It rained for two days. Sorry. That was too kind. The skies unloaded a new ocean for two days. Even safely inside the manor, Stiles could see the way the yard was flooding. The stone path to the road was a river, muddy and at least two inches deep.
Allison spent her time with Stiles during those days, because none of her tutors would risk the journey to school her. Stiles, never able to hide anything from her, confessed his attraction to Mason Hewitt and his plans to visit the shop as soon as the weather permitted.
Day three saw an end to the rain, and then all the servants were outside, tending to the yard and cleaning the paths. Stiles wasn't required to help, but he did anyway. He complained the whole time, though no one took him seriously since they knew he could stop if he wanted to.
Allison wasn't allowed to help in the yard, so instead she made sure the kitchen staff brought out drinks to keep them hydrated. For a good while, she stood at the front door and tried to give encouragement, but then her father pulled her away for French lessons.
By mid-afternoon, the front yard was becoming presentable. The stone pathways were clear and brushed clean. The grass was edged and cut into formation. Debris had been collected and taken behind the house to be burned. Stiles didn't want to think about the back yard. It was twice as large as the front, and animals lived back there. It wouldn't just be mud they ran into.
That was for the next day, though. First it was a round of showers, a well-deserved meal, and a good night's rest. When morning came, Stiles and the others gathered in the hall by the back door and started discussing which areas to hit first. Luckily, or unluckily depending on your view, Stiles was spared from the yard work.
"I need you to write for me," Kate said. That was all. But then, what more did she need to say?
Stiles apologized to the servants, who waved him off with smiles, and followed Kate down the hall to the study. Kate was dressed to go hunting, but Stiles hadn't heard any news about such plans since the storm. Sitting down at his desk, Stiles figured Kate was in the getup for mental reasons – she was in a hunting mindset… or she was just mental. Whichever.
"Another love letter for Lord Hale?" Stiles asked, reaching for his papers.
The paper scattered to the floor when he jerked back. Kate had struck him with an open palm. Being slapped wasn't unusual for him, but so soon after one of her father's beatings was. He stared up at her, shocked and holding his face.
"No," she snapped. "I'm about to start writing those letters myself, actually. With your level of skill, I'll still be hinting at romance with him in my grave. If it wasn't for you, I'd have the man already in my bed."
Stiles felt his stomach fall clean through the floor. "You aren't… going to use me for Lord Hale's letters anymore?"
Kate scoffed and walked halfway across the room, apparently too disgusted to look at him. For a long moment, she faced the window, faced away from Stiles, and tapped her fingers on her crossed arms. Then she let out an aggravated sigh and took a seat as far from Stiles as she could.
"Let's focus on the current matter, alright?" She leaned back in her chair, very un-ladylike. "I need you to direct a letter to Mr. Adrian Harris. He's a doctor in Greenburg."
The name of the town had Stiles remembering his trip with Caitlyn. He remembered Mr. Mason Hewitt and his hoop earrings. The Hewitts were moving to Greenburg, and Stiles hadn't visited them yet because of the rain. He'd almost forgotten.
"Are you ready?" Kate asked, annoyed.
"Sorry." Stiles retrieved his pages and snatched up a quill.
"Honestly, how do you function on a daily basis?" She scoffed again. "Be glad I'm sitting so far away or I might hit you again."
"Ready," Stiles said instead of responding to her comments.
'Dear Mr. Harris,
I write to you in hopes that you may be able to procure for me the same medication I received from you five years ago. The moringa root was quite effective in restoring my condition. However, I have recently begun to experience the same style of complications as I experienced back then, and I truly believe your simple remedy is all I'll need to improve my quality of life.
If you still have access to the moringa root, I guarantee you that price is not a concern. Write back with your requirements, and I shall meet them at once.
Lady Katherine Argent
As Kate read over the letter, Stiles cleaned his quill and bit his lip. He hadn't known Kate to ever be ill. Especially not ill enough to request the help of an apothecary in another county. He tried to remember her taking an herbal remedy five years ago, but that was silly. He'd only come to work for her four years ago. Of course he'd have no memory of it.
"Sufficient," she said and handed him back the paper. "Send it off immediately. Then return to me. We're going to pen a new style of letter to Derek Hale."
"I thought you weren't going to use me anymore for him," Stiles said and expertly kept the hope from his voice or face.
"Question me again and I won't. This letter is going to be different from your others. And if you mess it up, I'll do worse than taking you off this project. I'll find a new scribe entirely." With that, she plopped down on the sofa in the middle of the room and proceeded to pretend he didn't exist.
Careful not to crush the letter he'd just written, Stiles folded it and sealed it in an envelope. Whatever condition Kate had, Stiles hoped it made her miserable for a long, long time.
They had not received an answer to their last letter to Derek Hale yet. To be fair, they'd only sent it out the day before the storm, and Derek was an extremely busy man even without weather hindering the post. But from Kate's mood, one would think a full week had passed without response. When Stiles reentered the study after sending off Mr. Harris' letter, she was lying on the couch, and yet somehow she looked as stiff and uncomfortable as if she were lying on the floor.
Without a word, Stiles returned to his desk and prepped his paper and quill.
"What are we writing today?" Stiles asked.
"Something sexy," Kate answered. She sounded constricted, like the discomfort in her posture was caused by being squeezed, though her clothes did not appear too tight. "I'm not sure if your skills extend into this arena, and I want it done properly, so if you don't think you're up for the task, let me know immediately. I'll find someone else."
Pride flared in Stiles and he frowned. "I can do anything," he replied.
"Good." She sat up and set him with an intense stare. "I hope you're as prepared as you pretend to be."
She rattled off her idea for a letter, giving rather specific details, and never took her eyes from Stiles. She looked neither happy nor upset, just intense. Her tone treated the letter like business, though the contents should arouse some embarrassment, or at the very least some excitement. When she was finished, she left Stiles alone to write. As in, she left the room.
This was highly unusual, as she normally wanted to read the letter as soon as it was complete. But she seemed to understand that this letter was not like other letters, and had the decency to give him some privacy to think.
What had Stiles been thinking? He shouldn't have declared his skill so boldly.
With a deep breath, he dunked his quill and then discovered his hand was shaking. He cleared his throat and tightened his grip on the quill momentarily to banish the nerves. Then, trying not to put too much thought into what he was doing, he set pen to paper.
'Dearest Derek,
I could not wait for your next letter. My feelings have been wound tight from me holding them back for so long. The time has come for me to express myself as truly as I can through paper. The truth is that I do not wish to help you find a bride. I do not wish to see you in the arms of others. In fact, my feelings are quite the opposite of those I expressed to you some months ago. I am not a willing assistant in your search for love.
I wish to be your love. I write to you each time with the intention of winning your affections, of being drawn within your powerful gravity. You must know how I am. I am a physical woman. For too long I have hidden the ways I desire you. I have tip toed and been coy, but no longer.
I want to pull your arms around my body and feel the strength in your biceps. I want to hold myself against you, so that when you move I feel the taut muscles of your chest. I want to feel the fullness of your striking ass cupped in my hands. I want to learn every muscle in your body as if it were my own and have you do the same of mine, fingers stroking each one as we learned their names.
I dream of a night, dark with desire, when I let fall the silly confinements of being a lady and let you see me as I am, as God intended. I have dreamt of what your passionate eyes may look like as they touched upon every part of me, and their penetrating intensity gave me shivers.
There you have it. I have laid bare my true feelings and intentions. I dream of you, Dearest Derek. I want you.
Write back soon, or I shall take it as a grave insult. I jest. But do write, Dear Derek. Waiting for your letters makes me tremble in anticipation.
Yours in every way,
Katherine
Stiles felt himself trembling a little too. He'd just written that. He'd just written to Derek about wanting to spend a night of passion with him and detailing the fine aspects of his body. Something stirred in his gut. He'd expected to feel a little disgusted when writing such a thing for Kate, but instead he found himself… aroused. And maybe a little bit ashamed about it.
He had no idea what Derek really looked like, but in his mind he could imagine the night Kate had described. Derek had no face, but he could picture a taut, toned chest, a pair of strong, protective arms, and an impressively shaped ass. He could imagine the intimate detail of large hands drifting down his body, pointing out parts Derek particularly liked, down and down and down-
Stiles choked a little on his own imagination and pressed a hand firmly into his crotch to snap himself out of it.
Trying to distract himself, he pulled out a new sheet of paper.
'Dear Derek,
I have no words or explanations. I hold you to no expectation of a reply. If you can't find the right thing to say, know that I have nothing against you.
Stiles'
If Derek had no feelings for Kate, there was very little he could use as an excuse to continue writing, even if he did like writing to Stiles. Kate had propositioned him. No proper gentleman, much less a future Earl, could rationalize keeping up a correspondence with such a person unless they had the same desires.
Stiles really hoped Derek's only response was a brief and unmistakable rebuttal.
Mind riddled with sexual frustration, Stiles went about his day about twice as clumsy as he normally was. It wasn't that he was normally clumsy, per say, but he did sometimes bump into walls, or try to sit down a bit too early and miss the chair, or on one notable occasion from long before joining the Argents, he had gone to get a snack from the kitchens, tried to throw a flirty line at a worker, leaned toward the counter, missed, knocked over a stack of dishes and broke them all on the floor while sending a wooden spoon skyward, which landed on the stove, where it immediately caught fire and scared the chef, who jolted and sent hot oil splattering everywhere, which started an even larger fire, which basically ended with the house needing a whole new kitchen. End of story.
Stiles liked to pretend he had amnesia about that day.
Anyway, all his distracted mind meant was that he got a few new bruises from the edge of hallway walls and he tripped going up the stairs and maybe he tried to wash a horse with feed when he mixed up the buckets. All in all, he was doing alright.
He told Allison as much when they got together to play dominos after dinner. She almost laughed at him, but she was too shocked by her aunt's inappropriate letter to really manage it. With both of them distracted, the game took much longer than usual, but Stiles won in the end.
That night, he lay in bed, staring at his empty ceiling, his empty walls, his broken nightstand, and he imagined that Derek never had to deal with such a boring, ramshackle room. Derek probably had gold molding on his walls, intricate paintings and tapestries hanging everywhere. His room would be three times the size of Stiles', if not more, and would have a sitting room attached. There would be an ornate table with two oak chairs midway between the door and bed, where Derek could sit and entertain himself before venturing out into society. Stiles could see him there, reading a thick tome about improved carriage designs or better business practices.
Derek's nightstand would be dark, to match the chairs, but carved with forest scenes, and the handles would be golden, or at least brass. He'd keep his current read in the drawer for ease of access before retiring for the night. The bed itself would be fit for a king, with four posts and sheer draping. There would be curtains pinned up, for show rather than for use, except for those rare days when Derek finally let himself sleep in and needed to block the sun.
The quilt would be thick and warm in winter, but replaced with something a bit thinner for those hot summer months. And when Derek had special company, the quilt would be cast off entirely. He'd drop the curtains part way for privacy, slide over the coverlet, and lie beside his partner. Maybe they'd talk about getting a new couch in the study, adding a desk to the sitting room, or replacing the finials on the bed with wolf heads. More than likely, they'd skip talking entirely.
Derek would use his strong hands to pull open Stiles' shirt, maybe losing a button or two, and they'd kiss the way some people drank – deep and desperate. Stiles would feel that taut chest, those firm biceps, that toned butt, and Derek would drift his hands all over Stiles' body, just the way Kate had suggested – memorizing every intimate detail. And he wouldn't hold it against Stiles that he'd lost weight since becoming a scribe, that his skin was more tan than it had ever been and his freckles and moles somehow stood out even more. No, Derek would whisper that he loved those moles, and he'd trace his way down Stiles' body, mole to freckle to shameful scar. He'd kiss the scars too, even the burned ones on Stiles' back, and then those hands- those strong hands- tugging Stiles' pants off, pressing firmly into the skin of Stiles' thighs, drifting closer and lower and-
Stiles moaned loudly, one hand on his crotch, the other gripping his shirt over his chest. He hadn't meant to start fantasizing, but his brain was so full of Kate's suggestive words, of the words he'd written down himself. It was impossible not to realize how long it had been since he'd let himself dream of someone wanting him, of imaging the physical touch of someone that loved and desired him. He was still a virgin, but his body knew what felt good, knew what it wanted.
Desire made Stiles' whole body tingle and ache, and there'd be no relief to let him sleep unless he finished what his mind had started. Biting his lip, he pushed his underwear aside and let his imagination fill with thoughts of the mysterious Derek Hale, supposedly so rugged, so sexy, so strong. For a few blissful moments, Stiles was not in his dingy bedroom, but was laid out on Derek Hale's masterpiece of a bed, being worshipped by an equally masterful lover. He was kissed and touched as much as his body could handle, and then some, brought right to the edge of sanity.
When it was over, and sleep was finally able to creep up on him, Stiles' mind suddenly flashed to the crimson fabric in the shop three days prior. Mason Hewitt's glinting silver earrings and smooth dark skin floated to the surface of his memories, and he remembered: fantasies like this didn't necessarily have to stay fantasies. Someone in reality liked him.
The shop was closed.
Stiles stood in the street, staring at the sign in the window, his chest heavy and feeling crushed. The sign did not say 'closed'. The sign said 'for rent'. The Hewitts and their fabric store had moved, were gone, forever. The storm had shut their doors for two days, and they'd been able to pack up much sooner than expected. The neighboring store owner had told Stiles all about how efficient the move had been once the storm had ended, how the whole family and all of their products had been gone before the end of the day. Stiles was two days late.
Then the neighboring shop owner had made a disparaging racist comment about being quite glad the family had finally moved, and Stiles had to leave before he did something that got himself arrested, although he couldn't stop himself from at least shoving the man back through his own shop door.
This was it. Stiles was destined to die alone, penniless, and a virgin. He'd finally found someone attractive who also found him attractive and wasn't too afraid to flirt a little to prove it. He'd finally decided to go for it, to try and start a relationship of some kind, and he'd missed the opportunity.
If life were a novel, this would be the time for a twist that had Stiles catching up to the Hewitts or finding out Mason had stayed behind for him. Alas, it was just life, and Mason was gone.
Dragging his feet, Stiles walked slowly home, taking extra time to admire the scenery and push thoughts of his missed romance away. He should stay positive. One day, someday, he'd meet someone. Right? And he'd forget about cute shopkeepers and lofty earls, and he'd be happy with the person he was with, whatever profession they held.
Yes. One day, Stiles would be happy. Honestly happy.
He crossed the threshold of the Argent estate and instantly came face to face with a nervous looking servant. When the boy saw Stiles, his eyes went wide and he shook his head. His mouth opened, but before he could speak, Gerard's voice reached them.
Stiles sighed. He'd have to push his happy dreams aside for a moment and return to his 'tough enough to survive' thought process. Damn this old man.
"The shameful scribe returns," Gerard drawled, shambling slowly toward him. "Do you know why I call you shameful today, Stiles?" He said the name like a bitter aftertaste.
"Something different than normal?" Stiles asked, sounding as unperturbed as possible.
The old man's face wrinkled with disgust and he waved one hand wildly in the direction of the front door. "You are shameful because you assist my daughter in sullying her reputation! It's not bad enough that she drinks too much in public? That she seduces lovers from all ranks of life? I cover up her scandals under my own roof, but now you expose her to another home? Another county?!"
Stiles frowned deeply. "What are you talking about?"
Sure, everyone in the house knew that Kate was wild, and for far more reasons than drinking and seduction, and that the only thing keeping her reputation above water was her father's money, but how had Stiles made any of that worse?
"I heard about the letter," Gerard sneered, voice low and dangerous. "The Hales will have it by now, and soon everyone important in Beacon will hear of it as well. If, by some miracle, the family finds it too embarrassing to share, then count yourself lucky. If I get a whiff of that family looking down on me for this, I'll only break your spirit. But if they let anyone else know, if the rumor spreads, you'll wish you'd never been born."
Sometimes Stiles already did that, but he didn't voice his thought. Instead he asked, "And how on earth am I supposed to stop rumors getting out now?"
Gerard stepped closer. "If I find out you've written anymore… letters like that one, you won't have to ask that question."
"You want me to refuse to write letters?" Stiles asked, incredulous. He glanced around to see if anyone else heard how ludicrous Gerard sounded. The boy servant from before just looked scared. Beyond him, no one else had heard anything because no one else was around. Stiles turned his gaze back to Gerard. "She'll never stand for that. You know it. If that's what she wants, she'll force me write them."
"Then I guess I'll have to give her no choice," Gerard said, almost sounding like he agreed with Stiles.
It happened very fast, so fast that Stiles didn't have time to register he was even in danger. Gerard's wrinkled hands snatched up Stiles' right hand and twisted. Something snapped.
Stiles screamed. It filled the whole estate and drew the rest of the Argents to the scene, but Stiles didn't care. His knees hit the floor and tears stung his eyes, and he held his injured hand to his chest. By the time Allison dropped beside him, he was rocking.
All the Argents were shouting then, arguing with one another about what had happened. Kate was livid about losing her scribe. Gerard was unashamed of defending his family's honor. Chris was saying his father had finally gone too far. Allison was accusing them all of being insane and asking Stiles if he was okay, her voice still raised two levels too high in anger.
Stiles hissed and rocked and clenched his teeth around the pain. Allison shouted for the boy servant to fetch a doctor. Stiles shook his head, but not at her. Anger and fear were welling up inside him, and all his happy future thoughts were crushed under the weight of his unforgiving present. Stiles screamed through his tight closed lips and wished desperately to go home.