Title: Paraffin and Peonies 1/? (I'm planning 3; let's see if I can stick to it.)
Major pairing: 3x4
Author: The Fablespinner ~*D*~
E-mail: fablespinner@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Genre: AU: Late 18th Century England Romance
Archive: http://fablespinner.steelsong.com/fanfiction/fanfiction.html
Author's Note: Loosely based on the Novel "The Secret Garden" Several Major Changes to story line will take place. Only similar elements will appear from the Original story.
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Disclaimer: Inspiration from many places, none of them mine, much to my lament.
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Trowa stood on a low rise overlooking the desolate dreary landscape. Grey clouds looming on the horizon bearing the promise of yet more rain as was common this early time of spring. As the ground slowly warmed and thawed from winter's harsh hold and began to give birth to tiny chutes of verdant colored plant life, and bright swatches of sparse color as early wildflowers began to pepper the landscape.
But not this place, this windswept, inhospitable plain of moors, as far as the eye could see, looked as if death herself ruled the land with her withered hand and icy breath. There was nothing here, barren and bleak, with craggy rock outcroppings, stunted brush and bramble, and trees, hardly more than naked and crooked stumps jutting up from the ground in twisted and crooked patterns. Like smoke rising from the fire, the limbs curved upwards, reaching for the sky and the sun that seemed never to reach them with its warmth.
A gust of wind sent shivers down Trowa's spine as his cloak flapped wildly around him. Pulling it closer to his tall and lean frame to ward against the chill, Trowa asked himself again silently what he was doing out here in the wilds all alone. He answered his own question mentally as he continued to walk the paths towards his destination. He was running away, away from convention, his home, his lifeless existence, towards unknown adventure, or hardship.
It was either face this desolation with his eyes wide open to possibilities, or return home to Barton Manor, watch helplessly as his life was dictated by tradition and constraint. Earl Barton, Trowa's Uncle had taken Trowa as his heir, when Trowa's mother, the Earl's sister had died in Childbirth. And being unwed, the truth had been swept under the carpet to Trowa's origins. To the world the Earl claimed Trowa was his own son, the mother having died while they were abroad. A neat little package of lies, all to save the family pride.
Trowa hated the fact his mother's name and circumstance had all been obliterated from the family history. He'd learned the truth from the myriad of servants who had been in attendance at Barton Manor during the time of Trowa's birth.
It had appeared his father had been the groundskeeper and gardener. He had fallen in love with the young lady of the manor, and she with him. The servants had shown Trowa the bed of peonies built directly under the window that had been his mother's chambers. They had been her favorite flower and the young gardener had built for her a private garden in which all she had to do to gaze at her favorite bloom was to peer from her bedroom window. Trowa was a hopeless romantic at heart; he'd been touched deeply by the small gesture of love his father had shown his mother.
Apparently he got his romanticism from his mother, for she had been touched too. He was born not long after. His father had been sent away from Barton Manor never to be seen again, his mother died giving him life. Now all he had was his Mother's heart for love, and his father's gift for horticulture. Trowa's hands had always loved being up to the wrists in dirt. Prodding stubborn roses to grow, plucking weeds that threatened to choke his mother's peonies out of the garden bed. He loved coaxing a seed to life with a little water, a little sun, and tender care.
The servants had told him his father had been exactly the same. He had inherited not only his dashing good looks from him, but his green thumb as well. How he would give anything to meet him.
Which was why he was here now, standing on the road leading to Saddleworth, the last known place of his real father. Up ahead in the distance stood a dark and foreboding Manor house. Hardwicke Hall, the only sign of human life for twenty miles in any direction stood like a dying sentinel against the harshness of the plain surrounding it on all sides. A place like this should have seemed welcoming to a weary traveler on the moors. But rather it sat there like a cancer on the landscape. A blackened tumor, spreading its decay across the land that in and of itself was loneliness and isolation personified.
Trowa shuddered, and not from the cold. This was his choice, to disown himself from and uncle who wanted nothing more from Trowa then a good bridal dowry from some hapless lady of breeding, and moldable young man to do whatever his uncle demanded.
This however was not something Trowa wanted, for many reasons. He had no desire to marry for reasons his Uncle would have never allowed, considering on more than one occasion the old earl would spout his condemnation of men who were a blight against nature for seeking love in the arms of another man. Trowa had never once dared tell his uncle the truth fearing the lash. The truth being Trowa's desires had never been directed at lovely female suitors. But often his eye strayed to the brother's in attendance. He'd known for quite sometime he was attracted to men, and his secret was crushing him and would continue to stifle him had he stayed in Barton Manor.
The second reason, Trowa by nature was almost a solitary creature. Almost feline in his affections as Mrs. Copperbottom the cook used to say. She was like a mother to Trowa and she had been the one responsible for answering his questions about his lost parentage. She used to tell him repeatedly how much like his father he was. Quiet and slow to voice an opinion, listening to the argument at hand before rushing to judgment or opinion. Preferring a soft chair by the fire to a night in the pub socializing. Trowa had never been a social creature, preferring his books to rowdy nights in town with friends.
Not that he had many friends due to this rather solitary life choice. Mrs. Copperbottom often would ruffle his hair and say to him "Stick in the mud like yer father. But wait young one. There will be at least one person out there you'll nary be able to live without and seek company with when the nights grow cold in winter. So it was with yer father, when first he cast eyes on yer fair mother. Love does that to a man. It will do it to you too when you least expect it."
He doubted it, well at least his sensible side did. His inner romantic heart prayed for that to happen, he wanted nothing more than someone to care about, to love, and to be loved in return. It was a dream, and another reason he was walking toward Hardwicke Hall not as the Lord he was, but as Trowa Barton, son of a gardener and lady, just a man seeking his future and employment if his father did not happen to reside here any longer.
This was his new life, this was what he wanted, and even in this lifeless countryside, for the first time in his short two decades, he felt alive and truly a man in charge of his own destiny.
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There was a stifling stillness in the air as Trowa walked up the road and around to the servant's door at the rear of the estate. Raising his hand to knock, the door opened before he had a chance. A young kitchen maid jumped, not expecting a young man to be standing there. Her dark black hair tucked neatly into a bonnet, her light blue eyes wide with shock, then with mirth as she smiled in welcome. "What brings you here stranger?" She asked, her voice bright and gay in comparison to the atmosphere around them.
"I've come to seek employment with your groundskeeper. Can you tell me if a man by the name of Nathanial Bloom is still your gardener?" Trowa asked, his mouth dry with anticipation.
"Gloomy Bloomy? Aye, he's just inside. Come in stranger." The young maid said brushing past a young stable hand with a long braid of chestnut and caramel colored hair who smirked at her in passing, a mischievous twinkle in his violet hued eyes, before he smacked her backside and sauntered out the door. "Duo Maxwell you cheeky sod!" the young maid yelled and Trowa could hear the young man's laughter ring like bells as he disappeared around the corner.
"My name's Hilde by the way." The young maid said as she led Trowa into the kitchen.
"Trowa, Trowa Barton." Trowa said as his eyes fell on a Man in his late forties who sat at the table with a cup of tea. Trowa froze in place. He was looking at an older version of himself.
"Hey Nate, this man here came asking for you." Hilde said getting his attention.
When Nathanial looked up, his eyes froze on Trowa's face, their gestures mirroring each other in mannerism.
"It can't be." Nathanial choked knowing at a glance precisely who this young man was.
"It is. Father." Trowa said smiling and his eyes misting. In two strides Nathanial was off his chair and crushing Trowa in a hug.
"I never thought I'd ever get to see you." He sobbed clinging to his son as if he were a ghost about to be spirited away. Trowa held back in tears of his own.
"Nor I you father. I'm sorry it took me so long to get here." He said and Hilde just stood there, jaw agape.
"Why did you come? I shamed your mother." Nathanial said, his voice heavy with anguish and loss even after twenty-one years.
"Love is nothing that can shame. The shame came from my Uncle in keeping my parents apart. I am alive today because you found a way. For that I am eternally grateful father." Trowa said still reveling in joy at being close to the man responsible for his very life.
"That is something your mother would have said." Nathanial said stepping back to take a good look at his grown son. "You have her eyes. But the rest of you, I am looking in a mirror and seeing myself as I was when I fell in love with your mother."
"So I've been told. Mrs. Copperbottom made sure I knew the truth. I was just waiting for the right time to come and find you." Trowa said a slight smile on his lips.
"What does your Uncle say? Surely he does not approve of this." Nathanial said and Trowa folded his arms in defiance.
"He can sod off. I am my own man and I will make my own choices. I never asked for his approval, or his blessings. I want none of it, I want my freedom, and I want to make my place with my own two hands. I don't want his titles, I don't want his money, and I certainly do not want his oppressive rules and prejudices. I am Trowa Barton, I am your son, not his, and I am quite capable of deciding what is in my own best interests." Trowa said and Nathanial smiled with pride.
"And that is something every father wants to hear his son say. A son and a man a father can be proud of, and I am more than proud." Nathanial said when a sniffle from Hilde made them both turn to look at her.
"Oh god, that's so beautiful!" She said sobbing dabbing her eyes with her apron. "Sit both of you, I'll get the tea. Oh mercy me." She said blubbering and going for the kettle. Trowa looked at his father.
"Miss Hilde, is a sweet child, you'll get used to her. She's got a heart of gold, and one of the few rays of sunshine in this place. You've come to a forsaken household son. Thankfully his Lordship is away most of the time, and it's just us servants. When he is here, there is much sorrow. There's a curse on this place, it can suck the life out of you if you're not careful." Nathanial said sitting across from his son.
"What do you mean by that?" Trowa asked as Hilde returned to the table with a pot of tea.
"What he means is, beware of Mrs. Tatlock. She's the head Mistress of Hardwicke Hall, and a right stiff neck. And never, EVER go into the east wing, that's off limits to all the servants." Hilde said and Trowa raised a brow and looked at his father.
"It's criminal." Nathanial began with a sigh. "There's nothing wrong with that boy." He ended with a growl.
"What boy?" Trowa asked and Nathanial sighed.
"Two years after I got here, after you were born, the Lady Winner had an accident. She was in her garden and was heavily burdened with child. She stumbled and fell and went into labor early due to the fall. We lost her sadly and almost lost the babe, he was born so weak and so frail. Lord Winner was inconsolable. A curse fell on this place, in fear Lord Winner fled, leaving the care of the babe to Mrs. Tatlock. Granted as a babe he WAS sickly, but he's eighteen now, you'd think she have figured out if he's made it this far in life he's quite capable of surviving a cold or a bout of the sniffles." Nathanial spat angrily.
"But no, he's kept locked away in that east wing, his father never visits him, and the doctors that come, I want to strangle the crackpots. They know full well that boy is all right, but an easy meal ticket. I don't care to think of the torture they put that lad through for money. His cries I can hear from outside are bad enough." Nathanial said with a shudder.
"That's horrible. Have you ever seen him?" Trowa asked and Nathanial nodded.
"Once, he was about ten at the time. Such a beautiful boy he was, fair of face and hair like his mother. He was in his wheelchair peeking out the window. I never saw Tatlock move so fast. He's not allowed sunlight for some sick reasoning or another. Tatlock is so afraid he'll die on her and she'll be fired she refuses to let the boy do anything. No sun for fear of burning his skin, no windows open in case the spores get him. HA! Crazy woman, a flower is not likely to kill the boy. He eats nothing but this tasteless nasty gruel the doctors have Tatlock make. Give the boy a steak for crying out loud." Nathanial ranted and Hilde nodded.
"It's true, and I hear the only reason he's in a wheelchair is because they never taught him how to walk as a baby. Afraid he'd fall down and hurt himself. It's sick, and depressing. All of us have to leave the house when the doctor's come, and even then you can hear him crying well into the night after they leave. And none of us are allowed in there to comfort him. Poor thing." Hilde said just as a tall woman in a gray high collared dress walked into the kitchen.
"I'll not have gossip in my kitchens. Especially to strangers." The woman said glaring at Nathanial who didn't even flinch.
"Not strangers. This is my son." Nathanial said and Mrs. Tatlock's eyes widened briefly.
"Hn, so I can note the resemblance. I take it he's working for you now?" Tatlock asked. Knowing of all the servants only Nathanial equaled her in rank and he could hire and fire his own staff. The house and grounds were separate entities.
"He is. So he'll need a room Eleanor please." Nathanial said and Tatlock scowled. She hated when he called her by her familiar name. Even if he was within his rights, his lack of respect for her galled her to no end.
"He'll have to use one in the north wing. I have nothing available closer to you." She said, moving Trowa as far away from the father as she could in spite.
It didn't bother either of them; it was a bed and nothing more. They would be spending days together and meal times, sleeping was all they needed a room for to begin with. "Follow me Mr. Bloom." Tatlock said and Trowa cleared his throat.
"It's Barton Mrs. Tatlock, I have my mother's surname as mine own. I have only recently learned my father was here." Trowa said and Tatlock snorted.
"Ah yes, I forgot Nathanial's son was a bastard born." She said snidely and Trowa frowned. He could easily tell why his father was so vocal in his distaste of the woman. Trowa was two steps short of smacking her for her rudeness. Woman or no woman, her attitude and behavior towards him was not befitting to anyone and quite deplorable. But he bit his tongue and followed.
Hilde turned to Nathanial. "Well, if I didn't believe it before, I do now. He's your son. Fire in the eyes, calm demeanor, and pride that will not allow him to even acknowledge she made that horrible slur." Hilde said smiling at the groundskeeper.
"He is technically a bastard. His mother and I were not allowed to marry. However, Trowa knows who and what he is, and that is a mark of a real man. He won't let her comments affect him, he knows they are naught but words that can do him no harm." Nathanial said smiling. As only a proud father could.
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Trowa was shown his room, and left to acquaint himself with his new surroundings. It was small, but not nearly as small as the servant's quarters his uncle had provided his staff. This was a palace in comparison. A large soft bed, a wardrobe, and even a small private garterobe in which to tend his personal needs, and a large tapestry hung from one wall to decorate the drab little room. It's fanciful scene of knights at a joust, and maidens frolicking around a maypole, dulled in vibrancy from time, but still enough to bring a small smile to Trowa's lips. This was the beginning of his new life, and it could have been far worse.
Trowa found some heavy woolen breeches in his wardrobe, and changed. They were a bit small, but fit nonetheless. No sense in him ruining his nice clothes, he may need them later. He then found more shirts in a trunk at the foot of his bed, and pulled the heavy sweaters out and dressed warmly. Early spring was still a bit cold, and his cloak would only get in the way while he worked.
Working alongside his father, right where he had always wanted to be. He glanced out his window to see if he could spot his father on the grounds and stopped short. About seven windows down, in what was obviously the east wing, Trowa spied the most heavenly apparition he'd ever seen. His breath stilled in his chest, and his heart pounded in his ears as his eyes drank in the view before him.
Blonde hair hung like a halo around a face too beautiful to be real. A face too marked with sadness not to be real. Then he saw her, Mrs. Tatlock descend, and the curtains were drawn, robbing Trowa of his vision of heaven.
That must have been the young lord of the manor. Trowa felt compelled, he had to find out more, he had to grill his father for more information. He was too taken by what he had seen not to find out more. It was like he'd been given a glimpse of an earth bound angel, and he just had to know the name of the creature who sat there in such utter despair and sorrow.
What name would he be saying in his prayers for salvation?
What name would he be singing in his dreams?
Trowa hurried back downstairs and back to the kitchen, his father waiting for him.
"Father, I think I saw him, the young lord you spoke of from my window." Trowa said hushed as they walked outside. "What's his name?" He asked as they reached the greenhouse.
"Quatre." Nathanial said as he opened the door, "But be careful son, Hilde was right, if Tatlock catches you in the east wing, even I won't be able to save your job here. No matter how much you want to help that boy, it's not worth your job." Nathanial said pulling out a pair of hoes and rakes.
"Is it not? Father he looked so sad."
Nathanial cocked an eyebrow at the almost longing tone in his son's voice. "You sounded just like your mother then. What is this I see in you? Defiance? That is most assuredly your mother's influence. Just promise me you'll be careful." Nathanial said and Trowa smiled and nodded. Being careful came as second nature to him, and there was no way in hell Trowa could ignore his inner voice urging him to ease the young lord's sorrow, if only to pay him a visit to ease the loneliness so apparent in deep blue eyes.
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tbc….
