Change of Heart
By S. Faith, © 2011
Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 4,962 (this chapter)
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 3: Out
Since there had been no word as yet from the specialist regarding his mother's test, Mark insisted that Elaine remain with them until they did, since it would have been pointless for her to go all the way back to Grafton Underwood if she were needed for an additional visit. He rather liked having her there with them; she was unobtrusive, did not try to interfere with the running of her son and daughter-in-law's house, and did not have a single complaint to offer.
When the telephone rang late in the day on Wednesday, a day that Mark happened to be home before anyone else, he whisked up the receiver almost immediately, offering his usual greeting.
The voice that spoke to him was not a polite medical professional asking for Mrs Elaine Darcy. The voice that spoke to him immediately conjured a deeply foreboding sense of déjà vu:
"Yes, hello. Is this Mr Mark Darcy?"
It was Headmaster Johnson. Mark felt a cold chill settle in his stomach.
"Sir," Mark said. "It is. How may I help you?"
"I am sorry," the headmaster said. "I was hoping it would not have to come to this, particularly as five generations of Darcy men have attended this school, but your son has delivered the last straw and the camel's back is irreparably broken."
It did not immediately occur to Mark what the man meant, but in an instant the enormity of what he was saying, what it must have meant, struck him. Aidan and Eton.
Before Mark could consider it further, Johnson went on.
"I especially cannot turn my back on physical violence, particularly when he knew the consequences."
Mark spoke at last, spurred by the surprising mention of— "Physical violence?"
"Yes. An escalation of tensions between your son and Ethan Hawthorne." The headmaster sighed, then said with a sort of fraternal confidence, "Mind you, I am personally very fond of your son, but repeated and blatant disregard of the rules cannot be tolerated."
Mark ran his hand back through his hair as the awful truth sank in: Aidan was officially expelled from Eton, and that was the end of it, the end of a long tradition in his family. To say he was disappointed was an understatement, not only in Aidan, but in himself as a father; obviously he had failed at his duty. The thought of his son not attending Eton had sent him into a sort of hazy fugue until he realised the headmaster was speaking once more.
"…so I trust he will not have any trouble transitioning to another school. His grades speak for themselves."
"Yes, sir. I'm sure you're right," said Mark, pacing back towards the telephone's base.
"We'll expect you to come pick him and his possessions up as soon as possible."
"Yes," Mark said. "Thank you for calling."
"You're welcome," he said. "I only wish it had been under happier circumstances."
"Agreed, sir," Mark said again. "Good night."
"To you and Mrs Darcy as well."
Mark placed the receiver down to disconnect the call and only then did he let out a slow, steady breath.
"Mark? Who was that? I heard you on the phone—"
He turned at the sound of his wife's voice; she stopped speaking immediately, probably due to the doleful expression on his face.
"What is it?" she asked, looking suddenly stricken, probably as stricken as he did.
"Where's my mother? Lizzie?"
"Lizzie stayed late for debate club. And your mother left you a message—didn't you get it?" He looked at his mobile on the table, saw the blinking light indicating a message; delayed delivery, most likely. "She took the train back—if I hadn't needed to work I would have just driven her back."
"What about the test results?"
"They called this morning. Tests came back fine—she just needs more exercise." Bridget came close enough to him to touch his arm. "What's wrong? Who was that?"
"That was the call I've been fearing."
"Fearing? What? Whatever are you talking about?"
"Aidan's been kicked out of Eton."
She blinked rapidly. "Oh," she said. "Jesus, I thought it was…" She drifted off. "I don't know. Something really serious."
"This is serious, Bridget," he said sharply. "You must see that."
"Mark," she said, the tone of her voice very gentle. "I mean only that it's not like this is out of the blue. You know he and Eton have not been a good match. This seemed inevitable."
"Where else is he going to go?"
"I'm sure there are plenty of other schools that are not Eton and in which he'll flourish," she said gently.
As much as her reaction exasperated him, it did not surprise him. She was as headstrong as she'd ever been regarding her liberal opinions on parenting. "You don't understand," he said, "and there's nothing I can say that will ever make you."
There was a flash of a moment during which she looked hurt, but it was gone so quickly he figured he must have imagined it. "Well, on that I'll agree," she said, smiling tenderly. "Really. It isn't the end of the world. Aidan's not happy there. He can get just as good an education somewhere else, and be a lot happier. It's what he's wanted anyway."
The statement hit him like a second punch to the stomach. To learn that Aidan had expressed his unhappiness, his desire to be away from Eton, with his mother sparked a sense of betrayal through him that he had not felt in years: his son did not wish to follow in his footsteps. What if he'd done this act of violence intentionally? He exhaled sharply, pinching the corners of his eyes with his fingers.
"Mark."
He looked at her. She was gazing affectionately back up at him, and she held her arms open in an offer to wrap them around him. He had never doubted her love for him, regardless of their diverging opinions, and this was no exception; she got up onto her toes as she had hundreds of times before, and kissed him before holding him close in her embrace. In turn he enfolded her with his own arms and held her to him.
"It'll be all right," she murmured. "So what did he do this time?"
"A fight with Ethan Hawthorne," Mark said. "Physical."
"Why? Is Aidan all right?"
"Headmaster did not mention," he said, not adding he had been too shocked to ask on either count.
"Hmm," she said. "Well, I suppose if he were hurt he would have said…."
"He had to know it'd get him kicked out."
She was quiet. "Maybe it's a chance he was willing to take."
He said nothing, which undoubtedly told her of his previous thoughts.
"Mum? Dad? Everything okay? Is it Gran?"
He broke from Bridget's embrace to turn his gaze to his daughter. She looked ashen.
"It's not Gran, Lizzie. Come here," said Bridget, holding an arm out for her, slipping it around the girl's shoulders. "Everything's okay."
Everything was not okay; Mark had to make her understand. "Your brother's gotten himself kicked out of Eton."
"Oh no! Did he fail classes?" she asked.
"No," said Mark.
"What'd he do?"
"We're not sure," said Bridget. "Something about a fight."
"He punched somebody, didn't he?" asked Lizzie.
"We don't know details," reiterated Bridget.
"He'll be home tomorrow," said Mark, his anger building slow and white-hot deep inside; he had every intention of finding out the details. "He broke the rules and now he has to pay the price." He shot Bridget a look; he wouldn't have her contradict him.
"We don't yet know what happened." Bridget met his gaze almost defiantly. "But it was wrong of him to resort to violence."
"Yes," Mark agreed, enfolding his daughter and his wife in another hug before releasing them.
Lizzie said, "Well, whatever the case, I'll be glad to have Aidan at home. Don't tell him, but I like it best when he's here."
"My lips are sealed," said Bridget, then added with an air of confidentiality, "but I'll be glad too."
He felt ever more the villain, made to feel as if he did not, somehow, miss his own son in what he felt was a necessary absence. Thinking about the next day, about his son being schooled anywhere but Eton, angered and troubled him greatly.
The inevitable had to be done, however. He picked up the phone once more, dialling Aidan's mobile number. It rang several times before going to voice mail; the thought of Aidan avoiding his father's call further infuriated Mark. He managed to leave a relatively calm message for his son, a quietly building thunderstorm not yet breaking, commanding Aidan to be prepared for pick up at precisely two in the afternoon. The only obvious sign of his intemperance was the force with which he then hung up the phone.
…
At bedtime, after his temper had somewhat calmed, Bridget was sensitive enough to bring up a mug of Horlicks for each of them, some Jammy Dodgers and Custard Creams, and a smile. "Thought you might like an extra dose of TLC," she said with warm concern, sitting beside where he was reclined in bed and reading a little something to help get his mind off of the evening. He set the book aside, then reached to give her a hug.
"Horlicks and biscuits?" he asked.
"Oh, heavens no," she said, and as he brought the mug up for a closer look, he realised there was a distinctly alcoholic scent coming up from it. He chuckled. She had put Bailey's into his Horlicks. He smiled and brought his hand up to cradle her cheek.
"I love you," he said.
She leaned forward and kissed him, once, twice, then a third time a little more lingeringly. "Let's have a little bedtime snack," she said.
The doctored Horlicks helped him to relax then fall to sleep, but not nearly as much as curling into her comforting embrace after she switched off the lamp.
…
Mark dreaded getting out of bed the next morning. It was bad enough that he'd had to try to reach his assistant to cancel his appointments and otherwise work with his partners in chambers to take over his work for the afternoon (instead reaching a new colleague who was all too happy to do what she could), but now had the daunting task of picking up his son from a school from which he had been expelled in disgrace, sit through an exit interview feeling like he was himself being punished, then drive back to their home in London without unleashing the full force of his anger upon his son in transit. He wondered if Aidan felt disgraced at all. Mark could not get it out of his head that Aidan was a Darcy and had been expected to use Eton as a launching point for a stellar educational career. That was now not to be. Everything was uncertain, and he hated uncertainty.
Finding a school for the boy to attend, one with acceptably stellar academic standards that might be willing to overlook the behavioural black marks in favour of his exceptional grades, was a task Mark did not relish at all. He wished he felt half the confidence Bridget had expressed, not that he doubted his son's abilities but rather the schools from which to choose that might be likely to accept him.
The drive to Eton seemed twice as long as usual, probably because it was likely the last such drive he would make. Mark had every intention of presenting himself at Aidan's door with a crisp knock at precisely two in the afternoon. As he drew his car close to the usual area in which he liked to park, he was stunned to find that Aidan was already there to meet him… with the entirety of his belongings. Knapsack, suitcase, trunk. Everything. Not only had his son been ejected from Eton, but his son felt it necessary to broadcast it to his classmates, to embarrass himself and his father by hauling his things down to the kerb like a common tramp.
Mark did not remember actually parking the car along the kerb, did not remember getting out of the car, did not become aware of his surroundings again until Aidan looked up from his notebook computer and caught his father's gaze.
"What is the meaning of this?" Mark asked with cool fury.
"What?"
"Having all of your things out here," Mark said. "Couldn't wait to be rid of this place, could you?"
Aidan furrowed his brow. "I just thought it'd be faster than—"
"Just put the trunk in the boot, the rest in the back seat," barked Mark, pressing a button on his key fob, unlocking the doors, then popped open the back. Aidan went quietly to the trunk; he couldn't lift it on his own, so Mark took up the other side and together they slipped it into the boot.
"We have to see Headmaster Johnson before we leave," Aidan said quietly. "Some kind of… exit interview."
"I know," said Mark in irritation, casting his gaze upon his son again. "Tell me one thing, Aidan Mark Darcy. Did you do this on purpose just to get out of here?"
"What? No!" Aidan exclaimed in such a shocked manner that Mark could only think that he hadn't given any forethought to the repercussions at all; it was yet another way in which he was like his mother. "If you had seen what that jerk had done to that defenceless kid, you would have popped him in the face, too, and besides—"
"Get in the car," Mark commanded. "We'll go suffer one final indignity with the headmaster, then get out of here. And then we'll discuss this at home."
In silence they drove to the other side of the campus. The meeting went about as he expected it would; every word that came from the headmaster's mouth sounded kind, but Mark heard nothing but pity, as if to say You've failed us all, Mark; there'll be no Darcy welcome to Eton again.
The journey home took all of Mark's focus and attention, his fury simmering just below the surface. Aidan tried once to say something, getting as far as "Dad, I—"
"Not now," he barked. For their own safety Mark did not want to lose his temper further while driving. Aidan said nothing more.
Upon arriving to their Holland Park home, Mark saw that neither Bridget nor Lizzie were yet there. He and Aidan took care of bringing in Aidan's things before Mark said to his son, who was still avoiding his gaze, "Go to your room. We will talk when I am feeling calmer."
"Yes, Father," he said, then with a single upward glance to meet his eyes, Aidan turned and went up the stairs.
"No email, no internet," he called after him, belatedly adding, "no telephone."
Aidan did not respond, but Mark knew he'd heard.
With that Mark let out a breath he hardly realised he'd been holding in, running his hand over his face. He looked to his watch, saw it was barely half past four. He expected Lizzie and Bridget would be home soon. He turned for the drawing room, went to the locked cabinet for his Oban, pouring just enough to steady his nerves.
He was lifting the tumbler to his lips when he heard a key in the front door. Quickly he knocked the amber liquid back, burning a trail down his throat and into the centre of his chest. He cleared his throat then set the tumbler down, turning to look at the door just as Bridget came into view.
"Where's Lizzie?" he asked.
"I've sent her downstairs with the carrier bag." She regarded him thoughtfully. "Where's Aidan?"
"In his room."
She nodded, looking down then to him again. "So what happened? I mean, to get him expelled."
"I don't have the full story," said Mark as she came nearer. "I didn't trust myself not to shout."
"Have you been drinking?" she asked, glancing to the tumbler then to him.
"Just the one to calm myself, don't worry."
"What story do you have?" she asked.
"Punched out Ethan Hawthorne," Mark said. "In defence of a younger boy again."
"Same one?"
"Does it matter?"
"I suppose not." She touched his upper arm.
"He had to know it'd get him kicked out," he said again.
"Maybe he wasn't thinking of that, at least not in the moment," she said. "I've known otherwise perfectly rational people to react similarly." He knew she was referring to his own actions regarding Daniel Cleaver, so many years ago.
"I had nothing so important as my future at stake," he said.
Bridget's mouth hardened. "You had me at stake, whether you realised it or not," she said.
He sighed. "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way." He reached out a hand to take hers, then pulled her into an embrace, kissing her cheek. "Sorry."
She slipped her arm around his waist, fully accepting the hug. "You're forgiven," she said quietly, "because I love you so much." She looked up to him with wide blue eyes. "I hope you can do the same for your son."
He closed his eyes, then pressed a lingering kiss into her hair. He didn't say so aloud, but he hoped he could too.
"Lizzie is going to do her so-called famous pasta," said Bridget quietly after a few minutes. "Perhaps we should get talking to Aidan out of the way."
He knew her presence was for the best, knew that Aidan would not be so close-lipped or defensive with her, but a small part of him wished he could talk with his son, man to man. "You're right," he said. "I am feeling a bit calmer now."
She drew away, then took his hand in hers. "Come on."
"Bridget," he said, squeezing her hand. "I don't want you coddling him. We must present a united front on this."
"What is our front, Mark?" she said. "I'm not going to treat him like a failure and a disappointment."
"I don't want—" he began. "I want him to understand that yes, we still love him, but rules exist for a reason."
"I still want to hear his side of the story," she said. "No matter what he does, he is still our boy."
Together they scaled the stairs and approached his room. Mark knocked three times firmly. "Aidan."
"Come in."
Aidan was on his bed reading a book when they entered, and when he saw the both of them his expression changed indefinably. "Mum," he said; clearly he hadn't expected her presence. "Dad."
"Aidan," he said. "Tell us what happened."
He closed the book, set it aside, then sat upright. "You already know I punched out Ethan Hawthorne."
"But why?" asked Bridget. "What happened?"
"It was over Arthur Remington," he said. "He's a younger boy, just started this term. Hawthorne hasn't left him alone since—no idea what he's got against him." He looked meaningfully between his parents. "You know, it's the same boy I've been defending all term."
Mark closed his eyes for a moment, thinking the boy Aidan had defended was probably not much older than his baby sister. He also recollected how protective Aidan used to be of her when they would go and play in the park with other children, how he would argue with and even push down anyone who tried to do anything that he considered to be bothering her. At the time Mark had thought it a bit overzealous. Perhaps this was just an extension of that.
"Yes, Aidan."
"So how did it come to blows?" Mark asked coolly.
Aidan shrugged a little. "He crossed the line. My temper got the better of me. I don't deny I punched first." He held up his hand, showed that his knuckles were raw and abraded.
"Aidan," Bridget said gently. "What did he say, exactly?"
Aidan looked not to her, but to Mark. Mark nodded. He too was interested in hearing.
"He—well, Arthur is a really nice kid, kind of quiet, but not what you would call a masculine boy," said Aidan. "He gets a fair share of teasing, but especially from Ethan. From day one that prat has hurled every nasty slur he could think of at Arthur." Aidan's cheeks flushed with anger just talking about it. "I couldn't sit back and listen to it, not when—well, you know."
They did know. Bridget's long-time friend Tom, a gay man, had remained a part of their extended 'urban family'; Aidan and Lizzie loved and respected him as if he were their actual uncle. Bridget reached out a hand to him and took his, squeezing it.
"Ow," said Aidan.
Too late she realised it was the one with which he had thrown the punch. "Sorry, darling," she said, picking up and brushing a light kiss on the knuckles.
"I don't disagree with standing up to bullying, Aidan," he said quickly. "It's the manner in which you did it. You need to think before you speak… and act."
Aidan's expression at this seemed almost perplexed. "But I only—"
"I don't want to hear excuses," Mark interrupted. "I want assurances this will not happen again."
Aidan looked frustrated, even a little angry. "You're not letting me tell you my side of things."
"That's why we're here," said Bridget. "I thought you were telling your side."
"No, you heard what happened. Not why."
"You just said why. It was because Ethan was hurling slurs at Arthur."
"That's not what caused the fight. I mean, it was, but—"
"I said I don't want excuses," Mark said firmly. With finality.
Aidan cast his gaze down. "Yes, sir," he said in a slightly sarcastic tone, surprising Mark. He then met Mark's gaze, firm and unflinching, again surprising Mark. "I'm sorry to be such a bloody disappointment to the Darcy name."
"Aidan," she said crisply.
He then turned to Bridget. "Sorry, Mum."
"You are not a disappointment," she declared. Suddenly Bridget stood, went to sit on Aidan's other side, and pulled him (after a little resistance) into her arms. "You are also never too old for a hug from your mum," she said, glancing disapprovingly at Mark as she ran her fingers over Aidan's hair, smoothing it down. Infuriated, Mark rose and stalked from the room; he resisted the urge to go for another scotch and instead went into his home office, the one place he could count on for complete privacy. He just wanted a little time to clear his head before talking to Bridget or to Aidan again.
Within a few minutes Mark heard a rapping at his own door. "Mark. I know you're in there." It was Bridget's voice. "I'm coming in."
"Not a very good time."
The door swung open. She looked as upset as he had ever seen her. "I know this is hard for you," she said sympathetically. "You must know it's hard for him, too."
"I told you I wanted to present a united front."
"Please don't be angry at me for wanting to console a son in need," she said. "I couldn't bear to see him thinking he's a disappointment, just as I can't bear to see you feel you've failed somehow." She held out her arms and approached him, enfolding him in her embrace. "You know I'm here for you, too."
"Of course I do," he said softly.
Neither said anything for many moments, and when the silence was broken, Bridget was the one to do it. "You know, I think your father would understand."
Mark held her more tightly to him. Her words were surprisingly reassuring to him; after all, she'd known his father better than just about anyone else not blood-related to him, and his father had been terribly fond of her. Most of all, he loved that she knew him so well, seemingly knowing just what to say to make him feel better without his having to say anything at all, or without his even knowing precisely what was bothering him in the first place. "I'd hate to think of him disappointed," he confessed.
"I don't think Aidan could ever have disappointed your father. He loved Aidan so much I swear he thought that boy could do no wrong… just as Aidan loved him." Bridget laughed softly. "Even if grandfathers usually think their grandsons can do no wrong."
Mark chuckled softly at this, then turned his head to kiss her properly on the lips.
She caught his gaze and looked at him intently. "Don't think that Aidan isn't upset at the thought of disappointing you… and Malcolm's memory."
Mark sighed, reaching up to take her face in his hand. "I know."
She looked up at him expectantly, stepping back after a few silent moments. "I think you should go upstairs," she said. "For your son. I'll see how Lizzie is doing."
It wasn't until after she got to the door that he realised she'd been waiting for him to say something more, something on which he'd failed to deliver. He nodded, offering a little half smile, which softened her expression as she retreated.
Mark too left the office then went up the stairs, knocking once more on Aidan's door.
"Yeah," came the flat voice.
Mark pushed the door open. Aidan glanced up again, this time from where he had been looking out the window and to the darkened sky. For a moment Mark felt he'd gone back in time; in that moment Aidan looked like a younger, more vulnerable version of himself, the version apprehensive about going away from home to Eton in the first place. Just as quickly the illusion disappeared, and Aidan was again his current, teenaged son. "Aidan," Mark said gently, then cleared his throat. "I… I thought I would come up. To get you for supper." He stopped short; why did he find it so hard to apologise for storming out earlier?
Aidan blinked rapidly, then to Mark's disbelief, smiled a little then nodded. "Okay, Dad." He rose to his full height; any more growth spurts and he'd be towering over his own father.
In lieu of any other words—not that he would have known exactly what to say, anyway—Mark brought his hand up and patted Aidan's shoulder reassuringly. "Okay, son," he said. As he did, he remembered the occasional similar gesture from his own father, usually so guarded when it came physical displays; in particular Mark recalled the time when he'd been fourteen and had been so fretful over a research paper that he'd mistakenly jotted it down as being due after the long break rather than before; Mark had been inconsolable, afraid of failing grades, and his father had done the best he could to reassure him that all would be well. Of course all had been well; no failure had occurred, nothing worse than a stern word from the professor. Certainly no expulsion.
Mark squeezed his son's shoulder before releasing it, and as he did he felt the tension dissipate. Aidan, it seemed, understood how his father felt without having said a thing, and in Mark's relief, he chuckled almost nervously. "Hope you're hungry for your sister's pasta specialty," he said, tentatively stepping out onto more ordinary ground.
"Right now," said Aidan, "I think I'd eat my old leather shoe with mustard."
They walked down to the kitchen, neither of them speaking again, but it was not uncomfortable. When he arrived into the kitchen he saw that Bridget was turned away, straining the pasta as Lizzie stirred the sauce. He saw them practically every day, but just then he noticed how very close in height the two had become.
Without being asked Aidan went directly to where the plates were stored, grabbed a stack of four, then brought it to the table. Bridget looked to him then to Mark with drawn brows that asked without words how everything had gone; equally wordlessly Mark nodded that everything appeared all right. It seemed Bridget might ask more before Lizzie had a question pertinent to dinner: whether it would be best to bring the pasta and the sauce to the table, or the plates to the hob for distribution.
Bridget turned to her. "Bring them to the table. I'll get serving utensils."
With that she turned for those items, and as she came to the table, Lizzie was bringing the bowl of steaming sauce, then returning with the strained pasta.
At that moment it seemed Bridget too noticed her daughter's height and smiled, then laughed. "Pretty soon I'll be the shortest of the lot of us," she said as she began doling out the pasta. "A Lilliputian amidst a family of giants."
At this Mark chuckled aloud, which made Lizzie burst out in a laugh. He glanced to Aidan with a smile, and saw him fighting one of his own.
"As personality goes," Mark said, "you'll always be the biggest of us, darling."
Their dinner together was as good as any they'd ever had, but as Mark readied for bed he felt some of his apprehension return. His son was out of Eton, without a school, his whole future up in the air. Bridget seemed to sense his uneasiness, and from behind she put her arms around him as he stood at the bathroom sink. "No matter what happens," she said, "we have each other."
He sighed, turning and snaking his arms around her, feeling completely reassured by her consolation. "I know, darling," he said. "I love you."
"I love you too; you know that," she said quietly.