Notes:
* shrug* I'm two months late. Oh well. I'll do better next time…I hope. No promises though. I've decided that I'm half-way through the story – I don't want to make it as long as I previously expected, but it'll still be long. I'd say… I have 10-15 more chapters to go, depending on how well this thing falls into place. I won't take two month breaks again between chapters, though. I was going through midterms. They're evil.
Oh, and I'm sorry it's short. I was too eager to get the damned thing out and I couldn't really force myself to add anymore to the chapter.
Thanks to:
Everyone who reviewed. Especially Lady Miaka, my 100th reviewer.
And now…
Roses
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Chapter 14
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The clock strikes nine, sharp tones resonating throughout the house, bouncing off the stone walls. Five days previous her lover had departed, sent to
"Sent to what?" Edward placed a hand on the page and made a fist, crumpling the yellowed paper into a ball. "You write absolutely useless openings." He grunted and threw the paper across the room. He was going off his break at the end of the week and needed to come up with some sort of story. However, every idea that crossed his mind fell short. He just couldn't come up with the right opening.
"Perhaps…
"Perhaps not."
She wasn't privileged. Her father was a poor farmer, her mother a wench who'd been stupid enough to marry him. She hadn't a pence to her name - her rags and hard working, calloused hands were the only things she owned.
"Hmm… that might work." He nodded leaned forward, looking over the first few sentences, "I'll see where this goes…"
An hour or so later he was lost. Well, lost in his mind. He'd rewritten the opening a couple more times, but all-in-all was rather pleased with the outcome. Nothing was going wrong. Timothy was off doing God-knows-what (but Edward could've cared less) and Stuart was off with Lord-knows-who. Edward was in his own little world, full of words and terms and grammatical rules and characters with so many personality problems that each one needed full time psychiatric help. To put it lightly - he was home there.
He didn't honestly hate him. Not really. He was just very annoyed with his good presentation and calm manner and how he sounded just as feminine as the publisher did. No, he didn't honestly hate him. He just had a very strong dislike for the boy.
Not only did he have a perfect presentation but Hugh seemed to like him! One of those 'well, you must admit, he is rather talented' likes that made Stuart's skin crawl. Who cared if he was talented? If he was going to steal some of Stuart's thunder then he certainly wasn't a good person! So, it shouldn't be of any surprise that he'd abruptly left the luncheon on the grounds that 'he wasn't feeling well.' Neither should be surprising that he'd said "and a good day to you, sir." to Frederick.
At the moment, Stuart was stomping around downtown with a sneer and a rather bad aura about him. He was certain he'd reach the market street soon, then he could buy some matches and steal one of Edward's cigarettes to have a smoke, even if he did hate the vile taste that they left in his mouth.
"Martha! Martha, fetch me my robe." Marianne Savage was in a rather… foul mood. She'd woken up to a cold room, no lights, no Thomas, and no drugs. Not to mention the fact that all the feathers in her mattress had shifted to the left side. "Martha, hurry up you stupid cow!"
Martha was a very docile, dull, and dreary girl. Thomas had hired her to replace his wife's previous maid – a girl named Beth – who'd come down with a sudden cold and died. Martha had only been on the job for a week or so and hadn't learned to be psychic yet. All the servants in the Savage household were psychic except for her. They knew exactly what Marianne wanted before she wanted it and had it ready and presented to her at the exact moment she wanted it. Martha was one minute late.
"I'm very sorry, miss!" The poor girl hurried to her employer and gave a quick bow, "I washed your robes last night and was fetching them downstairs – "
"You washed my robes? Good heavens, girl, what on earth are you thinking?" Marianne snatched the clothing item from her and lifted it, inspecting, "You have no idea how to wash clothing. Honestly, what was he thinking when he hired you? I told him, let me inspect every employee."
"I'm very sorry, miss! I – I didn't know how you wanted it washed, I – "
"Don't you know anything about the proper way to wash silk?"
Martha lowered her head, shaking it, "I'll… I'll go get my things, miss."
"Wonderful, another one. Girl, girl get back here." The maid paused and looked back at Marianne, "I did not fire you. If I fire you I'll say 'go pack your things.'"
"Yes miss." Martha nodded and turned to leave again.
"You bloody idiot… I didn't tell you to go!"
"Yes miss."
"This is just the problem with you maids." She slipped the bathrobe on over her under garments and shuddered, "Awful cleaning. Do better next time."
"Yes miss – wait, next time?"
"On second thought… ask Ms. Wells to do it. You can't wash for the life of you. As I was saying, this is the problem with you maids." She turned and swished the robe behind her, paused, and nodded in satisfaction, "Well at least it has a nice swish."
"Thank you miss."
"Did I tell you to speak?"
"No miss!"
"As I was saying… that's just the problem with you maids. You're always so bloody compliant. No will of your own. Beth, now she was a maid. She had some wits about her. Of course, she had so much wits that she went and got herself dead."
"Yes, miss."
"Now, Martha. I intend not to have to go through the ordeal of hiring another maid anytime soon. So make sure you don't get yourself sick and die."
"Yes, miss. I'll try my best not to die."
"Good." Marianne paused, testing out the phrase her maid had just repeated to her in her mind, and shook her head. "Stupid."
"Pardon me, miss?"
"Stupid girl, go fetch my breakfast. What is it, 8 already and I haven't eaten?"
"11, miss."
"That's even worse! Get my breakfast already!"
"Yes, miss." She nodded quickly and practically ran out of the room. Martha did have to admit one thing – her employer certainly was interesting. A bit mad, but interesting.
"Why, Stuart!"
"Hello, Mr. Avery…" For around ten minutes, Stuart stomped around the market place. He sneered at the produce sellers who had week-old fruits and vegetables that were already starting to rot. He bought and threw those said vegetables at said sellers and then ran away rather quickly to avoid having them thrown back. He threw left-over vegetables at rogue cars whose drivers were stupid enough to go gallivanting around the marketplace street. And then, when he was out of vegetables, he threw his shoe at a police man and ran like hell. Stuart, at the moment, was fairly certain there was glass in his foot; and really didn't care.
"Stuart, uh…" Mr. Avery coughed gracefully and looked down at the teenager's feet, "What happened to – "
"Don't ask. Please, just… don't ask."
"Well, alright then. What can I get you today?"
"Matches."
The shopkeeper coughed, again, only a little less gracefully and with a little more 'are you drunk or just insane.'
"Are you sure, Stuart?"
"Yes, Mr. Avery."
"Don't you want to look around, maybe… have some candy? Or maybe some sugar?"
"Mr. Avery. I really don't think sugar is the best thing to sell me."
"Oh, right." He lowered his hands to his apron and wiped a bit of dirt from them, "Well, what do you need matches for?"
"Cigarettes."
"You smoke now? Isn't that fashionable."
"No. Those things are awful. Mr. Young smokes." Stuart turned his gaze to the candies on the counter, feeling his bad mood drain away at the site of the glazed sugar.
"Mr. Young…?"
"The writer I'm… staying with."
"Oh, yes, the writer." Mr. Avery had a very select opinion about writers and poets and actors – they were all insane. Stuart especially, being both a poet and an actor. Oh, he'd heard all about that boy moving in with the romance author just a short while after they'd met. And he'd heard all about how he'd go on and on about him. And he'd certainly heard more than he wanted about how his mother was just certain her boy was one of those 'homosexual folks.' He really hoped the Stuart wasn't going to get sent to an asylum. He really was a nice boy, just not quite right in the head.
"Could I have a piece of hard candy too?"
"Of course." Mr. Avery smiled and turned, pulling a box of matches from the shelf behind him. "Help yourself." The bell leading into the store jingled softly in the background. He looked up, glancing at the customer.
Stuart nodded quickly and yanked the glass covering off the jar. He held out one hand, containing a few shillings, and fished out a couple candies from the jar. The shopkeeper gathered the money and dropped the box of matches into Stuart's open hand. "I do hope you come by more often, Stuart."
He nodded, smiling and popping one of the candies into his mouth, "Sure!"
"Homme stupide! Là où il a de telles idées?!(1)" Timothy grumbled, entering the outskirts of the market square. "He lives with him and yet he won't tell him he's leaving! How inconsiderate."
He really couldn't understand it. Edward was an eccentric man, he understood that, and Timothy could never guess what was going on in his brother's head. But this new relationship his brother had baffled him. On one hand, he'd always suspected that Edward was a bit insane, and he'd always looked at the younger priests oddly when they were children, but Timothy never would of guessed he was that insane.
And on top of all this new information, Edward expected Timothy to lie. He was a priest and priests did not lie. He was even expected to be the head priest when his father passed away. Head priests do not lie and they certainly are not related to insane people. Although, there was always Uncle Maxwell, but he was on his mother's side and disowned long ago. They only mentioned Uncle Maxwell when everyone was in bad spirits.
The funny thing was Edward wanted him to lie to his lover - to his male lover, who was also insane. Perhaps it wasn't wrong to lie to an insane person? But then he could always lie to Edward and tell Stuart anyway. No - no matter how insane they are, one must not lie to their brother. He didn't want to hurt Stuart's feelings, though. Timothy was positive that he himself was a bit insane, but he didn't want to admit it yet. Maybe if he met Reece Swift - Timothy tripped over a pebble at the thought of the celebrity - he'd denounce his sanity. But that was only if he met Reece.
Oh, but didn't Stuart say he'd introduce him to Reece? Didn't he know him? But, then, he owed Stuart a favor. And when you owe someone a favor you should not lie to them unless you need to stall the favor. Timothy nodded to himself and stopped walking. "That settles it. I won't lie to either of them. If Stuart asks me anything, I'll just keep my mouth shut." The black haired man nodded and turned his gaze to the door he'd stopped in front of.
The glass was foggy and rippled like crackled tissue paper. It was set in cheap pinewood - smaller stores did not generally have wood better than that. Near the middle of the door, red bold painted letters read "Mr. Avery's" and then smaller script "General Store" just below it. Timothy tapped his chin lightly and peered inside the door. Fuzzy figures lingered inside - three, maybe four people at most. It wasn't a large store, from what he could tell. Just large enough for baking needs and various premade foods. Well, Edward wouldn't want him to come back into the house for a few hours yet - knowing his brother he'd be busy writing something and would be very sour if someone interrupted him. And knowing himself, Timothy would not be able to go to his home and not disturb him. Thus, he pushed the door inward and stepped inside.
The scent of lard and sugar hit him, laying heavily on his senses. Timothy moved a hand to cover his nose – he'd never liked those smells. He preferred cinnamon and oranges – even though he rarely came in contact with either. He glanced towards a young woman looking at the prices on the flour, shaking her head. By the looks, she wasn't well endowed, probably had a large family and not enough money for herself much less her children. Shrugging, the priest turned his gaze to the counter where the – he guessed – shopkeeper and some Scottish, or Irish – he could never tell the difference by looking at them, boy was standing, buying something. He stretched his neck out, trying to see what he had – matches and candy. What an odd combination. Timothy snickered behind his hand – that boy reminded him of Stuart. He was Scottish or Irish, wasn't he? And Edward always went on about how he needed to get him matches.
"Stuart…?" The boy paused and turned his head to the side, letting Timothy see his face. So it was Stuart! What a perfect coincidence. "Stuart! It is you!" The priest smiled and went over to him, pulling the poor red-head towards him in a bear hug. "I thought so! How many Irish live in Britain anyway?"
"I'm not Irish!" Stuart grabbed his assaulter's arms and tried to pull them off, "Timothy? Get off! Let go!"
"Edward doesn't want either of us back in the house for awhile, lets go off somewhere and have fun!"
The shopkeeper coughed, watching the display before him. That settled it – that kind, sweet boy was most definitely insane. And he was being assaulted by another insane person; someone who knew the insane writer Stuart was living with. Oh, he would have to tell Mrs. Shubrook, certainly.
"A… friend of yours, Stuart?"
"M-Mr. Avery! Get him off, please!"
The poor, homely woman who Timothy had previously pegged as poor tip-toed over to the two, screamed at Stuart, and dropped the flour she was holding. "You, again! Oh, is this hell I'm in?"
"Who's that, Stuart?" Timothy loosened his grip just a bit and looked at the woman.
"How should I know?" The young poet took this opportunity to shove Timothy's arms off and duck to the edge of Mr. Avery's counter. The woman just kept pointing at him.
"Of course, how would you recognize me? You were too busy snogging my old employer!"
"Oh, you're Mr. Young's maid!"
"Correction, I was Mr. Young's maid. 'Was' thanks to you!" She indignantly placed her hands on her hips, glaring at him.
"Well you probably would have died from shock if you'd stayed anyway, so I suppose it's for the best."
"What – why you… you…" The former maid rose a hand to her head and stumbled back, "I – sir, I'd like to buy this." She knelt down and picked up the flour, then plopped it onto Mr. Avery's counter.
"Oh! Of course…" he lifted the bag and weighed it.
"And another thing, you had best be happy that Mr. Young's friend was kind enough to inform me not to tell anyone of your little scene. Why, it was simple scandalous! It'd be in all the papers if I had told just one person!"
"Very smart man, that Thomas is." Timothy nodded to himself and stepped over to Stuart, waiting for an opening to cling to him again.
"Yes, well – "
"Your flour, ma'am."
"Oh! Put it on the family's tab, please." Mr. Avery nodded and handed her the bag of flour. "If you had never shown up, I'd still be working for Mr. Young! He was a very calm employer – never asked me to do anythi – "
"Is that all, ma'am?" Mr. Avery's strained smile shrank for a second, then resumed its usual friendly manner.
"Oh… yes, yes it is thank you."
"You'd best be on your way, then." She took the flour from his hands and stormed out of the shop. Stuart stared after her, a baffled expression on his face. Mr. Avery sighed and turned to Stuart, starting to say something. Unfortunately for him, and Stuart, Timothy was very alert to the situation and sprang into action – clinging to Stuart for dear life and squeezing the air out of him.
"Say, let's go get drunk and have some fun, what do you say Stuart?"
The redhead turned various shades of red, then blue, and finally settled on purple. All the while he had the dignity to look indignant. "I-I think… not!"
"Sir, I believe you're giving Stuart quite a time breathing there."
"Oh, sorry Stuart." Timothy released his grip and took a step back, "What say you? Shall we go then?"
"Uh… I think I need to get these – " he rose the pack of matches "to Mr. Young."
"You're no fun. He can last awhile without them."
"Well… I'd like to get them to him just the same." Stuart turned to Mr. Avery and nodded to him, "I'm sorry for the disturbance, Mr. Avery."
"Oh that's quite alright." I'll have plenty to tell your mother, he did not say.
"Thank you." Stuart nodded to Timothy and hurried out of the store, hoping that he'd get up enough speed to avoid him for at least a few blocks.
"Oh, Stuart wait up!" The man turned and ran after the teenager.
"He certainly has interesting friends." The shopkeeper smiled and shook his head.
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Mr. Avery's cool… the maid sucks, though. Lets go kick her.
(1) Stupid man! Where does he get such ideas?