"—okay, maybe not that much trust that he'd reveal what those reasons were; no one knew—"and because the prospect of being tied down terrifies me,"—the Marquess glanced at Arthur to gauge the man's reaction—"I gave the ring to Esmeralda, intent on never marrying."
Arthur gave nothing away by his expressions, which he was trying very hard to put into a calm facade, despite his racing mind. Thus, the Marquess continued, "Now I know you're wondering how I came to know Esmeralda. It's a long story, but, as I'm sure you know, she has a way of making everyone feel loved and at home." Arthur couldn't help the small scowl that escaped his tight emotional hold. Damn, his acting was slipping in the face of such an interesting man. But Arthur didn't like being lumped in with Marquess Jones straight off the bat just because they had a common acquaintance. After all, he was sure that his relationship with the woman and the Marquess's relationship were entirely different.
"She treated me like I was her son whenever I came to visit the shop—which I started doing from age eighteen, on a night when I wandered the city, aimlessly hoping for a distraction from the fate that was marriage." Alfred was too lost in his reminiscence to really notice much of what Arthur was doing anymore, having returned his attention to the fireplace. "She listened to me, and comforted me, and told me a slew of wonderful stories. She always knew what to say and how to cheer up my day." The Marquess sighed. "Thus, when I turned twenty and decided that I would not marry, it was only natural to give her the ring. I went there on my birthday with that intention, and she refused right off the bat," Alfred uttered, smiling at the memory. Esmeralda was just that type of person, and the both of them knew that. "But I insisted, and eventually, she said she would put it in safe keeping for me."
The Marquess looked down at his feet, his posture screaming of shame and regret. "I haven't seen her since."
Arthur waited for more of the story, or at least an explanation, but none was forthcoming. It wasn't the story he had expected to hear, and it somehow made him feel kinder toward the nobleman and angry at him at the same time. How could Esmeralda have treated him so well, yet he never went back to visit once since that time?
"If I may, sir," Arthur started, sure he was overstepping some line somewhere, "but how old are you currently?"
"... Twenty-five."
Five years ago. That was five years ago. There was no way that a man would be too busy to go back and visit for five years. Albeit, Esmeralda had been dead for three of those five, but still. It made Arthur angry nevertheless. Whatever softening feelings he had for the nobleman disappeared. The man didn't deserve to know Esmeralda. Arthur was so annoyed that he could very well have punched something, except for the fact that he was sure he'd get fined for whatever he broke. Being a peasant, no matter how irrational you got, you were always mindful of money.
"And you?" Alfred asked, tentatively glancing at Arthur. Despite how the actor struggled to hide it, Alfred could see that the man was annoyed, if not angry, with the way that story ended. It was only natural; Alfred was angry in himself, too. He had been foolish, too afraid to come back to the place that housed such a symbolic object, despite the wonderful memories that it held too. But what if Esmeralda had insisted on giving back his ring? Alfred was too much of a coward, too scared of contracts and settling down, losing his freedom, and marrying a woman, a gender which he had learned long ago he would never love in a lover's way, that he never could bring up the courage to go back. And now it was too late.
"Twenty-two," Arthur's steeled voice replied softly. "Sir." He was obligated to answer because it was a nobleman to whom he was speaking, but he didn't want to talk to this man—the man who had abandoned Esmeralda—any more than necessary. Even though he himself had only known Esmeralda for two years, his connection with the woman was something he treasured deeply. It wasn't nice to see someone throw away such a valuable woman, especially without explanation.
"You look younger," Alfred spoke with a light voice. They seemed to be fishing at things to fill the silence now.
"I get that a lot." Screw the "sir" thing. The Marquess would just have to deal with it.
"Look, I know you're angry—"
"You have no idea—" but as those words left his mouth, he regretted it immediately. His anger was getting the better of him, and he had forgotten for just a moment to whom he was speaking. "Sorry," he hastily spoke, bowing his head down deeply. The deeper you went the more respectful the bow; Arthur's nose was practically touching his knees. Stupid! he chided himself. It was one thing to hold resentment against someone, but it was another to act so rashly.
"Don't be. You're right." Arthur's head snapped back up in surprise. No angry blow? No harsh words? Just what sort of game was this guy playing? The young actor had a feeling that he would never be able to figure out the nobleman, which made him defensive all the more. This guy definitely was the most dangerous of them all.
"I have my reasons, you know," Alfred continued, "but you should know, Arthur, that I am deeply ashamed and filled with regret." The Marquess was trying to explain himself to the actor, though he didn't quite know why. Something about the young actor made Marquess Jones want to be accepted; he wanted to be in this man's good graces, even though the good graces of someone of such stature really didn't matter in the aristocratic world. Yet, nevertheless, it hurt his heart to feel such disapproval emanating from that bushy-eyebrowed face that he barely knew, and he yearned to bring a smile to replace that scowl.
The long silence that followed felt very awkward to the both of them. What was Arthur supposed to say? Good for you, you deserve all those feelings, 'thou fry of treachery'? That would be such an insult to Macbeth. Plus, that would be crossing so many lines that he might as well have been running across the wooden floors of the theatre. Thus, the actor settled on changing the subject.
"Anyways, considering it's yours, sir"—that word was just uttered out of habit now—"I... uhh... It's my pleasure to return the ring to you." The good thing about being an actor is that once Arthur actually calmed down a bit, he could disguise his voice quite well. No one could tell that he was utterly mortified at the concept of giving up that item, especially to the Devil Duke's son who had spurned Esmeralda so, even if it rightly belonged to the man.
But Alfred was smart enough to know Arthur's feelings on the matter nevertheless; it was clear the ring held a great importance to the young actor. Alfred would feel the same way if he were in the same situation. And the Marquess still wasn't planning on getting married anyways, despite the increasing pressures from his father. He was soon going to pass the prime age of thirty, after all, and that would be getting to a late point in the world of marriage prospects. If Alfred wanted a beautiful woman—which wasn't troublesome to find, considering how much he got chased around and flirted with at balls and other social events—he would have to act soon. The problem was that he didn't want a beautiful woman—something which was completely unacceptable and unthinkable in society of any level, let alone the aristocracy. And worst of all, he could tell no one.
"You know," Alfred started, definitely working up to something. "I've seen you before. One can't own a good playhouse and never watch its plays."
The surprises just kept coming tonight for Arthur. In light of such new developments, he had almost completely forgotten that this man before him owned the room in which they were sitting, and the whole building around it. The Marquess had just seemed so human a second ago that it had escaped Arthur's mind that this man was rich beyond imagination.
The young actor blushed. "That's not surprising," Arthur replied, wholly surprised, of course.
Alfred leaned in, holding the ring up to the light. "How about this..." Alfred began, a plan forming in his head. "Might I have your hand?" Seeing Arthur's struggling and distrustful expression, which the young actor was trying so hard to hide, some of Alfred's humor returned to him. Alfred chuckled. "As I said, I don't bite."
Arthur tentatively offered the man his left hand, feeling utterly ridiculous and princess-esque with the way he carried off the gesture. It wasn't his fault that, because of his young age and soft facial features, he was almost always cast as a female in plays. Thus, the movement, with fingers pointed downward and wrist delicately curved up, came naturally, and before he could fix it, Alfred had already caught his hand.
Alfred slipped the sapphire ring onto Arthur's slender ring finger, where it surprisingly fit so nicely that it almost seemed the ring had been measured specifically for that purpose. Marquess Jones delighted in the fact that the actor had offered his left hand; it made the playful symbolism all the more perfect, and Alfred needed some cheering up right now. No doubt his true depression would come when he got back to his manor. Thus, for now, he had to enjoy what he could while he could.
"You can have the ring, as long as you promise to wear it when you play Juliet."
Arthur really felt like snatching his hand away, partly out of surprise and partly out of embarrassment. Who did this arrogant bastard think he was, waltzing in out of nowhere and mimicking a proposal on their first encounter? And what nonsense was he spouting?
"Juliet?"
"Yes, Juliet," the Marquess spoke, letting go of Arthur's hand and leaning back in his chair. He finished his scotch without further explanation. Arthur had a feeling that he wouldn't get much more out of the subject from the odd—possibly a little off in the head—nobleman.
Alfred took the silence, along with those blushing cheeks, and the fact that Arthur still hadn't taken the ring back off, as a sign that the promise was made.
Glancing at his pocket-watch, Alfred stood up and leaned his head forward ever so slightly—no deep bows coming from nobleman to peasant, after all. "I apologize. I've kept you long enough, and you seem sufficiently dry. I know you need to get to work." Straightening up, Alfred flashed Arthur a small smile, slightly tainted with the mutual sadness they still felt over Esmeralda'a passing. "If you would like, I can have a word with Mr. Bradley."
"I can take care of myself," Arthur replied somewhat snappily, without meaning to. He was just frustrated at not being able to figure out this nobleman, so different was he from the rest of the aristocracy Arthur had encountered or heard about. It unnerved the young actor a little. Plus, he was still a bit offended at all the flirting. Typical of noblemen, walking all over the lower classes and doing whatever they wanted. Well, Arthur had his pride, and it didn't like being pushed around.
"—Sir," he added. He knew he was walking a fine line, and even with the added "sir," he hadn't tried to disguise his annoyance. He might have been writing his death sentence, but if this nobleman was that different from everyone else, then Arthur was pretty sure he would be surprised by the abnormal reaction. And indeed he was.
Alfred laughed, despite the sadness in his eyes. The sound was bright and attention grabbing, no doubt an aristocrat's well practiced laugh.
"You mistake me. I have no doubt that you can," the Marquess replied, fighting the urge to reach over and ruffle that already messy blond head.
Arthur took that as his signal to leave. Taking off the ring in an obvious way, he pocketed it, both of them acknowledging the promise the actor had wordlessly made before, though it still made no sense to Arthur what that had meant. The theatre's next play, due to open in two weeks, was A Midsummer Night's Dream, in which Arthur was playing a fairy—Second Fairy, to be exact. All the other roles went to older, more experienced actors. There was no plan, as far as he knew, to do Romeo and Juliet any time soon.
Whatever. The nobleman could spout all the nonsense he wanted. It wouldn't be Arthur's problem.
Bowing, Arthur said, "Well then, Marquess, I take my leave." Arthur then turned around and headed for the door. He stopped momentarily as he heard from behind him Alfred's reply.
"It really was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Arthur Kirkland."
Arthur made no reply, though he lingered a bit before walking on and closing the door behind him. He didn't know how he felt toward that oddity of an aristocrat. When the man had been serious, he had looked so weary and so sad that he seemed completely human. In those moments, it really felt like they were just two men sharing a drink together. But those moments passed quickly, and Arthur had been brought back to his senses by some aristocratic quirk or other, at which point his suspicion and annoyance returned with a vengeance. His feelings were so contradicting. He had snapped at the nobleman often enough that he was sure that if it had been anyone else, Arthur would have gotten punched. Arthur had even refused the kind offer for the nobleman to put in his word to Mr. Bradley, though part of him—the less stubborn, more realistic part—wanted to have the nobleman talk to the manager. As it were, Arthur was sure that he was walking from one evil to another.
That glass of scotch had been a very good idea on the Marquess's part, Arthur would give him that.
Author's Comments:
First real chapter! I'm so excited! This one was a bit hard to write, actually, considering how much Arthur's and Alfred's feelings flipped around as time passed. But I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Having Alfred use polite British words feels so weird, but I promise he gets more "American" as he gets more comfortable. He's overly British when he is being polite or in the face of anyone but people close to him—which basically means just his mother. For now, of course. ;]
All right, all right. I know how weird "Marquess Jones" sounds, but there's an explanation. It's not his father's name; it's his mother's (who is an American). Alfred had always been closer to his mother than his father, and thus, independently took his mother's surname without his father's blessings. The two have always been a bit on edge with each other, which you'll get to see later.
And by the way, I doubt that this story would have many other Hetalia characters in it like my other one. Somehow "Victorian"-ish London doesn't seem to be as international a place as current day New York, you know? It's harder to fit them in, and if they don't fit, I won't use them. Thus, many of the names you'll see are just people I make up for the story. Hope you don't mind that.
Ages, for those of you who are wondering, works like this: Arthur is currently 22, Alfred 25. When Esmeralda died, Arthur was 19, Alfred 22. When the ring was given to Esmeralda, Arthur was 17, having just moved to the city, Alfred 20. I'm too lazy to figure out the exact timing for these events, and thus certain more accurate age differences based on birthdays and everything, so forgive me.
As always, if you find anything that you think I should improve, please let me know. Writing flip-flopping emotions is especially tough, and I hope I didn't move too fast and too unrealistically. Thus, I hope you will honor me by taking the time to point out if I did, or if I messed up anywhere else. I always worry about being unrealistic (though sometimes you can only be a certain amount of realism when writing such an AU fic). Please let me know! Your reviews and feedback, positive or negative, are what keep me going!
Oh, and as I wrote this chapter, I started to see another side of how fun this thing will be. So many Shakespeare references I get to make! And for those of you who've read On Better Terms, you know just how much I like my Shakespeare. This is going to be a blast!
So much appreciation!
Galythia
P.S. For those of you who have read On Better Terms, I'm sorry for the short length of this chapter. I know you're used to longer ones. I just like spacing out my chapters based on... the feel of them, and it felt right to end this one here. I know I could have added more details, but I didn't want to run the risk of rambling. Forgive me!
