A/N: The angst is not over with yet, unfortunately, but you know as well as I do that it's coming. Stick around. A few weeks and we should be there!

As always, any and all comments are super appreciated. Stay safe, everyone!

Chapter 18: In the Heart of Darkness - part III

10 August, 1925

After unpacking, Bertie had taken a tour of the house, accompanied only by Yearnshire. All attempts by the permanent members of staff to present him with their good work on preserving everything to a decorous standard in spite of their very small number had been met with polite smiles and reassurances that Bertie trusted their work and was not there to boot them out. They were shocked into retreat.

The more he had circled the rooms, the more an idea had been taking shape into his head. He had been pondering over a solution for Peter's paintings, which he had left in London upon his return from Tangiers with all the previous paintings his cousin had produced. The solution for Hexham House taking shape in his mind was suddenly presenting itself as a way to kill two birds with one stone.

"Have you thought of something, Milord?"

"Museum House." It was a sudden declaration, and probably one that needed explaining. "I am never here, or if I am I am unlikely to need a place to stay that has more rooms than I can count; I stay in London for a couple of days at the time, five at best, and then go back to Brancaster, so hiring a bigger staff makes no sense whatsoever, and to maintain Hexham House at the standard it deserves, the current staff is not exactly enough. They work hard, and I do believe they make a very good job, but one maid to clean all these rooms is a ridiculous thought. On the other hand, selling seems like something that really shouldn't be my decision," Bertie admitted, more to himself than the valet.

He had failed to address the issue before, but the truth of the matter was that he had not been raised to be Lord Hexham, and, to him, that meant that whatever possession he had come into after Peter's death wasn't truly his; it would be his heir's, and Bertie would not oppose him selling the entirety of his possessions, if that was what he would decide, but he didn't feel like he could make that decision for himself, not while everything he believed himself to be was the Hexham fortune's caretaker. The matter of the heir, of course, was one Bertie had to consider carefully; he knew he had to start thinking about his options, but for the time being, he couldn't help but avoid all attempts at imaging himself with a woman at his side, for they inevitably led him to thoughts of Edith, and Bertie had been determined not to think of her. Mr Bell had provided him with the name of the relation who stood to inherit if Bertie were to die childless, but Bertie hadn't gone much beyond that in his investigations.

Yearnshire was looking at him, and Bertie smiled. "It would also serve as a perfect instrument to ensure Peter's legacy is not forgotten. I have seen his paintings, and I think we can arrange it so they fit in the dark-blue reception room; the lighting seems just about right, and its paintings can easily be relocated in other rooms of the house."

"It would be a lovely tribute, Milord."

"And I also think," Bertie added. "That we can keep the Eastern wing sectioned off. It has a direct connection to the servants' quarters, as well as housing the main bedrooms, two studies, the main library, the dining room and the small ballroom – should occasion ever arise for its use. It would reduce the staff's strain, and at the same time the rest of the house would generate enough profit for the upkeep to no longer be an issue."

"The idea itself sounds quite reasonable, Milord," Yearnshire agreed. "Would you know whom to approach with this plan, though?"

"Yes. In his last letter home, Peter reminded me of his connection with the Earls of Carlisle."

"He wrote to the Honourable Geoffrey Howard soon after his missive to you, Milord."

"He told me as much," Bertie agreed. "Only, the ninth Earl was a painter, and since most of his paintings have been distributed amongst private collections as well as public museums, I thought they might be able to counsel me on how to handle turning Hexham House into a Museum House."

"Well, I would say that His Lordship appears to have a sound plan."

"I do, rather," Bertie agreed, though not to compliment himself. "In fact, Yearnshire, I think I've settled all matters regarding the Hexham fortune. I need to find someone to replace Mr Carr, of course, but beyond that there is little else that needs doing." Even as the words left his mouth, Bertie felt as if he were falling through a void, unable to keep himself tethered to the ground.

"Would this then be a good moment for me to inquire about my own future, Your Lordship?"

Bertie, who had been lost in the feeling of emptiness that had threatened to overcome him at the realisation, turned abruptly towards his trusted man with bewilderment. "What do you mean by that?"

"His Lordship has been very kind in allowing me to stay on for as long as I have, but since you do not require a valet, I struggle to see how my continuous presence at Brancaster is of any use to you."

"Hasn't Charlton been keeping you busy?" Bertie asked, still unable to comprehend what Yearnshire was saying.

"Very much so. And I have taken it upon myself to instruct Matthew in the ways of being a valet – not for his personal aspirations, but because I thought he might make use of them should any guest invited to stay require the services of one. But there's no true use for me at Brancaster, not certainly as soon as things will have settled down, and though His Lordship appears to have enough handle on financial matters to keep me in employment, I am an honest worker, and cannot take charity for services not rendered."

"Then I'll become used to having a valet," Bertie declared, unwilling to accept that Yearnshire would leave his employment. He might not understand it, but Yearnshire had become a sort of anchor for him ever since Peter's death.

The Valet smiled. "It is most kind of you to offer, Milord. But we both know that would not be your preference, and we would eventually come to dislike the arrangement."

Bertie's shoulders sagged in defeat, Yearnshire was right, of course. Bertie eyed two chairs with his eye, and made his way towards them. "Sit for a while with me, please." Yearnshire followed him and complied with the request. "I can't do this on my own. Whatever everyone seems to think, and whatever front I've been presenting to the world, I am not at all ready to be the Marquess of Hexham. I know it seems terribly selfish of me, but I need you to stay on, at the very least until I can find my own footing." Bertie knew he was allowing himself to be too weak in front of Yearnshire, but the man had been a companion in the past, and had always been a trusted ally – a friend, even.

"I have remarked, in the days since my arrival at Brancaster, that Lady Edith Crawley has not made an appearance."

Bertie smiled grimly at the prompt. "I haven't even told my mother; I think she is too absorbed by her fixation with arranging everything at Brancaster to properly give the matter any consideration. If I were to tell her that I am no longer spoken for, she would try to arrange for me to find someone else to court, and I couldn't bear that."

"May I ask what brought on this separation, at the very least, Milord? I do not mean to appear too forward, but the late Lord Hexham shared with me your enthusiasm about your prospects with Lady Edith, and I have to admit to being most befuddled by this particular turn of events."

"You're not too forward by half. Indeed, the reason why I don't want to be parted from you is that I trust you to keep my secrets as well as you kept Peter's, and to not keep your thoughts on some concerns – no matter how delicate and uncomfortable they are." He paused, considering how much to tell Yearnshire. The valet certainly would keep to himself every word spoken, but Bertie didn't even remotely consider divulging the truth about Marigold, nor did he want to be responsible for someone – not even Yearnshire – coming to the right conclusions. Despite his earlier resolutions of not thinking the matter through, Yearnshire's questions forced him to re-evaluate his behaviour in spite of himself.

He remembered quite clearly the first time she had expressed her unworthiness – a perplexing reaction to his declaration of liking her beyond measure, despite knowing how very undeserving he was of courting her. He remembered all other instances in which her hesitation and her lack of self-worth had become apparent to Bertie, and though he had ascribed them to the role she had been made to play within her family nucleus, in hindsight, they had been quite something else. He remembered, finally, the words he had interpreted as her assent to marrying him; no sane man would have come to Bertie's conclusion on their meaning, of course, but Bertie had been out of his mind with grief at the time – though he did not like to think of that as a valid excuse, but rather as a factor in the equation which had brought them to Edith's forced revelation at breakfast the following morning.

"Something came between us; she displayed what I felt was a lack of trust in me, and I couldn't live with the knowledge that the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with would not trust me."

"You felt like it was a lack of trust," Yearnshire remarked. "You no longer think that, Milord?"

"I no longer feel as strongly as I did before about her guilt in the matter. Indeed, I am rather convinced I pushed her beyond what she was comfortable with in my haste to cancel the pain I felt at the loss of Cousin Peter. How could she have trusted me, when I didn't trust her request for a little more time to consider my offer of marriage?"

"Would it be quite impossible for you to apologise, Milord? Or, more importantly still, would it be even possible for you to believe her capable of never displaying a lack of trust in you again? And, on top of that, for you never to enable your grief to cloud your vision to her own feelings?"

"I'd beg on my hands and knees, if only I thought she would take me back. But I'm afraid I wouldn't know how to go about it, Yearnshire. I dare say she wouldn't look kindly on a letter sent by me or any man affiliated with me, and I doubt she will ever try to reconcile our differences of her own accord, and I can't blame her for that."

Yearnshire seemed to take the matter into consideration for a respectable amount of time. Then, much to Bertie's astonishment, he took out a letter from his breast pocket. "It came in the post three days ago. I recognised the calligraphy as belonging to Lady Adele, and didn't like showing it to you. I had a feeling about its content, and assumed you wouldn't like it, Milord."

Bertie took it from his hands, though he didn't open it, to find an invitation – for that very same evening – to a ball held at Lord and Lady Rothbury's home in London. It was the last day of the season, and it made sense that they would throw a ball at its very end. Especially since Adele was no longer Peter's intended, and needed to quickly find someone to marry. "I don't like it at all," Bertie declared when he had concluded reading it. He thought the invitation an insult, because veiled in it where words Adele had probably been forced to write on request of her mother or her father, words that seemed to imply she had an interest in him as a prospective husband. "But I'd like you to never conceal something like this from me again. Especially if you are going to have a change of heart at the last minute and tell me that you think I should actually accept the invitation. That is why you have given it to me now, I assume."

"It is," Yearnshire confirmed. "Only, Lady Edith owns a women's magazine which is very much on top of all the social events occurring in town. It might be possible for you to meet her there tonight, maybe in her capacity of journalist. Lord Rothbury's ball has been the talk of town for the past week." Peter must have given his valet a full recount of what Bertie had written in his letters home, for Yearnshire to be so aware of Edith's occupation and her magazine. Bertie was even left wondering if Peter hadn't done some investigation into Edith of his own accord, just to see whether or not she would be fit for his cousin.

"I doubt Edith will be around, but Adele has invited me, and if for no other reason than to let her know she doesn't have to throw herself at my feet, I feel compelled to go. Now, run along to give a message at the house. And offer your services while you are at it. You can tell them it's my apology for not being able to answer sooner because the message became misplaced in my post."

Yearnshire was out the door before Bertie could seriously become angry with him. He was content enough with knowing that the valet would no longer take the same decision to let him go without serious reprimand. He also didn't feel like he could get angry at a man who had willingly admitted to concealing something from him just because he saw in his confession a way for Bertie to meet up with Edith. And in the time it would take him to decide whether or not being fashionably late at the ball would be acceptable, he could also think on how to make sure Yearnshire didn't leave his employment. He knew the man wouldn't leave his service before Bertie himself released him of his duties, but Bertie did respect his wishes. He just didn't like to think there was no other solution than letting the man go; indeed, he refused to accept the notion. There was a strain of stubbornness in the Pelham genes that had definitely not passed him by. Besides, much like his mother, Bertie refused to accept defeat.

His black tie had been brought along for any eventuality, and Bertie found himself sliding into his formal suit with less difficulty than he might have imagined. Less than a month after Peter's death, Bertie still refused to wear his white tie, even though his move to attend the ball in a less formal attire might antagonise the Rothburys, since it would serve to remind them of what he thought about their swift transition from mourning to partying. Bertie might attend their ball, but he refused to wear his white tie. He still managed to come out as a perfectly respectable gentleman. He might never be a socialite, but he had learnt to appreciate the finer aspects of caring for his appearance and the image of himself he presented to the public. He had never been shabby, or unkempt, but he had not quite grasped how putting on a white tie made one more suited to being refined; he had always had an impressive posture, which he had prided himself for, but it had only been through his friendship with Peter that he had understood what displaying amour-propre in his own appearance meant. Peter had always had to be impeccable, but unlike with any other duties with which he had been entrusted, he had never complained about that particular aspect of his life. Bertie had wanted to ask him why it was that Peter could take so much pride in his looks and yet care so little about what people thought of him; he had thought it an oxymoronic attitude. Before he could grow the courage to ask him, however, Bertie had understood. Grooming himself had not been an attempt on Peter's part to look the part of future Marquess of Hexham, but rather a service to himself. Indeed, being able to look at himself in the mirror and see the better version of himself reflected in it had always helped Peter – as it had Bertie, once he had understood it – to feel stronger and readier to face the world at large; much like an armour worn in Medieval times, a creaseless suit and polished shoes were a defence against the most vicious of attacks.

At the ball his presence was received with looks of awe and pleasure from the guests, and the mix of anticipation and resentment that he had come to expect from the Rothburys. Florence, though not the house's mistress, came to him with a jovial smile and all of her friendly nature on open display; her husband was just as kind. Cousin James – the name still tasting oddly in Bertie's mind, let alone his mouth – had nothing but words of thanks to share with Bertie, and proceeded to introduce him to some of his friends during the evening, especially before the dance started properly. Bertie paid his respects to Lady Rothbury as well, thinking it only proper that he should, and apologised profusely for the very last-minute appearance – regardless of the fact that Yearnshire had undoubtedly done all the necessary grovelling for both of them. Adele spared him a look, but didn't say much beyond words of greetings. Bertie was relieved to see that she had at least had the decency to be still wearing second mourning attire, much like her sister and mother.

Her parents opened the dance, mainly because it was their house and Adele had already had her coming-out ball ten years or so before, but Bertie forced himself to ask her hand not long after her parents had started dancing. She took it, of course, and though she looked happy about the gesture to the untrained eye, Bertie had met her in the nursery at Brancaster, and could tell that she wasn't.

"Mama told me what you proposed to do for me," she said, shortly after they had begun dancing. "It was unnecessarily kind of you to offer, of course."

"I won't presume to tell you what to do about it," Bertie answered. "But if you have any doubts about Peter's intentions, let me assure you that I wasn't lying to your father when I told him about them. He did want to marry you."

"You use rather a strong word to talk about his decision on the matter. His wishes had very little to do with his intentions, after all."

"The very same could be said about you, though." The set of her jaw told him she was admitting the point. "Look, we were never friends, and we are hardly going to start now, but I don't want us to be enemies. You are always going to resent me for succeeding Peter, and you are always going to be angry at him for not facing his responsibilities sooner and leaving you with absolutely nothing in your hands. But if this hand of fate has taught me anything, it is that letting negative emotions rule our conduct doesn't accomplish much in the way of finding happiness."

"I was never looking for happiness with Peter. But I would have been happy as the Marchioness."

"But you wouldn't be happy with me, and I would be wretched with you, through no fault of your own. So, let's not pretend that we can make this work, whatever wishes your parents may harbour for you. There's a room full of men, some of whom are rather unattached and more built for their roles than I ever was. I daresay you might find happiness with one of them."

"Ah, so you did come to let me down." She smiled ruefully, and he understood that she didn't harbour any anger towards him for that particular turn of events. "Tell the next person you speak or dance with about the imminent engagement between Peter and I, and I shall think you forgiven."

"Am I allowed to add compliments to your characters while I do?"

"What were you thinking?" She asked with a devious look.

Unacceptably high standards, bullheadedness, a soul as cold and unmovable as marble, and the penchant to look at anyone with scornful superiority. What he said was quite different though, even if he liked to think of it as his attempt at a positive approach, a way to find the better side to her character traits, rather than an outright lie. "Strength of character, determination, firm resolve, and impeccable manners."

"I suppose that might work in my favour."

They separated soon thereafter. Bertie forced himself to dance with Lady Rothbury once and Florence after that; the youngest of Peter's cousins came back for a second dance later on, but Bertie stayed mostly on his own throughout, trying his best not to look like he would have wanted to be anywhere else by speaking with as many people as he could digest. All the time, he felt like the entire room was collapsing in on him, and he had no other recourse to keep himself smiling politely than to shut his brain down as much as possible. He did have one positive encounter, though, for which he was most grateful.

"Major Pelham," he heard a voice call from behind him. "We meet again."

When he turned, he was met with the familiar face of a former acquaintance of the Army, Wentworth Beaumont. "Captain," he replied, though they had both retired from the Army. The man was accompanied by a woman, whom Bertie assumed to be his wife.

"I thought I had escaped you being my superior when I left the Army. I have to tell you the truth, I didn't expect you to go to all the trouble of actually becoming a marquess to outrank me. I really am only a viscount, Lord Hexham."

Bertie smiled, though the pain of having Peter's death trivialised this way made him crack inside. He knew Lord Allendale hadn't meant to offend or be insensible, but there was no pretending to himself that this sort of remarks didn't hurt still. "I'm afraid I always was a bit of an overachiever. Still, I must admit I haven't kept much abreast of your escapades after the end of the War." Lord Allendale had been a Captain in the Army, and though they had not fought together, they had had occasion to meet over the course of the four years of conflict.

"Not much in the way of escapades, rather I have followed my father's footsteps in politics. Other than that, I suppose I've mostly been taking care of the family. Our eldest son was born three years ago, and we have had a daughter this past May."

"My sincerest congratulations to both of you," Bertie nodded, positively acknowledging the Viscount's wife for the first time. They spent some time talking, and Bertie promised them an invitation to Brancaster, after explaining that the Castle was currently being lent for the season.

"That explains why you are in London when everyone else is leaving," Lady Allendale said. "You will be the only man left by tomorrow, I'm sure."

Bertie smiled amiably, not knowing exactly what one was supposed to say to such a remark. He was saved from making too much of a fool of himself, though when Sir Michael came to talk to Lord Allendale. Apparently the two men knew each other, and Bertie thought as things went that wasn't the worst that had happened to him that night.

He had to stay at the ball nearly until its end, even though he had felt like collapsing as early as eleven o'clock. Yearnshire came with him, his own strength having been depleted. Before they could separate once they had reached Hexham House, though, Bertie decided to tell the valet that he wasn't going to need to look for a new source of employment. "Charlton has been trying to find a way of asking me to get some extra staff now that Brancaster is to be a proper house again, and though I don't see the point in hiring anyone new as of yet, I do believe I can give him an underbutler. He can teach you what you don't already know in the following months."

Yearnshire was at a loss for words, and Bertie decided to leave him and retreat to his room. He was too tired and spent to have an honest heart-to-heart with the man. He had met a good part of the Northumberland nobility in one night, as well as peers from all over the country, and had no further energies. Not for himself and certainly not for his valet.

When he woke up the following morning to find his name plastered all over the paper, he didn't even have the strength of working up the anger that he felt the newspaper deserved for portraying him like a sensation and a success. Least of all, did he have the strength to fight the accusations that he had made some moves to assert himself as Cousin Adele's future husband even as both of them seemed to still be in mourning. When he checked The Sketch, on Wednesday, he had to force himself not to rip the magazine in a million pieces; Edith's magazine had had its own go at the Rothburys ball, and Bertie's name was prominent in it. He left for Northumberland the very next day, heedless of the pity in Yearnshire's eyes.