There is some lovely fanart that was made for this chapter, located here: pics . livejournal . com /just_a_dram/ pic /0003z9dc/ (just remove the spaces!).
Complications
They made it a practice to walk with great frequency the parks in London. Charlotte examining the flora and fauna and Alice entertaining Hamish with her shocking views and impossible stories, and even though the summer weather had grown warmer, they still ventured out sans carriage, since Charlotte preferred it that way. She never would willingly submit to being shut up inside a carriage, when she could be under her own power, after having been raised traipsing around the Hat House on foot.
Even cobblestones seemed an oddity to her. Indeed, just a moment earlier a cobblestone had caught her shoe—something a friendly gnarled root would have never done—and sent her tumbling forward. She would have ended up hands and knees with spoilt gloves and torn stockings on the greasy cobblestones, except that Hamish darted forward with a quickness that seemed wholly out of character and put her to rights, so that she moved before them as if nothing had happened.
Hamish was so good with Charlotte and so reliable, Alice reflected. He was just as likely to be found on his hands and knees nowadays, serving as a pony for a rather demanding rider, and slightly red faced at being discovered by the rider's amused mother, as he was to assist her in more proper ways, such as his neat handling of the problem of setting up a trust for Charlotte. Steady, gentlemanly Hamish, whose hat was much too plain, much too black, and lacking in an extravagance of hat pins or sashes for her taste. Nevertheless, he would have made someone a very good sort of husband, Alice thought fondly, as she gazed up at him in the afternoon sunshine. That had never occurred to her before, as she had always been concerned with thinking what an unsuitable match he would have been for herself. But for some other young lady?
"Why did you never marry?" she asked, her curiosity causing her thoughts to spill from her head like an overfilled teacup. "It needn't have been one of those dreadful Chattaway girls, but I'm sure there was…or is perhaps some lady in your acquaintance that you might marry." Her thoughts fluttered free form through her mind, regrettably working themselves out only after she spoke. If there was some lady, that lady might resent him spending so much time at the Kingsleigh house, Alice considered, and found that she did not entirely like the prospect of Hamish having a sweetheart. She wished almost immediately that she could back away from the topic at hand; she would not want him to think her a busy body old maid with nothing better to do than urge him to marry—that was the job of mothers more decidedly traditional than herself—so she added for good measure, "If you cared to."
His gaze skittered away from hers, but in that brief moment Alice thought she saw reproach. With her arm linked through his, she could not properly regain his attention unless he desired to bestow it upon her, however; so try as she might, she could not confirm his censure. His gaze was resolutely schooled on Charlotte, who continued to skip and scamper just in front of them, managing miraculously—or perhaps magically—to stay clean in her white, eyelet frock and striped stockings.
"Hamish," she said softly, squeezing his elbow. "I'm not your mother. You can confess it to me and I won't tell a soul that you prefer to slurp your soup at night alone without a wife to scold you," she whispered, attempting to tease him into an admission.
"Don't ruin a nice day, Alice," he responded steely.
"I had no idea of doing any such thing," she replied. She was torn between relief and disappointment that Hamish insisted on being stalwartly impersonal. Her unease forced her to push him a bit further, a terrible habit she had not yet managed to quell. "I suppose by asking you a personal question I've trampled on your comforting code of etiquette, haven't I?"
"I'm not averse to all personal questions, and I rather resent the implication that I'm rigid—that I'm as dull as a walking encyclopedia," he responded rather too loudly to be considered polite.
"I'd think an encyclopedia with feet would be anything but dull," she said, tugging on his elbow. "Do you imagine it would wear patents?" But he gave no response to her attempt at cheerful madness. "I don't think you're dull, Hamish. Whatever has made you so cross?"
"Nothing," he said gruffly.
"Are we not friends?" She could not bear for him to be angry with her, or to think that he, the man she truly counted as her only friend now, would always be more comfortable discussing the condition of the roads with her than sharing anything personal with her. Once his reserve had been a comfort, but now it began to feel like a barrier.
He snorted. "Yes, I suppose we are." She could see his neck growing red above his collar. "And as you are simply my friend, I don't think you need be privy to the workings of my heart."
Alice blinked, silenced by his evident distress. In the six months since Hamish's card had first appeared on the bare silver tray in their entry hall, he had become not only her only friend, but the one upon whom she felt she could rely and call upon for all manner of things. It cut her that he did not feel the same.
Perhaps there was only one woman with whom he could rightly share his true feelings. Perhaps her teasing had unintentionally hit the mark too closely. She frowned to herself, hoping very much it was not one of the Chattaway sisters, who had not surprisingly remained unmarried in the intervening years. Although, when she attempted to imagine a better match for Hamish, her mind revolted and refused.
He stopped abruptly. "Perhaps we should turn back. The sun is dreadfully strong."
"Botheration," she mumbled to herself. The sun was not all that strong, and she had her parasol to protect herself, but she was not going to argue the point. "Charlotte," she called out, her voice sounding thin and strained. "Come to Mother: we're going home."
"You should know that people are beginning to talk," his mother said, her eyes meeting him over the table, where they dined alone.
"This is why I prefer the clubs: there is a great deal less gossip that goes on there." He did not actually like his club all that much, since he was bollocks at billiards and was not terribly adept at meaningless conversation over cigars, but it was often preferable to an evening spent idle with his mother. Those were his choices as a bachelor, unless he was invited to dine elsewhere, and lately his invitations had admittedly slowed to a trickle. Maybe his mother did not exaggerate: he may have become the focus of gossip.
She frowned at him. "She's been a bad influence on you, I'm afraid. You were never so unreliable before."
His mother spoke as if he was a little boy. "She?" he asked with feigned confusion that made his mother's nostrils flare.
"Alice Kingsleigh, of course."
"Ah, I see. Although, Alice Hightopp, I believe, is more accurate. She's a widow, as I'm sure you know."
His mother sniffed. "Maybe she is and maybe she isn't."
"She is. She's worn enough black to suit anyone's demands, I should think." He did prefer Alice in blue, but he would never voice that opinion to anyone.
"You would know, Hamish, seeing as you spend all your time there."
"I didn't think you'd noticed," he replied with a bland smile. He knew he was antagonizing her, but this subject made him feel unaccountably bold. Perchance Alice had had an effect on him after all.
"Don't think I don't know where you were on Tuesday, when I would have had you escort me to the flower show."
If he was but ten years younger, he had no doubt his mother would have thought very little of shaking her finger at him, but he was at least nominally the man of this house now, he was Lord Ascot, heir to centuries of tradition and power.
Hamish cut a sliced potato in half with a quick motion of his knife and fork, as he spoke, "Would you care to see my appointment book?" Whatever his mother suspected, he had not been at the Kingsleigh's. He had not been there in several weeks, after parting with Alice petulantly, his pride stung from her questions about his love life, which so obviously indicated that her interest in it was purely friendly.
"You're spending much too much time with her and her daughter. Walking across half of London, no less, where everyone can see you." His mother punctuated her disapproval by stabbing a piece of the chicken fricassee—Hamish would have preferred roast pork, but his mother always instructed the cook to avoid meals she was certain would be hard on her son's delicate digestion, Lord Ascot or no—on her plate with more force than wholly necessary.
"I'm sorry if my kindness to a family friend has brought unflattering attention your way, Mother."
"The Kingsleighs are no friends of ours, Hamish. They have fallen much too far for that, I assure you."
He rested his knife across the plate, and the serving man behind him stepped forward seamlessly to retrieve it. His mother held his gaze, daring him to disagree. His mother's plate was likewise cleared, leaving her nothing left to stab, but she still managed to look darts at him.
He was well aware of the Kingsleighs' fall from their always precarious perch on the social ladder; there was no need to deny it. "Well then, they are friends of mine."
"I suppose she asks for your assistance quite often? Plays upon your kindness? Those Kingsleighs were always after whatever they could get."
He would not honor that with a response. Alice was much too proud to ask for his material assistance. He knew what it had meant for her to come to him on behalf of Charlotte, what that would have cost her if she had felt they were not friends, if they did not deal as equals. The very notion was such an affront, that if dessert was not still waiting to be served, he would have put an end to this conversation by leaving the room, but there would be no peace in his house if he stormed off before dessert was served and thereby insulted and inconvenienced the cook. And admittedly, Hamish did enjoy a nice pudding.
"You once thought her good enough for me," he reminded his mother.
His mother picked up her glass, although she did not bring it to her lips. "For purely aesthetic reasons."
Yes, his mother had dreamt of babies prettier than her own had been. "She still has good bone structure and fine teeth, you'll be happy to hear then."
"Mark my words: she means to trap you, so they can lift themselves back up—higher than before," his mother said with great confidence, her shoulders drawn straight, head held high. "To prey upon your sympathy for that misbegotten child of hers."
"That's quite enough, thank you," Hamish demanded, his voice very nearly raised. He would not have either Charlotte or Alice spoken about in such a manner by anyone. Let alone his mother under his own roof. "Alice would still no more think of having me than she would consider attending one of your wretched luncheons. She hasn't any interest and thinks on me as nothing but a friend." The relief on his mother's face at this made Hamish ball his hands in his lap. He did not normally confess his feelings to anyone, but her haughty insistence piqued him into an angry declaration. "Even though I might wish it otherwise."
The crystal glass in her hand shook. "Hamish! God forbid!"
"And if she would have me, Mother, it would be your job to welcome her into our family with civility and compassion."
"You mean to ask her, you little fool."
"No, I'm not that big a fool."
He knew of no other women who would set off for Asia. None other that would turn down a marriage proposal from a man materially and socially better off than herself. None that insisted on being so wholly herself despite what people might think. He liked her better for all of it, even if it frightened him no small amount.
He should have never dreamt of winning Alice's heart. Her friendship should have been enough. And now that it might be lost, dashed by his own hands, he knew he must get it back.
He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. He did not think he could even stomach a treacle pudding—his very favorite—any longer.
"Hamish hasn't been by in some time," her mother observed over her mending.
Five weeks. Alice was sure enough of time Above, which tended to be rather more regular than Below, to know the number of weeks that had passed since Hamish had left Charlotte and herself at their townhouse's doorstep, his cane angrily tapping on the sidewalk as he walked away.
Charlotte felt the passage of Time as well, although she was generally not on good terms with Him—her bedtime, for example, was often a much maligned hour—taking after her father in this as well. Yes, Charlotte had noticed the days as they passed, mentioning more than once that she missed Uncle Hamish. Alice had made excuses for him, for she knew not what else to do.
A letter of apology might be necessary, but Alice so hated formalities such as letters. It would be so much easier to see him and clasp his hand and speak what she did not care to put to paper.
"I think he might have other more pressing engagements," Alice said, rolling some fragments of yarn into a tight ball for the amusement of Charlotte's new little grey kitten, Mally—Alice was certain the namesake would not appreciate the dubious distinction—given to her for her fifth birthday.
"Oh?"
"Is he overwhelmed with haberdashery?" Charlotte lisped, and Alice felt as if her world tilted for a moment. Charlotte had often heard that excuse as a wee one, but just the word—haberdashery—had been too much a mouthful for her to repeat. It was said to her as an explanation for any number of reasons. Why Faither could not join them in the vegetable garden. Why he needed to stay up much later than she did. Why he was needed at the palace. Why his hands were so terribly stained. Yes, she had heard it often enough, but more often than not, Tarrant had happily put aside haberdashery—what he would have once thought an impossibility!—so as to be with his family.
The foundation of the house was no doubt solid enough, but she felt an uneasy shift nonetheless. The wound was still fresh enough—a year and six months had gone by since Tarrant's passing—but ever since Hamish's absence, the wound had bothered her more than it had in several months. She hoped very much that she had not lost Hamish as a friend through her impertinence.
"I think perhaps Uncle Hamish might have other young ladies to visit," Alice explained, tossing the ball of yarn down. "Or rather," she said, addressing her mother, "one in particular? I take it Hamish has a sweetheart."
Her mother frowned. "That seems unlikely."
"Truly? You would have had me marry him once. Surely there is a great deal to recommend Hamish to a young woman."
Her mother cleared her throat with a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I'm glad to hear you say so, although I merely meant to say that I doubt Hamish is visiting some other young lady. Not that he couldn't attract one if he so chose."
The misunderstanding should not have embarrassed Alice as much as it did, but she felt as if her insides were twisting. She brushed off the feeling by bending down and uselessly arranging the black velvet ribbon in Charlotte's curly locks. It was useless, because the ribbon always ended up eschew, no matter how many times Alice or her mother attempted to retie it. The blue ribbon around Mally's neck was likewise always coming undone.
"What would make you think such a thing, my dear?" her mother asked.
"I may have teased him a little bit."
"I wish you wouldn't."
"It's good for him," Alice explained, smiling despite herself. "Hamish needs teasing. Otherwise he takes himself too seriously." She paused, fiddling with her apron. "Only, I think perhaps he took offense this time. You haven't heard anything about either of the Chattaway girls having an upcoming announcement, have you?"
"I haven't spoken with Mrs. Chattaway, Alice."
Of course not. Who amongst their old acquaintances still spoke to her mother? "I'll never forgive Hamish is he marries someone as stupid as Fiona or Faith."
"I very much doubt such a plan has ever entered his mind. Has it never occurred to you why Hamish spends so much of his time here?"
Charlotte crawled after the kitten, who was insisting on demonstrating some independence that required escaping Charlotte's yellow skirts. Alice watched the quick retrieval of the mewling kitten, and it struck her that Hamish had not even seen the kitten, it was such a new addition to their little family, and that made her curiously sad. Not just the kitten: he had missed Charlotte's birthday celebration. There had been the very generous gift he sent, wrapped with a wide satin bow, and clearly selected with great care, but he had been absent. "He's very fond of Charlotte."
"I dare say he is, but surely that's not the only reason he visits, hmm?"
Alice choked on a laugh, as she twisted the apron tighter in her fingers. "Hamish never did care for me, Mother. It was an arrangement on his side as much as mine."
"He's told you that, has he?"
"No. Hamish would never be so direct as to express himself in that manner." Sometimes Alice wondered that Hamish ever managed to express himself at all.
"At the expense of speaking in proverbs, actions speak louder than words. Hamish risks a great deal by coming to see you."
"Charlotte," Alice stubbornly corrected.
"Don't be dim," her mother chided somewhat harshly, as she plied her needle with unnecessary force, darning a hole that must be fixed, for their budget did not include new stockings this month.
Her mother was already beginning to slip into genteel poverty, in addition to having lost most of her friends. With herself and Charlotte as an additional burden she would eventually slip further. Alice hated to think that she would be the cause of her mother's discomfort, for little things like fresh flowers in the entry hall did make such a difference in her spirits. But what was she to do? She had been miserable apprenticing for the company, and once the former Lord Ascot passed away there was no one to stand by her should she choose that particular route once more. She supposed Hamish would do so if she asked, but the idea of potentially making a mess of his business ventures did not appeal to her in the least.
Alice could feel color staining her cheeks—shamefaced at the thought of Hamish feeling more for her than she had previously assumed and at being so hopelessly in her mother's debt with no way to assist her. She knew her mother believed there to be a solution to all their problems.
And perhaps there was. Only, she liked him much too much to take him so as to solve a problem.
