A/N: Well, I started writing this story 1 year ago today – the day my Grandmother passed away. It's still technically "on hold" until I finish my big Poppins fic, but I wrote this chapter a few months ago and thought it a good time to publish it to say "I'm still here, and will be back very soon!"
However, I do start my last semester of college in 2 weeks, so I can't promise consistency in updates!
Anyway, I hope you like this, and please leave a comment if you do :)
Archibald did not know how long he'd been wandering about the manor – was he lost, or had he been trying to lose himself?
In truth, it didn't matter much to him – nothing mattered anymore.
It began earlier that day, when he had ventured out into the maze of Gardens to search for the door to Lily's private paradise. He didn't plan to go inside – the key would remain buried. He knew to dig it up would alert the gardeners of its presence; he couldn't hide freshly over-turned earth. He simply wanted to see if he could still find the door.
When his efforts proved fruitless, he resolved to return to his library, hoping to lose himself in a book for a couple of hours.
Instead, the master of Misselthwaite found himself wandering the near-abandoned halls of the big old house, unsure of where he was, and completely oblivious of how he got there.
The last thing he recalled was walking in through the back entrance to the gardens, and now he was stood outside a large door in Heaven knows what part of the house. He'd spent so much time in his apartment in the last year that he'd almost forgotten the layout of the rest of the manor.
Upon closer inspection, however, he realised where he was, and cursed his unconscious mind for leading him to such a place.
He studied the large burgundy-stained oak door, tracing the gold-plated trimmings of the carved ornamentations with timid fingers. He then reached for the doorknob, rubbing his thumb over the carving of a rose on it – a newer addition – before testing it.
Locked… as it should, he thought.
After a moment's hesitation, Archibald dug into his pocket to pull out his skeleton key. Fitting it into the lock, he looked both ways down the long corridor and slowly pushed open the door, which emitted a creak that sounded like a moan from over a year of disuse. He didn't hear it though, being too caught up in the sudden wafts of dust mingled with a variety of floral essences.
He looked around, taking in the familiar layout, nostalgic for a time when the furniture wasn't all covered in dust. He walked around, circle after circle, his eyes closed as he tuned into the sound of his shoes clicking upon the hardwood floor, and he tried to remember those days when the room was full of life.
Archibald ran his hands over some articles, remembering: on this chaise, she would lie and laugh as she hiked up her petticoats to remove her silk stockings after a long day; at this vanity she'd sit after a lavish party, and take one last look at her lovely updo before signally her lady's maid (or himself) to remove the pins and brush out her long blonde hair; in this chair, he would sit as he read some of their favourite poems aloud, trying to not be distracted by the woman humming along to the rhythm of the verse as she let french oils mingle with the stream of her bath, her head leaning on the back of the porcelain tub, and her breasts peeking over the top of the water every time she'd take a deep breath in to savour to aromas herself.
And over here on the divan, she would sit with him over mid-morning tea, her hair less than perfect and her boots a bit muddy, but looking most beautiful, glowing form the moorland air after a morning in the garden with him.
That was bliss – a bliss he would never know again. He repressed the tears that teased him, sticking in his throat, and he hastily removed himself from his wife's boudoir – which wasn't anymore – locking it behind him so as to keep it undisturbed until her return… so one could hope.
…
"Neville, I think it would be best if you take over the affairs of the estate," Archibald expressed as plainly as possible when they met for supper that evening.
The hunchback had been in Paris for the last few weeks and surprised his brother with such a quick return. It was Neville who had suggested a change of atmosphere, but being away from Yorkshire didn't seem to have the desired effect. Being back in Paris only reminded him of his wedding tour, and every inch of the flat there brought back painful memories of the joy the newlyweds had felt.
So, he'd ordered Mr. Pitcher to prepare for his return to Misselthwaite, without alerting Neville of his intentions. He'd slipped back in late last night, and sent word of his return in the morning, requesting supper with his brother in lieu of their former breakfasting arrangements.
He wanted to the morning to himself.
"I would gladly help you out, Archie, but – in truth – all of it?" the doctor replied, checking that his voice maintained an acceptable level of shock to counteract his eagerness to accept the proposal on the spot.
Neville had always harboured a bit of envy toward his brother's title. Growing up, when it came to women – or rather, prospective lovers – being a Baron was much more enticing than simply being the baby brother of one. Becoming a doctor had helped a little, but surely no one expected Archibald to ever marry, let alone have children!
He had to admit, his lordship had not been handling paperwork very well since Lily's death, leading him to hope for the day this proposal would come. Neville had thought at first Archibald may get better, and did not want to get his hopes up; but once he realised things were getting worse, his spirits – he felt a tad guilty admitting – heightened at what the prospects could mean for him.
Archibald reassured him, "I can't do it anymore. I'm a mess – I lose documents, I write the wrong dates, I mix up names. Pitcher's begun redoing everything just to be sure to catch any missteps on my part, and it isn't fair to him. I'm not myself, Neville, and until I find the man I was, I think it best that you take control of everything," placing a confident hand upon his brother's shoulder.
"Very well," the latter assented, "I shall do whatever you need me to."
The elder stood, physically relieved by the alleviation that came with removing such a great pressure from his mind. "Splendid – I'll have Pitcher guide you through the accounts and newest enquiries tomorrow – I haven't had the chance to look at any since my return."
Neville stood as well, but with a quizzical look upon his face. "If you haven't been working, Archie, what have you been up to all morning?"
Archibald sighed, answering, "oh, not much. I slept in very late, then went for a walk through the gardens – I thought the fresh air may agree with me, just as you said."
He added the last part of his comment to turn the conversation on the doctor, hoping to distract the latter from connecting Archibald's morning with Lilias's garden. He also planned to keep his brother perfectly in the dark on the matter of the afternoon he spent in her chambers. He knew he'd only receive a scolding for "wandering about like a lost soul instead of trying to move on like the rest of the household."
"I knew it would," turning to face him, "that's why I suggested such to you for your time in Paris," Neville annoucned, accepting the praise, surprised yet proud of his brother's willingness to remember – let alone, take – his advice.
"You won't regret this, Archie," he added, 'You need the rest, and maybe–" he bit his tongue; he could see that his brother was distracted, and thought any mention of Colin in this moment would not be for the best.
"Maybe you'll be up to taking back some work within just a few weeks," he decided to finish instead. He gave a curt nod and left the study, a part of him hoping that Archibald would not, in fact, be ready to take back up work for a while, that he may even retire and bequeath his title (if he legally could) to him; but Neville checked that idea – he wanted his brother to get better, first and foremost.
As the doctor left Archibald alone, the Baron took out a piece of paper to write a letter – although he had to check his planner to recall whom he needed to address the epistle. In doing so, he froze, his eyes fixated on the date.
Abruptly, he put the notebook away, instead looking at his monthly calendar, and even called Pitcher in to ask for the date. This all confirmed that which had halted him: today was his son's first birthday.
And that meant that tomorrow would be her first anniversary.