May 1817
How long they kissed for, Segundus couldn't say. He wasn't sure if it was many kisses, one after the other, or one continuous kiss broken up by brief intervals of quiet gasps and whispered oaths. His lips grew swollen and sore, and his hair became mussed, and his clothing was put quite out of order. Childermass's hands were everywhere, it felt, pushing and gripping and—
"Ah!" Segundus cried out.
"Quiet, sir," Childermass said, low and heated. His hand resumed its previous motion. "We cannot draw attention to ourselves."
But Segundus found he could not be quiet. So skilled were Childermass's hands— so deft his touch— Segundus could not help the whispered litany of praises and encouragements that spilled from his mouth. The bright spark of an idea lit in Childermass's eyes after a particularly skillful motion of his fingers wrung a rather shameful whimper from Segundus's throat, and Segundus shivered. Childermass hauled him around into a new position, shoving at Segundus's limbs until he was pleased with their new arrangement.
Segundus was pleased as well. His back was pressed up against Childermass's chest, and his head rested in the crook of Childermass's neck and shoulder. For a brief moment, he was disappointed by the loss of the other man's mouth on his own, but he found that his current position allowed him to lay a line of kisses along Childermass's jaw and below his loosened neck-cloth.
Childermass tolerated this for a minute before wrapping his arm around Segundus's torso and pressing his hand firmly over Segundus's mouth. "You must be very quiet," he said as his other hand found its way back into Segundus's breeches.
Even muffled as he was, Segundus had a difficult time staying silent. Childermass's touch turned from teasing to purposeful. He brought Segundus pleasure with a single-minded purpose, and before long, Segundus was straining against his grip.
"May I—?" Segundus asked some time later, after he had recovered. He managed a vague sort of gesture.
Childermass did not ask him to clarify what he meant. "Later," he said, a look of dark intent on his face. "I have plans for you." He glanced out the window. "Set yourself aright, sir. We'll be stopping soon."
Segundus nodded and straightened his clothes. Though he felt distinctly tumbled, his clothes had suffered very little (thanks to Childermass's quick reflexes with a handkerchief), and it was a matter of minutes to make himself tidy once more. As he reached up to fix his hair, Childermass grabbed his wrist and placed a delicate kiss there, scarcely more than the faintest brush of his lips against Segundus's skin. He carded his own fingers through Segundus's hair, smoothing it down before placing Segundus's hat back upon his head. Segundus was oddly touched by this gesture. It was not inherently an intimate one— Mr. Honeyfoot had done something similar on countless occasions when proximity to magic disrupted the order of Segundus's hair. This did not feel like Mr. Honeyfoot's fussing, though. This felt like something else entirely, something Segundus had never experienced.
Childermass, for his part, looked barely more rumpled than usual. He had to re-knot his neck-cloth and adjust his breeches, but seconds later, Segundus couldn't have guessed that anything had been amiss.
"I did not know," Segundus said. "About— well." He made another vague gesture that encompassed all of Childermass.
Childermass looked at him. "I have been trying to tell you," he said, "for the past several days. I have dropped hint after hint."
"Oh." Segundus blushed. "I never realized."
"I was shameless, sir."
"And now, sir?" Segundus couldn't look at him. "Are you still shameless?"
Childermass pressed another kiss to the inside of Segundus's wrist. "If I were ever to be ashamed of something, it would not be this."
"Sorry, gents," the innkeeper said. She passed a tray full of foamy beers off to a waitress with a harried air. "We only have two rooms available."
Childermass sighed. "I suppose that's alright," he said with a reluctant glance at Segundus. "It is only for the night."
Segundus did his best to assume an air of nonchalance. "I do not mind if you do not."
"You could share with us, Mr. Childermass," Bradshaw offered. "If you don't want to stay with the gentleman, that is. No need for you to sleep in the stable again."
"No, nonsense," Segundus said. "I could not ask you to stay three to a room."
"I couldn't intrude on your comfort," said Bradshaw. "It would be no great matter."
Vinculus's sharp eyes darted from Childermass to Segundus and back again. "Let them be," he said to Bradshaw.
"You can sort it out between yourselves," the innkeeper said. She shoved a pair of keys across the bar. "If you'll excuse me, gents…"
"I am feeling rather tired," said Segundus as the innkeeper hurried away in a swish of skirts. "I think I will take supper in my room and turn in."
Childermass nodded. "I will come up later."
"Actually," Segundus said after a pause. "I was wondering if you would eat with me. I had a question about Ormskirk…"
"Of course," said Childermass quickly. Vinculus snickered. "Bradshaw, why don't you take the luggage up, and I will find us all supper."
Segundus nodded, though he refused to hand his shabby suitcase over to Bradshaw. He did not think so highly of himself that he could not carry his own valise up the stairs. Childermass's and Bradshaw's belongings fit within a pair of saddlebags, and Vinculus carried nothing that didn't fit in his pockets; all in all, Bradshaw only had to carry a light burden. The journey up the stairs was slow and painful. Segundus managed it on his own, though with a few more pauses to breathe and massage out cramps in his legs than he would have liked.
The room itself was pleasant enough, if rather bare. It had no wallpaper, only wooden panelling decorated with a few amateur-ish paintings. The threadbare carpet brought little cheer to the room, but the window looked out over a quaint cityscape. Segundus noted all these details in the back of his mind. His attention was focused on the furniture; namely, the bed. It looked wide enough for two, but only just. He had not forgotten Childermass's promise of later, and he found himself eager to find out what he had planned.
Segundus blushed when he remembered how desperate he had been earlier, how wanton. It was entirely out-of-character. He knew that he had acted most foolishly and that following his desires would only lead to more foolishness, but never for an instant did he consider refusing Childermass. He had found in Childermass a kindred spirit: a magician, an outsider in many ways, and a person of similar inclinations. He did not see why he should deny himself happiness only because said spirit was a man.
"I fear I was too hasty this afternoon," came Childermass's voice from behind him.
Segundus started; he hadn't heard Childermass come up the stairs. "No, sir," he said. "I was. But I suppose I might be forgiven, considering the provocation I was subjected to."
Childermass held a platter upon which sat two bowls of stew, a loaf of bread, and two tankards of what Segundus presumed was ale. He had a look of cautious amusement on his face. "You jest," he said as though he were not certain of the answer.
Segundus nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Perhaps making a joke was not the proper way of doing things. He cursed his own inexperience. Childermass was not the sort of man who liked to be made fun of, he knew. But Childermass's face did not crumple into an angry frown; he did not have the look of a slighted man. Instead, his smile widened, and some of Segundus's fears eased away.
"You brought dinner," Segundus said, then immediately wished he hadn't. Of course Childermass brought dinner. He had just said he would!
"I did." Childermass paused. "Are you hungry?"
Segundus took stock of himself. He wasn't sure if hungry was the word for what he was feeling; if it were, he did not think his hunger could be satisfied by the stew. Whatever it was he felt had been mounting since the afternoon, creating a steady and distracting pressure in the back of Segundus's mind. He didn't know how to communicate this to Childermass, though, so he shook his head.
With a faint sigh, Childermass set the tray down on the wooden trunk that stood at the foot of the bed. "You had a question about Ormskirk?"
"I could not care less about Ormskirk," said Segundus. "It is the furthest thing from my mind." He took a slow step toward Childermass, feeling as though he were drawn in by an irresistible force, and then another and another, until he was standing very close to him. Warmth radiated from Childermass's body as he reached up with both hands to undo the tie that bound Childermass's hair at the back of his neck. Childermass allowed him to do this, to take this great and private liberty, while his heated gaze fixed on Segundus. His hair felt rough beneath Segundus's fingers. Segundus marveled at the texture. He half-expected it to slip through his hands like water, but no— it felt similar to his own, if rather unkempt.
Childermass allowed this treatment for a minute, a faint smile quirking his lips, before taking ahold of Segundus's hands and pulling him toward the bed. "Sit," he said. "We ought to talk."
"You are very bossy," Segundus informed him, but he sat anyway.
Childermass nodded. "It's a failing of mine."
"Not a failing, sir," said Segundus. He did not want to talk. He wanted— "I believe you said you had plans." His face heated again at his own boldness.
Childermass didn't seem to mind, though. He gave Segundus a smile reminiscent of a predator— a wolf, Segundus thought woozily, or perhaps a very large cat— and pressed him back against the pillows.
The last leg of the journey to Duffield was a matter of hours. A fitful patter of rain, the sort that couldn't seem to make up its mind on whether it wanted to fall or not, had started up in the early hours of the morning and turned much of the road to mud. Vinculus had not become such a steadfast friend to Bradshaw that he would refuse a respite from the rain if it were offered, so he sat sullenly in the coach with Childermass and Segundus.
Much of the ride was silent, save for the usual horse-noises and coach-noises accompanied by intermittent rainfall. Segundus buried himself in a text concerning the distinctions between Welsh and Cornish magic— a topic he would have found interesting if not for the writer's horribly dull prose. As it was, he couldn't focus, and he found himself sneaking glances at Childermass every few sentences.
Childermass, for his part, appeared to be intent on the notes he made in a periodical, but there were times when Segundus glanced at him and found him glancing back. These tiny instances of shared affection (if that was what it was) warmed Segundus to his very core.
It was a dangerous feeling, he knew. He could not say what the future might bring, and he could hardly ask Childermass to consult his cards. There was no way of knowing how long this dalliance might last for, or even if Childermass wanted it to continue. But despite his best efforts, the faint fluttering of hope stirred in his chest. He couldn't help but nurture it, though he suspected it would be worse for him in the end.
They arrived in Duffield before luncheon. The rain had slowed to a disconsolate drizzle that, in the short amount of time during which they stood outside an inn, somehow found its way through the edges and seams of Segundus's coat. Vinculus and Bradshaw made their goodbyes after Bradshaw tied Segundus's horse to the coach, and Segundus pressed a few extra coins into the coachman's hand.
"The fee for the horse," he said. "And for lodging on the journey home. Are you quite sure you do not want to put up in a pub until the rain passes?"
Bradshaw looked at the gloomy sky. "It won't be passin' anytime soon, I'd say. And I've got to get back to Mr. 'oneyfoot."
"Of course you do," said Segundus. "Give him my best wishes and my heartfelt gratitude."
Bradshaw nodded at that, and after clasping Vinculus's arm one last time, set himself back on the path he had only just completed.
The inn was a two-story building of the same rough brown stone that made up most of the town. It sat on the bank of the River Derwent; though Segundus couldn't see the river from where he stood, he heard its charming burble. A carved wooden sign, worn clean of paint, identified it as the Bridge Inn. Segundus supposed it took its name from the nearby stone bridge that spanned the river.
"I'll be getting my own room, then?" Vinculus said as they stepped into the inn.
"I've heard quite enough of your snoring for the rest of my lifetime," said Childermass. "And I'd not inflict you on Mr. Segundus. You'll get your own room, but if you run up a bill, I'll put you in the stables."
Vinculus laughed at that. "There's no need for these contrivances."
"They're not for your benefit." Childermass shot a deliberate look around the room.
Segundus frowned as he caught the meaning of the look. The contrivances, as Vinculus called them, were for his benefit. When a gentleman travelled with two men of a lower rank and did not get himself a room of his own, speculation and raised eyebrows were sure to follow. This was not so when two pairs of men travelled together, for sharing then was a necessity if the men wanted to be economical. But questions of propriety might be raised if a gentleman had the opportunity for privacy and did not take it. Segundus did not like the implication— that he ought to hold himself above Childermass and regard their sharing a bed, even in the most literal sense, as a sort of lowering of his station.
Segundus did not have long to brood on these thoughts, though. They crossed the warm, wood-panelled interior of the Bridge Inn. A fire burned despite the season, and Segundus was thankful for the heat. Their arrival caused only a small stir among the current patrons of the public house that appeared to take up the first floor.
No innkeeper or bartender stood behind the bar on the far side of the main room. Childermass rang the bell for service, then rang it again, more impatiently, a minute later when no one appeared. Just as he was about to ring the bell a third time, a harried-looking man with an impressive mustache appeared from a door to the back room.
"Yes, yes, here I am," the man said. "What is it?"
Childermass raised an eyebrow at the rude reception. "Two rooms, please," he said.
The man looked Childermass up and down and seemed to disapprove of what he saw. His disapproval only grew as he regarded Segundus and Vinculus. "How long will you be staying?" he said grudgingly.
"Indefinitely." Childermass smiled a toothy smile that Segundus rarely saw these days. It had appeared more frequently only a few months ago when magic had first returned to England. It was the smile Childermass gave people who begrudged serving a man of his station, or listening to his opinions, or treating him in any way as a person as deserving of respect and esteem as they themselves were. More than one magician from the Society had been the recipient of such a smile.
"Oh? Well, I am afraid that—"
"My name is Mr. Segundus, sir. We represent the Learned Society of York Magicians," Segundus said before the innkeeper could finish. He shaped his voice into the long-disused vowels of the cultured society accent his tutor had forced into him. "We have pressing business here in your charming town. Now, if you please, Mr…"
"Ah, Fawlty, sir," the innkeeper— Mr. Fawlty— said. The condescension of a moment ago was replaced by a rather astonished expression.
"Mr. Fawlty. We will be staying here indefinitely while we conduct our business. Two rooms, if you please." He counted out a measure of coins, taking care not to reveal how light his coin-purse was, and passed them across the bar-table. "For the first week."
Mr. Fawlty handed over the keys without another word.
"I am impressed, Mr. Segundus," Childermass said close to Segundus's ear as they made their way toward the stairs. Segundus could not suppress the shiver that ran through his body, and Childermass chuckled. "I had thought you quite without guile."
Segundus declared, upon reaching the room, that he should very much like to wash away the grime of travel and change out of his wet clothes. Childermass agreed readily enough, and Segundus eyed him with suspicion, but he seemed to have no ulterior motive. He interrupted himself in the middle of dressing, though— his waistcoat only half-buttoned and his necktie loosely draped around his neck— to lay his cards of Marseilles out on the writing desk.
"How shall we proceed with the investigation?" Segundus asked as he and Childermass unpacked— or, at least, as he unpacked and Childermass frowned at the spread of cards in front of him.
"That is what I am currently trying to determine," Childermass said without looking up. Something he saw in the cards confused him; he picked one up and turned it over and over in one hand as he bit his other thumb.
Segundus smiled. Childermass's tendency to chew on his fingers was not a polite habit, but Segundus found it rather endearing. He allowed this for a minute before he took hold of Childermass's wrist and plucked the card from his hand; it was the Knight of Swords. "What does this mean?" he asked.
Childermass frowned up at him as though he had forgotten Segundus was there. "It is a warning," he said, "against acting foolishly and with baseless confidence. The cards tell me not to rush into an unfamiliar, and possibly dangerous, situation before I have taken stock of it."
"I did not know the cards of Marseilles could be so specific," Segundus said.
"Only if you ask the right questions." Childermass heaved a sigh and rose from the table. He strode across the room to the saddlebags he had draped over the foot of the bed and withdrew a new-looking memorandum book, a bottle of ink, and a quill. He scribbled a letter in a spiky handwriting that Segundus could barely decipher.
"What are you doing?" Segundus asked.
"Making contact with an old acquaintance," Childermass said absently.
"Why?"
"Because I must heed the warning of the Knight of Swords. We cannot begin a proper investigation into the Johannites without more information on how matters stand here. We need to go about this quietly and with great care." Childermass finally looked up. "We should have the opportunity to meet with my acquaintance later this evening, and we can proceed from there. I had also thought to write to the Derby Magical Society."
"Whatever for?"
"To watch over Vinculus, of course. I would rather the time I am unable to study him myself not be completely wasted."
"Do you know anyone in the Derby Magical Society?"
"Only a few that I have met in passing when I took Vinculus to them. I have one in mind whom I think would be suitable— a fellow called Marlowe." Childermass laid out another spread of cards and frowned at them for some time before setting pen to paper once more. The letter to Marlowe was done in a neater hand and had a refined tone to it, from what little scraps Segundus could read in the quick glances he took. He commented on this difference, and Childermass laughed.
"It is not very gentlemanly to read other people's letters," Childermass chided. He was still smiling, though, so Segundus didn't mind.
The letters had to be posted differently, as well. The letter to Marlowe would be sent in the usual way— in the afternoon post, where hopefully it would arrive in Derby the next day. The other letter, the one to Childermass's acquaintence in town, was sent in a more magical way. Childermass held it close to his mouth and whispered words into it, and it disappeared from his hands. His magic was like a slow deep river that moved almost silently through a secret forest, and Segundus felt dizzy as it rolled over him.
"Why do you not send the other one like that?" Segundus asked as the magic dissipated and he came back to himself.
Childermass watched him with a fond sort of smile. "Because I must be quite familiar with the recipient," he said. "I have only met Marlowe two or three times."
"But you are quite familiar with your acquaintance?"
"That is why she is called an acquaintance."
"Typically, one calls acquaintances with whom one is quite familiar friends." Belatedly, Segundus picked up on the pronoun. "She?"
Childermass gave a tiny nod. "A maid at Duffield Hall." Something must have shown on Segundus's face, because Childermass smiled in a way that was surely meant to be reassuring. (Childermass did not have much practice at being reassuring.) "You have no cause for jealousy, sir."
"I am not jealous," Segundus muttered. "You are free to make the familiar acquaintance of as many maids as you please."
"I know her from my childhood," continued Childermass as though Segundus had not interrupted. "She is my sister, by upbringing if not by blood."
Loath as he was to admit it, Segundus's mind eased.
Childermass smiled as though he knew the effect his words had. "Come, sir," he said, standing. "Let me tidy myself up, and we shall inform Vinculus of our plan. And perhaps we could find a bite to eat."
"I like you untidy, though," said Segundus. He was right; Childermass did appreciate boldness, as evidenced by the heated look Childermass shot him. Segundus fumbled with his troublesome necktie until Childermass took notice.
"Here," Childermass said as he stood from the desk. "Give it me."
"You do not have to dress me," said Segundus.
Childermass rolled his eyes. "This again. We have undressed each other, sir. Why may we not dress each other as well?"
"You have not allowed me to dress you," Segundus argued, even as he submitted to Childermass's deft hands as they fit the cloth around his neck.
"My neck-cloth remains untied." And so it did, exposing a triangle of pale flesh. Segundus leaned forward and set his lips, then his teeth, at Childermass's throat. Childermass chuckled, and Segundus felt the vibration against his temple. "Time enough for that later," Childermass said as he pulled Segundus away by the roots of his hair. "You must dress me properly, now. We have business to attend to."
March 1817
Captain Simon Oakes of the Derbyshire militia was quite accustomed to receiving urgent demands for his presence in some remote area of the countryside, so when he was summoned to Seagrave, in Leicestershire, he was not as surprised as he might otherwise have been. The occasion was a personal one, however, not an official declaration of where the militia would encamp next, so he reserved the right to be a little surprised. Colonel Forster was loath to let him go, but Oakes pointed out that he could not very well ignore a summons from his mother's brother, who was a baron besides, and the colonel capitulated after almost no wheedling.
"I expect you back in a week," Colonel Forster said. "That's all the time I can spare you."
"Certainly, sir," Oakes assured him. "I expect to be back even sooner than that. My uncle and I have not spoken in some time, so this is sure to be no great matter."
Colonel Forster frowned but made no objection, and within the hour, Oakes was in the saddle and on his way to Seagrave.
Leicestershire was a charming enough county, to be sure, though it couldn't compare to Derbyshire. Its grasses were a touch duller, its foliage not so lush, the breeze less sweet and the birdsongs harsher to the ear. Oakes could tell the difference immediately upon crossing the border, as he remarked to a postman while they shared a patch of shade for lunch.
The postman looked at him oddly. "You are still in Derbyshire, sir."
"No, that cannot be!" Oakes cried. "I could feel the change in the air, more than five miles back."
"The border is a mile yon," said the postman, tilting his head in the direction of Oakes's heading. "I drive this route every week; I think I can be expected to know where the border lies."
"Well, they must have changed it," Oakes said decisively. "For I am quite positive that this land does not have the spirit of Derbyshire, and it should not be included with the rest of that beautiful county."
"As you say, sir," said the postman. He took his leave not long after that, and Oakes was left alone to contemplate the fallen spirit of Leicestershire, in which he remained firmly convinced he sat. He made a note to research the history of the border between Derbyshire and Leicestershire; specifically, if it had changed recently, and how one might go about campaigning to change it back. So absorbed was he in these thoughts that he nearly forgot to think of all the other considerations that a gentleman travelling alone ought to make, such as where he might find a room for the night if the inn were full or what were he to do if his horse threw a shoe.
Fortunately, neither of those situations occurred for the whole of the journey, nor did any other inconveniences arise, though Simon Oakes would have been remiss if they had. But perhaps it was just as well, for the country he travelled through was full of magic and mischief which would surely have led him astray had he been paying the slightest attention to his surroundings. A fairy with hair the color of a rain-swelled river in spring and eyes as cold as drowning tried no less than three times to tempt him away from his path, and he passed by two mysterious fairy roads and one sweet-smelling fairy orchard, all without the slightest flicker of notice. Through no fault of his own, Oakes was quite immune to the trickery that was laid out before him, and he reached his destination of Seagrave entirely untroubled by magic.
Seagrave was a small, charming village with a well-groomed green in the center. Trees sprouted throughout the village in all sorts of unlikely places, as though they had insisted on growing right where they were, and the village would just have to content itself with settling around them. The haphazardly-arranged buildings were mostly of red brick or dull grey stone, and the people in the village looked appropriately amazed at Oakes's scarlet militia officer's uniform. (He reflected that perhaps he should not have worn it, as he was not about on official militia business, but he had packed in such a haste that he had forgotten to bring any clothes other than his spare uniform and his nightshirt.)
Oakes had spent very little time in Seagrave in his youth, though he remembered visiting his uncle, the baron, once or twice. Thus, all its charms were nearly new to him. He asked for directions to Seagrave Hall and was given them with the proper amount of respect and deference due his station. The hall was quite close to the village, with scarcely any rolling meadows or stretches of hedgerows setting it apart. Oakes trotted his horse up the lane and was met with a groom in neat livery.
"You will see to my horse, won't you?" he said as he passed the reins off. "He is a finicky creature. I'd stable him properly myself— one learns these things in the militia, you see, and I am a captain— but his lordship is expecting me."
"I'll see to your horse, sir," said the groom with a carefully blank face.
Thus satisfied that his horse was in good care, Oakes made his way around to the front of the house and rang the doorbell. A footman emerged in good time (Oakes was slightly hurt that he did not warrant a butler, but perhaps the man was ill or occupied elsewhere), greeted him, and asked who might be calling.
"Captain Simon Oakes, of the Derbyshire militia." Oakes gave a small bow. "I'm here to see Baron Segrave."
"His lordship is very busy, sir" said the footman. "I am afraid you will have to wait."
That pulled Oakes up short. "He is expecting me."
The footman's brow furrowed, then smoothed. "Ah! You are his lordship's nephew. Forgive me, Mr. Oakes. His lordship is in the library. If you'll just follow me..."
The walk to the library was short, so Oakes had little time to contemplate the tasteful artwork or the richness of the tapestries that hung upon the walls, but he made sure to note one or two particularly attractive pieces so he might compliment his uncle on them at an appropriate time. He had little experience with barons, relations or no, but he thought that would be the sort of comment that would endear himself.
The footman opened the door to the library and cleared his throat. "Captain Oakes," he announced.
A man of noble bearing somewhat past middle age but no less diminished by it stood from an armchair by the fire. He could only be the Baron Segrave, not just by virtue of being the only other man in the room, but by his grave and steady air which Oakes was sure could belong to no other.
Oakes bowed with a flourish. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord." Then, upon recalling that he had indeed made the acquaintance of his uncle many years ago, when he was scarcely old enough to remember— "That is to say, delighted to meet with you once more. My lord."
The baron seemed amused by Oakes's slip of the tongue, but he did not say anything to embarrass him further. Instead, he said, "Please, let us do away with such formality. We are family, after all, and you are my heir."
At first, Oakes did not believe his ears, and he had to beg the baron to repeat himself, which he did with some amusement. It was only then that the news firmly took root in Oakes's mind and he began to accept it for fact. The heir of the Baron Segrave! It was like something out of a novel. He could hardly conceive of anything more thrilling to hear, which he informed his uncle. "It has never been made known to me that I am your heir! Do you not have children of your own?"
"A daughter only," the baron said. "Your cousin Amelia. And the estate is entailed to the title, which may only be passed down through the male line. I thought it high time we get to know one another."
"Of course, of course!" said Oakes. "Me! The heir of your title! Upon my word, I hardly know what to say."
"I apologize for not informing you earlier in your life. I had hoped my wife might bear me a son, but alas, we were not so blessed. I thought it best for you to establish yourself in the world for some time before returning here to see to the management of the estate."
"Oh, certainly," Oakes agreed. "I am proud to say I have made a good name for myself in the militia. I am of a mind with your lordship. If I had seen little of the world beyond the borders of this charming village, I think I should be a very foolish fellow indeed."
"Come, now. I must ask that you address me as Cousin William, and I shall address you in turn as Cousin Simon. I could not demand such formality from my heir."
"Very well, Cousin William." The name felt odd in his mouth, and he had to mentally rehearse it several times to get it right.
The footman arrived with tea, and Oakes and the baron— Cousin William— settled into armchairs opposite a low table. "I am delighted to hear that you have made a name for yourself in the militia. You are a captain, you said?"
Oakes nodded eagerly, and with little further prompting, launched into tales of his life in the regiment and how he had risen through its ranks. He told of the men under his command, their peacekeeping efforts, their training, and all the little details he could think of. He took care to paint himself in as flattering a light as possible, which was not difficult, for he was good-natured and high-spirited and, as Colonel Forster often said, "the continual delight of the regiment."
William listened to these tales with a calm, amused air, nodding in all the right places, prompting Oakes to explain himself further, and in all ways being the most obliging conversation-partner a man who liked to talk about himself could want.
Oakes's tea had grown cold in his hands before he realized that he had not asked his uncle any questions about himself or the estate. He attempted to rectify this immediately, only to be met with a surprising dampening of his uncle's spirits.
"I had hoped we might avoid this topic until we are better acquainted," Cousin William said heavily. "For I regret to inform you that the estate is in a poor shape indeed. Before the war, I invested much of my money in textile mills; indeed, I even founded one or two myself. My banker informed me that it was an option that could not fail. But unfortunately, fail it has. The war wreaked havoc on the economy, and the awful business with the Johannites in the past few years has affected my finances severely. My debts— the estate's debts— are considerable."
What horrid news for a man who has just been informed of his heritage to receive! But Oakes's spirits quickly recovered. "I am certain that, working together, we can set it aright! I have an excellent sense for business."
William seemed somewhat cheered by this news. "Yes, you seem like just the man who can help me save the estate." He got up and paced along the length of the library, cutting an impressive figure. "I confess that a singular event occurred to precipitate our meeting. I received notice that there may well be a Johannite rebellion brewing in a location where I own a mill."
Oakes was shocked at this news. "Even after all the trials last year?"
William nodded grimly. "Even so. You can see my distress, then. I want to pass on a profitable estate to my only heir, and yet I am besieged by ill tidings on all sides."
At first, Oakes was very much disheartened. How distressing it was to have such thrilling news tempered so quickly by misfortune! But then the solution hit him in a bolt of brilliance, and he marveled at its simplicity. "Why, sir! I believe you spoke rightly, a moment ago. I am indeed just the man to help you save the estate!" Cousin William looked at him in askance. "I shall decamp my men from their current position and move them to this location. The presence of the militia will surely quell any whispers of rebellion."
A look of astonishment came over William's face, followed by slow-spreading delight. He darted across the room to grab Oakes's hand in both of his. "My dear sir!" he cried. "What a splendid idea! How marvellously that would solve all our problems! I only wish I had thought of it myself. But no matter, you have proved your genius and I am now even more assured of your ability to manage the estate when I am gone! What a perfectly brilliant solution." The joy seemed to slowly drain from his expression, which grew worried once more. "But what if the Johannites do not cease their rebellion?"
"Well, I…" Truthfully, Oakes had not considered the possibility. "I am certain I can find some way of convincing them."
"Certainly. I trust that you will take any appropriate actions to ensure the cessation of any troublesome activities." Cousin William shot Oakes a sly glance. "Recent methods have been effective deterrents, wouldn't you say?"
"The trials, you mean? Yes— most effective." Oakes shifted uncomfortably. "Only, I do not want to put anyone on trial."
William clapped him on the shoulder. "I am certain, more than certain, it will not come to that. You will be able to make these people see sense. I have the utmost faith in you." Here, he hesitated. "And I know that you will do what must be done to protect your inheritance, should it come to that. That is why I have such trust in you, Cousin Simon."
Oakes took a deep breath and nodded, which seemed to cheer Cousin William greatly.
"Come," the baron said. "Enough talk of such dark topics. It is a beautiful day. Allow me to show you your new estate."
Oakes smiled and followed his uncle out of the library.