A/N: Okay wow this took a lot longer than expected; but the chapter is far longer than expected, plus I've been pretty burnt out as of late! (aka I intended to use NaNoWriMo to 1) finish this 2) write an article for work and 3) write (completely) a new SG fic 4) edit my big poppins fic… but I only wrote 13k total… whoops.
I made the decision to make all these "vignettes" one chapter with the intention of this "long" chapter being around 2500 works… it's almost 5500… #sorrynotsorry
I also may have made far too many allusions (plus vaguely included my favourite historical figure) but don't me.
They were just dreams.
A cry for help or an inability to leave the past behind? Archibald knew not what encouraged him to inform his brother on the truth of his midnight memories, why he would find his brother awake with the moon, roaming the dark corridors of Misselthwaite whilst calling out her name.
But he had confessed to Neville. Then word spread to the servants, fast as a fire.
They thought him mad, he was certain. Maybe he was. And in his brother's medical degree was the non-negotiable validity of a referral of insanity that could easily make its way into the hands of a young secretary in the lobby of a private asylum.
That was the ultimatum the doctor had given to finally push his brother from his home and his son. Archibald knew his sanity was more important than the rare glance at the boy that resembled his mother just a tad too much for his comfort.
In agreement for once, Austria was chosen for his retreat; and Mr. Pitcher was sent ahead to settle the living arrangements.
Wien, Österreich
Vienna was all right for his tastes. A very musical city, thoroughly enchanting with the sounds and emotions of the impressionists.
Mr. Craven was usually one for tradition, but the dissonance of contemporary music resonated within him. He was not quite sure why, but he seemed to be at peace with himself whenever he heard the ethereal atonality.
He would walk the cobblestone streets, and sometimes even sigh in contentment. Unbeknownst to him, the first of these fleeting moments marked the first time he had felt something resembling happiness since the passing of his wife.
It was perhaps better that he took no notice, for the peace would inevitably disappear. At the first realisation he was sure to instinctively retreat back to the dark and shrouded disposition he had grown accustomed to; for such a realisation was guaranteed to come with haunting memories of his dearly departed. Lilias would take that peace from him just as quickly as she had taken his soul with her to the Hereafter.
In the meantime, he could almost marvel at the power of his reclusive reputation. Word of his ways spread quickly about the city only shortly after he had settled in. And he had never felt so alone. Not even when Lilias had first died had he understood the true tranquility of isolation.
Now, alone in a crowded city, his lack of friendly, worldly tithes turned his solitude into serenity, and he was able to breathe the urban air of the growing city with a sense of belonging – surrounded by other souls, of whom he knew nothing about. Nothing was there which could entice his drifting thoughts to recall the repressed memories of a once-pleasant past.
This public isolation offered a more enticing environment than being hidden away in his apartment at Misselthwaite Manor because distraction was everywhere. He hardly had to expel any energy to remove himself from the bygone days.
But these days in the present eventually became monotonous. He had lasted alone longer than anyone – namely his brother – had expected, but now he needed a change, a new diversion.
The notes of Mahler coming from a nearby concert hall failed to stimulate his mind, and the inescapable thoughts weighed down his head. He sulked with his eyes fixed on the uneven stones beneath his feet. He was more entranced by the way light reflected off the grey, rain-slicked streets than the tunes floating into his ears.
He was deaf to the trills of Sibelius, blind to the clusters of students milling about with instruments tucked under their arms. He knew he needn't pay much mind to the padding of footsteps about him; they would avoid the dreary man with the high shoulders and sunken brow before their shoes ever came into his downcast line of sight.
Archibald still found trace amounts of peace in books. He would try to tell himself this tranquillity was joy. It had worked in his youth, this deception, but could do so no longer. Not when he had known the true bliss of love.
So he sat and read – in silence now. The gramophone sat with him, collecting dust upon its needle and speaker; and the forgotten track still stuck, ready to resume some symphony or other should the master remember it was there.
Lord Craven had not quite forgotten. He preferred the heavy quietude of his chambers, filled only with the murmurs of the streets. The runs of Schönberg shrieked shrill in his memory, no longer bringing comfort with their sharp, clashing chords.
This cacophonous symphony of composers and passersby, of nameless songs and nameless faces, played unceasingly in his dreams, slowly morphing into a bittersweet lull. He was charmed and irritated by the ethereal dissonance.
He knew he needed to escape again, but would he not be simply trading one ringing in his ear for another?
The doors were locked again, just like before, just as he had so frequently done as a child; and the servants were dismissed. It was quite childish, his poor attempt at coping. He continued to lock himself away, isolated, when he recognized deep down that it was his own consciousness he wished to elude.
Each day became more cumbersome, pulling him deeper into despair, until he finally had to ring his servants bell, for he required assistance outside his typical routine.
Mr. Pitcher was asked to declare where he was hiding his master's pistol.
The valet returned with the timetables for the orient express.
Paris, France
The music was one thing, but once Archibald found the resolve to actually leave Vienna, the German language became downright unbearable. Without so much as a second thought, he passed over the adjacent country and nestled himself up north.
The autumn was much milder in the south, but the breeze blew indifferently through the dying trees and Lord Craven's greying hair.
The hushed sound of the romantic tones of the French language floated through with the wind, the mist, the foliage of the Jardin des Tuileries .
Archibald sat on a bench beneath an orange tree, dew collecting on his walking stick as he read the newspaper, the pages softening in his restless hands. A haze began to cloud his eyes and the words all blurred together.
The days were just as monotonous here, dreary and grey as in any big city this time of year. The change of scene, however, raised the master's spirits ever so slightly.
Each morning, he would take his breakfast at the table by the window in the salon. From there, he could look out at the Cathedral of the Blessed Mother as he sipped his coffee. Her spire mocked the tour Eiffel in the distance, perspective making her a far grander structure against the silver skies from where he sat.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked in the back of his mind as he thought back on the happy days in Pairs which were long gone now.
He would think of the joys of his years of study. He never knew many – hardly any – by way of friends; but he found companionship in learning.
Each day he found himself exploring a new part of town, trying to reignite the lost feelings they once spurned in him.
The Louvre was a labyrinth Archibald would gladly get lost in. He was always finding new works, stumbling upon rooms he had forgotten, or perhaps had never even seen before.
The streets of Montmartre served as just as much of a comfort. Nights spent in the music hall, pouring into The Crystal with the rest of the crowds during intermission.
Even that one time Neville had dragged him to the Moulin Rouge played out in his memories as something to smile at.
Frankly, he had not enjoyed himself that night. Though, it was not the dancers' aversion to him that spurned such distaste; he did not find the same pleasures in these trifles that thrilled his brother so.
Then, after reliving these moments, he would return home. His eyes still sunken and his face still drawn, but his heart was no longer quite as black as it had become in the last few years.
His evening meal would be served in the same manner as breakfast; and just as he had done then, he would get lost in the sight of the buttresses of Notre Dame.
Each night, he wandered to the church in his head, seeing the glint of the stained glass reflected in Lily's agate eyes, the colour washed out when not transfixed by the greenery of the moors.
Their wedding tour had been her first visit to Paris. A small drop of joy tugged at him as he thought of those blessed , his days were spent as a young man of the Sorbonne, but his mornings and nights were reserved for his wife.
There was a park just behind the cathedral. It was late spring when the young couple had arrived in Paris, and Lilias could not get over how agreeable the weather had been.
Without the fresh air of Yorkshire, Lilias sought sanctuary in whatever bit of nature she could find. And, this particular part was not very far from their flat, thus it was easy to drag her reserved husband out with her.
Books sat pressed open in each of their laps as the couple discussed gothic architecture and poetry, waiting for a comfortable silence to fall so they would be picked back up. Neither Lilias nor Archibald would get very far, though, as another passage worthy of discussion would come up; or the stories would simply remind them of one of their own they wished to share.
Every so often Lilias would look over at her husband, perhaps even daring to leave a quick kiss upon his jaw. Her fan or her book offered some modesty for the gesture, but both friends would nonetheless be left dusted in crimson.
It was in such a moment, then, that Archibald would steal a look at his little wife. She would have returned her attention to her novel quickly, and a glint of youthful wonder would shine in her eye. Her cheeks would be rosier than usual, like she had been running through the fields back home.
Sometimes, when she could feel his eyes upon her, her lips would twitch into a slight smile; and Archibald would think that she had never looked more beautiful. And he had never felt happier.
The ringing of the bells of Notre Dame would chime behind them; and all too soon they would mingle with and eventually transform into the chiming of the old grandfather clock, awakening Archibald to the dreary present of grey skies and cold tea.
London, England, His Majesty's Empire
It had been six years. Her anniversary came and went, leaving Archibald dumbfounded when he went to write the date and recognized it as the one carved in the family crypt. It felt an eternity ago, yet seemed a few weeks since he last held her in his embrace. It almost frightened him how unperturbed he was by the day now.
Well, numb would perhaps be a better word for it.
He had forgotten Colin's birthday too, of course. Since Neville had access to his accounts, Archibald invested little concern in his son's well being; he was in fine hands with the doctor. Better than his crippled father could provide.
A few days later, he would receive a letter from his brother informing him of the changes happening at the estate, as well as telling him how much Colin appreciated his father's birthday gifts.
The doctor had long since learned to keep the truths of Colin's health and hysterics from Archibald. But Archibald figured all was not quite as all right as his brother made it seem; yet this was not enough to encourage the master to accept Neville's recent invitation to the shore.
"I think the sea air will be good for him. And it would do you good as well," he had written.
But the doctor was none too surprised when the offer was declined. His brother took more comfort in London. Here, at least, he could blend into the crowd a bit more.
Archibald had been dragged to several beaches throughout his life – his mother loved them – and only once had he enjoyed himself.
His typical experience was either to stand out for being covered by several, sweltering layers, a stark contrast to the bathers; or he would brave a bathing costume, which seemed to accentuate his deformity.
Everywhere he would look, eyes would be on him. Some looked down on him in disgust, horror; but even worse were those round eyes of pity.
What reason had they for pitying him? He was content, albeit in his own way – was that not enough for the rest of the world?
Her eyes never pitied him.
Lilias always gazed upon him in love, in admiration. For her, he had braved the sands of the Côte d'Azur, and he had actually enjoyed himself.
The sun was not too oppressive, nor were the waves too cold. And best of all, he could not feel the stares of the other vacationers.
He knew people were looking at him, at her, at them, all for different reasons; but their eyes could not penetrate the trance Lilias put him in.
Her laughter floated through the air as the waves crashed upon them, so young and care-free.
She made him feel youthful again, splashing him with a concoction of water and foam.
Every so often words would reach him. Typical gossips.
"He may be a cripple, but I hear he's an Earl of something."
"She's only in it for the money, I'm sure, but to have to go to bed with that thing – it can't possibly be worth it."
"Can you believe it? Letting his whore prance about like that – just look how her costume clings to her figure. How immodest... Not that I'm complaining."
Modesty be damned. He would never forget how happy and alive he had felt when she would cling to him tightly – improperly, one would argue – as a particularly large wave emerged before them.
Even now, sitting with the birds on the banks of the Thames, a small smile appeared upon his gloomy face, lighting his spirits as well as the air about him – even if only for a moment.
That smile quickly faded as he looked ahead to yet another autumn, another Christmas, another year without her in his arms.
The past six years were but a blur to him. Each of his days creeped by as he fell deeper and deeper into his despair. He would probably have given up if it were not for his valet keeping him in check, and the cursed promise he had made to her.
As the nights lengthened, Archibald's days grew stagnant, weary. The smog was getting to his head. He needed a change.
But where could he go?
He meandered alongside the river, already dreading another restless night alone, when he recalled an unopened letter from an acquaintance on Holiday.
He scanned the words as a distraction, his feet knowing well the road back to his townhouse in Kensington.
" ...and the weather is cold, but not unpleasant. The locals say that 'midtown' is the place to be – right near the big park. You've been before, have you not? Can you believe it would take them so long to catch on? Well, I suppose it unfair of me to expect as much from Americans. They are still a developing nation. A new state was added only a few weeks ago.
Ah, do forgive my prattling, my Lord. Desirée is hanging over my shoulder begging me to return to bed, for it is late in the evening and she feared I was working. She just told me to cross that bit out, but I did not mean it in such a way. Everything is ever abuzz in this city. Their branch of the Times will be ringing in the new year with a ball of electric lights from their headquarters here in 'midtown' too, you know.
Honestly, what gaul that man has! First they rename Longacre Square after themselves, and now they claim such a spectacle. Peacocks, the lot of them…"
The words trailed on, but Archibald's mind had drifted far away. To the other side of the Atlantic, actually.
His pace quickened as he remembered another happy memory, this one from his childhood. And it involved the beach! – though no unpleasant glances from bathers.
When he was around ten or eleven year old, his family had all gone to America together, residing temporarily in New York City. They had sailed there aboard the S.S. Britannic, one of the old ships that formerly sailed under the White Star Line's direction.
They had spent one day in a place called "Coney Island" that was not quite in the City, but did not feel quite like Long Island either. It was clear, even to the young boy, that the amusement park there was still very much growing; but neither did that spoil his enjoyment of the day.
His brother had been kind, choosing to stay by Archibald's side, rather than run about like the other children. His mother's hat kept blowing off because she had lost her hatpin earlier in the day, and he could still see his father smiling at his wife, his sons, from behind a thick mustache.
A life of love and laughter. Was such even a possibility for him now?
Back in London, he turned the key in the door, but a servant was the one to actually admit him. Mr. Pitcher was dutifully waiting already in the hall.
"Contact the White Star offices and fetch me a cabin aboard the Majestic," he commanded of his valet, "I'm taking a holiday."
The valet nodded. After a few phone calls, he had managed to secure a cabin for both his master and himself.
"I hear they've implemented a three-class system aboard their newest ships, so the accommodations must be nice," the master remarked as they set about preparations in the house. He even sent an appeasing letter to his brother, admitting to taking his advice to some extent.
He would spend another day in Coney Island.
A few weeks later, Lord Craven sailed to America. It was known as the land of opportunity, but more importantly, it was a place far removed from any association with Lilias.
New York, New York, USA
It was to be a month-long sojourn. Archibald Craven took up temporary residence at the relatively-new St. Regis hotel. He had arrived at the docks in Manhattan in late January during the beginnings of an awful snowstorm.
However, the fear quickly subsided, and as the pure snow mingled with dirt and ash, children laughed loudly as they played outside. The sounds of gaiety floated into the lobby every time a newcomer was welcomed by the boys working at the doors.
The Lord had nestled himself beneath a portrait of the hotel's owner – some Colonel, well-known in New York society. Archibald did not care for the details; even when he would go to Town for season he hardly paid much mind to the names of faces he would sit across from on the elusive occasion he would show his own at a dinner party. None there cared to get to know the gloomy recluse either.
The escape from Europe helped a bit. Although, Archibald quickly returned to his cold spirits with the approach of the feast of Saint Valentine.
Here in New York, it was everywhere, inescapable, taunting.
All the news stands boasted of cards, sweets for sale on every corner; and most mocking of all was the couples walking about arm in arm, basking in the bliss of love.
In the seclusion of his chambers, be it within the walls of Misselthwaite Manor or above the city streets of London, he was able to hide away from these displays of affection.
Now, however, he was no longer situated in his own dwellings, and was forced to confront this display which had been taken away from him, stifling him.
The dead air of the industrialised city was no help either.
He frequently hired a cab to take him to Central Park. It was some place open and offered a somewhat relaxing air. He had gone to the stables a few times. It had been quite a while since he had ridden; but during his sporadic visits to Misselthwaite, he would make sure to take Demeter out for a ride or two.
She was born on the estate, and offered to him proper upon his graduation from University. Now, getting on in years, she was not as agile, but neither was he. She still had many a year of easy riding left in her, and he made sure to write to the stable boys every now and then to remind them to give her some exercise so she would be fit for him whenever he may appear in Yorkshire.
It was odd: he cared more for his horse than he did his son. He did not mind, he simply made sure his brother did not find out about this secret correspondence.
"Maddie slow down!"
Archibald looked up from his book, searching for the source of the cry as a teenager flew up to him on a light brown horse. The girl stopped beside him, clear-eyed with a big smile. She politely nodded to him before calling back "Keep up, Katherine! You cannot expect to improve your form at a pace like that!"
She threw her head back, laughing. The other girl – Archibald presumed her to be her sister – finally caught up, riding upon a dark brown horse with light hair. She also smiled at Archibald.
They quickly trotted away, chatting, undisturbed by the foreigner. The exchange made Archibald feel light. They simply treated him as any other human being, neither more nor less.
He watched the darker horse carefully as it disappeared down the pathway. She looked like Persephone.
"I take it she's your mare's foal?" a laughing voice rang out in his head. He had nodded in affirmation, helping Lilias mount her "new friend" as she had said when she had selected her.
It was shortly after they returned from their wedding tour and season when he officially gifted her with a horse from the estate; when the air was cool, but not too crisp. They went out for a ride so Lilias and Persephone could get to know each other.
They rode out far enough to find the valley they had first met in. Lily's flowers had grown far more wild than she would have allowed, and she resolved to upkeep this garden, as well as her new "secret" one.
Archibald watched her in amazement as she laughed and called out to him, her hair loose and blowing in the wind. She rode astride as naturally as he. It amused him, and he amused her.
He kissed her in that garden on that day. It was something he wished to do nearly every day they spent out there together the year previous, but he was always too afraid. It would have been wildly improper. Besides, he did not want to make her uncomfortable; but what he was more afraid of was losing his only true friend.
Now, he lent down and brought her rosy lips to his, without a care. She was his wife and allowed him to do whatever he pleased.
"I love you, there's nothing you could say or do that will ever change that."
She had given him this reassurance countless times. He was still timid, still afraid that this was an illusion he would shatter if he held her too tightly.
A particularly icy blast of wind whipped about him, nothing like that of the wuthering winds of the moors in the late summertime, and he was snapped back to reality. He pulled his scarf a little tighter and decided it best to return to the hotel.
He cursed himself. It must be about time to go, for even a continent away, Lilias still managed to haunt him.
He began to count down the days until his return journey in eagerness, settling the travel plans himself as a distraction.
A day went by, now four, now ten. Three weeks after that sour celebration of love, Archibald Craven was once again tucked into a White Star cabin ready for his return to Europe.
La Campagne de la France
He needed fresh air and open skies, but the longer he stayed away from Misselthwaite, the harder it became to return.
And there was always the threat of seeing his son. He would be turning seven soon – in just a few months – surely he must be old enough to be cognisant of his father's absence.
Surely he was old enough to know that his father had not been around for most of his life.
Yes. Old enough to know he was abandoned, but not nearly old enough to understand why.
No. He could not return to the Manor. The boy would probably ask to see him, and that could only have two outcomes: Archibald would have to face those big, round, inquisitive eyes – would they be golden-green, like Lily's in the garden, or the paler blue they took on under the grey skies of London? – or Colin would learn that his father had stayed away because he did not wish to see him.
So back to France Master Craven retreated.
He had Mr. Pitcher find a nice room in the countryside.
"Somewhere secluded, somewhere quiet," he had requested.
And such a request was met. He was now situated in a village in the south by the Corrèze called Chapelle-au-bois. The people seemed kind, but ironically none too religious, leaving the church at the centre of town half-empty on Sundays, and ever more barren during the week.
The surrounding woods, though, offered a pleasant change from the tall buildings of the cities, whilst still a dynamic variation from the low heather of the expansive moors.
He was able to find a room to lease indefinitely – and well-situated too. It was right off the town square with a window overlooking the cobblestones of this gathering place.
A few months flew by as he settled into this new way of life. He routinely took his meals quietly in a corner booth of the pub he was staying above. Monsieur Mazalaigue was unassuming enough to be of comfort. Regrettably, the other customers would sometimes strike up a conversation about his son whom, Archibald learned, lived with relatives out of town.
"How is little Pierre doing?"
"Oh just splendid. He was nearly as tall as me the last I saw of him."
"How does he ever fair without you?"
"Enough. He says that Paris agrees greatly with him."
"And he's happy all the ways up there, hein?"
The questions bombarded Archibald like a personal attack. One could ask him the same of his own son, but at least the owner had answers. The lonely Lord Craven had none.
One day, he wandered over to the general store on the edge of town. It was quaint enough, with a large window at the front and a forge off the back. He could hear Monsieur Aubernaut hammering away, even from the dirt road.
As he entered, a bell chimed and his senses were overwhelmed. He had only gone to find some sweets to send to his boy but was easily distracted by the ideas which Lilias would have had if she was there with him, looking around at the different buttons and ribbons and fabrics on display.
The shop smelt of coffee and potpourri. He saw the beans behind the counter and decided to try some himself. His voice shook as he ordered. The woman probably figured his french was out of practice, based on his clearly-foreign accent. In truth, his french was fine; but he had hardly conversed with anyone save his valet in years.
The first sip filled his heart with the warmth of years past, and brought back the scent of coffee and essence of lilies-of-the-valley that would greet him on the mornings Lilias had awoken before him and would bring his breakfast to his room.
Their room, as she would have said. And they would chat and laugh and dunk their scones, careful to be quick lest they crumble in the cup.
No. Lilias wore essence of rose – those were her favourite flowers.
"As sweet as they smell, I cannot comprehend ladies who wear such a scent," he could hear her telling him, "I would never feel comfortable keeping such a thing on my nightstand – do those women not know they are poisonous!"
The scent of her namesake grew stronger, however, and he looked around in an effort to bring himself back to the present.
He saw a young boy looking through a door to the other side of the shop. From the soft orange flow the passageway emitted, Archibald deduced that that was the way to the forge. And this boy must be the owner's son. He was small and had a mop of dark hair, thin, but not unhealthy.
Archibald thought him to be around Colin's age, not that he knew even now what his own son looked like. Perhaps he was just like this little french boy, curiously looking for his father–
"Denis, come away from there! And do change out of your school clothes," called the woman working behind the counter.
He turned at the sound and noticed a young lady he had not taken notice of before standing at the woman's side.
The mother pushed past the register and bustled about the store, probably collecting items for friends who ordered out-of-stock inventory the other day.
Though he was hardly in a rush, his distracted gaze must have disturbed the woman for she suddenly burst out again, "Amélie, do settle this gentleman's tab."
"Of course, maman," turning to him, "would you like to add some muguets for someone special?" Amélie asked with a good-natured smile.
He was so caught off-guard by the question that he affirmed this suggestion before he translated her offer fully.
Muguets. Who could he hear saying that? What was it?
Mr. Pitcher took the sweets and Archibald took the flowers with a look of mortification, and they made their slow way back through the village.
Once alone in his room, Archibald turned the key and lit the lamp on the little desk provided to him. He took out some paper, a notebook, and his datebook. The latter served little use as of late except to remind him of the constant passage of time.
He circled the date, then made a note to himself to send a letter to his staff at the Villa in Italy, telling them to prepare for his imminent arrival.
Then he penned a letter to his brother, informing him of the treat for Colin included.
Finally, he turned his focus to the notebook, his diary. He flipped to the first fresh page, wrote the date, and then delicately pressed the white bells of the bouquet into the page, shutting it tight and stacking a few books atop it.
Dans le premier de mai
On vend les muguets
Lilias had shown him this method of pressing flowers, to preserve their beauty with your deepest thoughts and desires.
He picked up the photograph he had put out on his desk. It was from his wedding day. Lightly, he brushed his finger along it, outlining his bride's figure.
"Happy anniversary, my love."