Chapter 9: Haute Ecole
Summary: The Colonel's arrival at Caserta Hall sets many hearts aflutter...
[excerpt]:
Finn keeps telling himself that this is the reason why his walks have become more frequent in the past week, and that it has nothing to do with the unsettling happiness he experiences when he is graced with the cavalryman's bright smile.
Notes: Apologies first: There is no Ren in this chapter. There is plot development and a sidebar for the Stormpilot ship. As a promise and a bit of a tease, chapter 10 will change the dynamic between Kylo and Rey in a significant way... 3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~
I find, by experience, that the mind and the body are more than married, for they are most intimately united; and when one suffers, the other sympathizes
-Philip Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfield
The two letters sat tucked away under lock and key, hidden safely from prying eyes. Bazine pulled out the pages carefully, unfolding the first along the quarto's lines. The thick paper had already begun to thin and soften around the edges, its sharpness dulled after one too many readings. This was not a letter stuffed with insensibly cramped and cross-written sentiments. Instead, Kylo's script was large and commanding, his bold strokes scrawling aggressively across the page.
Bazine's daily readings had recently become more of a habit than a necessity, having long memorized Kylo's disappointingly terse communication. He had extended an invitation to the Winter's Ball at Caserta Hall, acknowledged that he would return to London for the upcoming Season, and wished her eventual peace and happiness. But it was all those little things which were not said-the lack of vitriol, the absence of accusation, and most importantly, not the slightest hint of another who may have replaced her in his heart- which made Bazine's hopes soar.
The abigail brushed Bazine's thick and glossy locks, her delicate and nimble fingers gathering the ebony lengths and sweeping them into a romantic knot before anchoring the design with a plaited braid around its base. A small smile of satisfaction touched the young girl's lips. She was pleased with her artistry, although in retrospect, it was not altogether difficult given the canvas and the supplies which she had at her disposal.
She massaged Bazine's temples in an attempt to relax her mistress.
"Are you ready, Your Grace?" The girl took a deep breath, trying to remain steadfast. Her mistress would not take kindly to shows of weakness or pity.
Bazine's face softened briefly at the girl's poorly masked nervousness.
"Don't be afraid, Elle. The embarrassment will lessen as I continue to heal. Please, mend me with your expert hands."
Elle swallowed, unsure if the feeling of embarrassment was directed towards her mistress or herself. She lowered Bazine's chemise, the cotton fabric gliding over pale, smooth skin. Her fingers traced the graceful curves of the Duchess' shoulders and the silkiness of her back as the fabric slid further south, past a tiny span of a waist before settling on top of the rounded flesh of her buttocks.
Elle's hands stilled, as she reached that place where angry pink replaced cream. Damaged flesh criss-crossed across the delicate skin of Bazine's inner thighs and her lower back. Raised welts splayed against once-purpled blooms, undercut by faint, silvery scars, marring those regions which remained hidden to all but those with the most intimate familiarity.
Elle poured Milk of Roses onto the wounds as Bazine flinched, gently massaging the drops of almond oil and rose water into the affected skin in an effort to erase the now-imperfect complexion.
Bazine closed her eyes as Elle's fingers worked their way into the soft tissues and the muscles underneath, her gentle touch contrasting with memories of a torturous hand and a forceful lash.
There was a quick knock on the door as Lady Snoke entered without invitation. There was a pinched look on her face as her cold, grey eyes took in Bazine's state. Traces of the older woman's beauty were still visible, but the years had lined her face with a hardness which lent her a severity even in those rare instances when she smiled.
Watching Bazine and Elle, Lady Snoke recalled those quiet moments from her daughter's childhood: a little girl, filled with the potential of her looks and her effect on men, dreaming of a future far away from the dark and crumbling walls of Ambria Hall, firmly guided by a mother's single-minded ambition.
A look of regret flashed in those icy grey eyes. The sentimentality was quickly replaced as she adopted a detached expression.
"Elle, would you mind giving us a moment of privacy, please?"
Elle nodded, capping the jar of rose milk as she hastened out of the room.
Lady Snoke sighed as the maid left. She viewed her daughter's now-marked flesh, unscrewing the bottle and taking up where Elle had left off.
"Such a shame," she whispered. Her tone and the thin line of her lips made Bazine think that her comment was directed more towards the state of her skin and not her emotional well-being.
Bazine hissed, a cruel laugh threatening to spill from her mouth. "Think of the irony, mother. All those nights, all that time spent on perfecting my appearance, on creating an ideal of beauty. To end up scarred and disfigured, as the fates would have it, by a man who pursued me based upon my looks, and chosen by your own hand."
Lady Snoke didn't back away from the accusation. "Every decision I made, Bazine, was done with only your best interests at heart. I have devoted everything I have to giving you the life you deserve. One that I could only dream to have."
She pressed into the flesh a little more forcefully than was needed, causing Bazine to wince. "And if memory serves me correctly, you were not a passive participant in this matter. You were given a choice."
"What choice?" Bazine fumed, her anger causing her voice to rise shrilly. "A choice between leaving the man I loved since I was a little girl, or staying with him while you and Wilhuff shame me and leave my reputation in ruins?"
Lady Snoke sneered. "Your youthful foolishness was no match for reality, Bazine. You knew we had agreed to the engagement with the Duke before Lord Ren came running into our home with talks of love and a parson's mousetrap. You did nothing to dissuade him; instead you encouraged his silly fantasies. It was up to me to pick up the pieces. The Duke would have had every right to sue us for breach of promise had you backed out of the marriage. It would have meant the end of Ambria House, and a death knell to your future in society."
Bazine's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "He still found other ways in which to take out his displeasure."
Lady Snoke leaned forward sanctimoniously, her eyes narrowed and unforgiving. "Make no mistake, my darling daughter. Your present condition is the result of your own actions. It is your uncontrollable indecency and lust which lead to your own ruin."
There was a determined set to Bazine's mouth. The threat which underlied her words were unmistakable.
"My dear mother. I have had enough of your interference and meddling to last me a lifetime. By my own hand, and by my own design, the pieces are finally coming into play. The divorce will go through. I will go to Caserta Hall next month, and by that time, my poor, sweet Elle will have unleashed enough gossip about my unfortunate state that caring folks will reward me with their misplaced sympathies while jealous ones comfort themselves with their false superiority."
She gazed into the mirror, a fervent look in her eyes.
"And in the end, I will have Kylo by my side, as he was always destined to be."
In that moment, she appeared very much the progeny of her mother, as she looked on with a malicious smile and a calculating gaze. She tucked a loose tendril behind her ear, smoothing it down artfully.
"After all, mother, when it comes to the game of manipulation, I've learned from the best."
Bazine waved her mother off, signaling their conversation was over. She picked up the second letter when she was once again alone. The page shook, her hand trembling slightly. The letter was shorter than the first, but its message unmistakably clear.
À l'œuvre, on connaît l'artisan
Les habitudes ont la vie dure
À la prochaine*
~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~
"Oh, his eyes are warmer and sweeter than that of drinking chocolate!"
"Ha! And I wager you would not mind adding some sweet cream to the mix and bringing it to a boil..."
"Oh, la, what a wicked mind you have, Millicent!"
"His smile. It is brighter than a thousand suns..."
"While his mind and wit are sharper than a thousand knives."
Their giggles burst amongst a chorus of feminine sighs.
x
For the past week, the conversation at the breakfast table in the Servant's Hall had centered around the Honorable Sir Poe Dameron, a Colonel with the 5th Dragoon Guard. Although the Organa-Solo's newest guest had arrived with the purpose of evaluating and training one of Lord Ren's horses, his considerable charms had provided Caserta's young staff with plenty of gossip and flights of fancy in the process.
The good-natured Colonel had swept into Caserta Hall with a quick smile on his face and an even quicker quip on his lips. He exuded a brash competence which invited the confidences of those around him. His dark, wavy locks swept over a masculine jaw, and his expressive eyes could sparkle with mischief in one moment and drown you in their depths in the next. His dichotomy of cockiness and thoughtfulness, and gregariousness and self-reflection proved to be intoxicating to both men and women alike.
Finn hid a smile as he drank his tea amidst the idle gossip which fluttered around the staff breakfast table.
The young footman had worked for the Marchess' family for the past seven years, serving as first footman for the last two. His employers were kind and generous, and he reciprocated by giving them his loyalty and dedication. Finn was strong and handsome, responsible and industrious, and could easily outrun the other footmen of the neighboring households, a source of boastful pride. He was polite and respectful, always attentive, and never obtrusive.
He was glad that his employers never required him to perform the powdering of his hairs as was mandated in some other households. The daily ritual of powdering, combined with the harsh washings and necessary oil applications, were not only uncomfortable and damaging to his scalp, but looked incongruous with his person.
Finn was used to dealing with some incongruity his entire life. His dark and exotic looks set him apart physically. Unlike many others in his position, he did not have the education, command of multiple languages, nor the desire to become a future valet. Even amongst the extensive, nearly forty member staff of Caserta, he felt a bit of an outsider. He was accepted, of course, into their makeshift family of sorts, but it still didn't assuage his longing to have one of his own.
Unlike some of the other male staff, he was not married, and had no need for a multitude of days off each month to return home to people whom he loved. He continued to work hard instead, accepting of his situation even if he was not completely content. He scrupulously saved his wages, always yearning to have something more.
Perhaps he would eventually save enough to eventually find employment elsewhere, get married and settle down. A hotel in London, or one of the popular inns in town would be a good choice when he got older. The locale would be a much easier thing to determine than the person with whom he would share those future years with. Until now, he had not met anyone who sparked that desire within him.
His musings were interrupted as Mrs. Kanata admonished the chattering girls sternly, albeit not unkindly.
"Jessika, Millicent and Katherine. Enough prattling about our new guest, as pleasing on the eyes as he may be. You sound like a gaggle of caper-witted chits, the lot of you! I believe that it is past the time to attend to Lady Phasma and Miss Kenobi's ablutions and their dress?"
The young women looked mildly chastened as they headed upstairs.
Deep down, Finn understood their attraction to the handsome cavalryman. He had felt the effects of Sir Dameron's charisma as well. It had been difficult for Finn to maintain his polished facade upon hearing the Colonel's cheerful voice for the first time, or when he saw the kindness behind those soft eyes. He had fought to control the hesitancy in his voice as he announced the new visitor's arrival. He had refrained from flinching at the uneasy thrill he experienced when the Colonel's fingers had brushed unassumingly against his own. And he continually worked to keep the shy excitement and anticipation from his face during his afternoon walks by the stables, which had since become a regular habit.
The time between half past two and four in the afternoon was always a favorite for Finn. On the days where Mr. Daniels had the responsibility of answering the door, and when there were no errands to run, Finn was gifted with a glorious amount of leisure time before tea. Finn enjoyed walking the grounds of Caserta during these hours, especially in the late autumn. The expanse of the outdoors and the crisp, cool air was a nice change from his small room, a temporary reprieve from his responsibilities and that continual feeling of longing.
Finn keeps telling himself that this is the reason why his walks have become more frequent in the past week, and that it has nothing to do with the unsettling happiness he experiences when he is graced with the cavalryman's bright smile.
~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~
The early afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the storefronts. Heavy, oaken doors with well-worn handles lay ready to welcome the next fashionable shopper, the light tinkling of a bell over the threshold signaling a readiness to indulge in their vanity. Large windows framed by awnings showered passersby with a multitude of offerings: jeweled confections of silks, taffetas, ribbons and lace in the milliner's; embroidered materials, slubbed silks, matte leathers, and shiny adornments on footwear of varying heights at the cobbler's; cravats knotted in multiple configurations, quilted vests, sleek gloves, and coats trimmed in velvet at the haberdashery.
Rey walked next to Phasma excitedly, dressed in a slim-fitting pelisse edged with contrasting fabric and frog fastenings. She pulled her velvet poke bonnet closer to her head, affording her some modesty and warmth from the autumn chill.
She had spent so many years gazing longingly at these windows and at the women who entered them, hidden in the shadows of the narrowed alleyways, wondering what the sumptuous fabrics would feel like between her fingers and against her skin. Part of her had always known that she did not require such things to be proud of who she was—her fiercely independent streak and sharp mind was what allowed her to survive all those years under Plutt, and not the fur lining on a silken gown. But she was honest enough to acknowledge the desire to indulge that part of her which was denied so many things for so long, as well as to appease her feminine vanity.
The two were in town in preparation for the Winter's Ball, which now lay just several weeks away. They passed a shop selling reticules and hosiery, until Phasma broke out into a grin as they reached their first stop.
Phasma was dressed smartly in a woolen Spencer jacket, the red fabric covering a heavily woven cotton dress. The jacket's high collar and tight sleeves lent her a somewhat austere appearance, while simultaneously complimenting the elegant line of her throat and her long limbs. Like Rey, she was also wearing a bonnet, although it was simple in form, lacking the florid embellishments of bows and lengths of ribbon.
"Moore is a true artist, Rey. His shoes rival any of those on Wood's shelves."
They opened the door, the wooden counter in the back piled high with leathers and fabrics of the trade. A man sat on a wooden stool, his lapstone, whet-board, burnishers and nippers surrounding him as he hammered on the last. Samples of shoes decorated the shelves: slippers of printed leather and deep, rich satin; pointed toe mules with detailed embroidery; and delicate silk shoes in three inch heels and paste stones. The shop assistants had gathered around a seated woman, her back turned towards the door as she extended an elegant foot, her voice laughing and tone lilting.
Phasma's lips were in a tight line as she grabbed Rey's arm and turned away from the store. One of the young women who was attending to the customer startled at the sound of the door and looked up, only to catch two figures retreating underneath the ridiculously wide brims of their bonnets.
"Sorry, Rey." Phasma muttered under her breath. "I refuse to be in the same room for any length of time more than is required of me with that woman."
Rey knew immediately who the customer had been, without ever seeing her face. There was no mistaking those ebony locks, the elegant drape of those shoulders and that pale, porcelain skin.
"That was the Duchess of Silesia, was it not?" she asked, as Phasma looked at her with surprise. Rey hesitated, before blurting out her next words. "She had paid a call to Caserta Hall the week before you arrived from London. She seemed to be very familiar with your family." Your brother seemed to know her very well, she wanted to add
Phasma's face immediately pulled into something hard and angry.
"Yes. Her family are the Snokes of Anoat, who occupy the neighboring country seat. We have known the Snokes since my brother and I were children. Bazine and Kylo are of the same age, and were very close in growing up."
Rey held her breath, feeling a sudden mix of aching and longing tinged with jealousy upon hearing Phasma's words. She thought back to Bazine's visit, and the rush of emotions which warred on Kylo's face: lust, fury, shock, combined with the biting anger behind his words of introduction.
"Bazine has always had influence over Kylo. His friendship with her was only secondary to the one he had with Lord Hux, and as they grew older, that connection, bolstered by her beauty, led into love."
Phasma said it so simply and matter-of-factly that Rey knew that it couldn't have been anything but the relationship's natural conclusion. She looked ahead at the stores, their colorful windows looking less joyous, as if it's rich wares were something which would forever remain outside her grasp.
"What happened between the two of them?"
A sigh escaped from Phasma's lips. "Kylo always imagined that they would be married. It was a relationship which her parents appeared to encourage as well. However, when Bazine turned eighteen, she became promised to another.
"I suspect the temptation of political favor and monetary gain was too powerful for the Snokes to resist. Kylo's request for Bazine's hand in marriage was turned down, and he was heartbroken."
She looked at Rey, hesitating before she continued. "Honestly, I can't say that there wasn't a part of me which was relieved when they refused his offer. My heart ached for my brother, but I've always felt that Bazine never had Kylo's best interests at heart. She never let him know that she was intended for another, even when his own were clear."
Rey must have worn an surprised expression at Phasma's forthrightness as the older woman gave her a sly grin.
"Believe me, I believe that my distaste for that woman is entirely reciprocated. And I care not a whit. That scar on Kylo's cheek? He received it as a result of a botched robbery by a group of highwaymen. That attack nearly ended his life, and although it didn't succeed in taking his last breath, it stole from him something just as important."
Phasma turned to Rey, her eyes haunted and sad. "Kylo's love and trust. That was Bazine's doing. She was one of his closest friends. Even if she were to be married to another, she could have given him her support, or even a simple wish for a speedy recovery following that attack. But she disappeared instead, with nary a word of concern nor the slightest bit of an effort to see how he fared. My brother is so guarded now, he's closed out everyone with the exception of those with whom he is the closest. And he has not let an outsider into his heart ever since."
They stopped in front of the milliner's shop. The straw hats were being gussied up, covered completely in silks and taffetas for the fall and winter season, and dressed in flowers and ribbon. When they were completed, even the underside was completely covered with a cap-like inner lining.
Rey tried to imagine Kylo a a child, with all his passion and energy unfettered and unrestrained. She had seen occasional glimpses of his light-heartedness, in those instances when he teased Hux or in the self-knowing curl of his lips as he grinned at his insufferable smugness. His romantic attraction to the ideals of love, and the self-torment which he clung to in denying himself its joys, was mirrored in his defense of a tragic protagonist's extremes of ardor and suffering.
Rey saw the quiet intensity in the way that Kylo spoke, the animalistic grace of his movements, and the thrumming energy of his touch. She knew that such passion would not wither away easily. It remained rooted inside of him despite the weeds of Bazine's betrayal, the barrenness of time and the poison of his hurt and growing cynicism.
She also knew that his heart and his trust remained hidden underneath his protective armor and feigned disregard. Kylo would not have accepted her, a petty criminal and a stranger, into his home, placed amongst the company of those whom he loved without it. He was not the kind of man who would have something as simple as a meaningless challenge force him into an action which was antithetical to his beliefs or his will.
Her eyes returned to the bonnets in the window. A pair sat side by side, one left over from the summer, its straw form still visible, tastefully decorated with a rim of pink ribbon and lace, the brim stiff and sure. It was gilded, but left no question as to it base. The other was covered heavily in black velvet, swathed in lengths of ribbon which overwhelmed its proportions, every inch covered, until it was difficult to determine whether there was a straw form inside or something else supporting its shape and weight.
Rey had survived her family's death and a thieve's life with a combination of resourcefulness and tenacity. She survived her loneliness and uncertainty with optimism and hope. She was determined to show Kylo that he could remove all those heavy layers of cloth and trim, do away with his false embellishments, and allow himself to be naked and bare with his trust and love in return.
~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~
Mr. Daniels had the responsibility of announcing callers that afternoon, and there were no errands to run, so Finn had a glorious amount of time to himself before tea was to be served in the Servant's Hall at four. Despite the generous allotment, he apparently walked at quite the brisk clip, because he arrived at the stables in half the time which it normally took.
Colonel Dameron's jacket was thrown over the wooden post, as it had been for the last several days. The dark brown of the woolen overcoat lay comfortably across the weathered lumber, its well-tailored lines appearing soft and inviting.
Poe Dameron, leader of the 5th dragoons and the 1st Cavalry Brigade in Salamanca under LeMarchant, was perhaps more comfortable in civilian clothing than he was in the classic red coats and Roman helmets of the British dragoons. It was not due to any discomfort with either being on the saddle or in the heart of battle, as he had shown himself to be exceptionally skilled in both. He demonstrated an uncommon discipline in his fighting which complemented his bravado, and he was adept with a sword, carbine, and pistol. But he understood the need for balance off the field as well, and the opportunity to train the Lipizzan in a bucolic setting grounded him in a way that few others could.
Finn watched from a safe distance as Poe worked with the horse. The colt's body was already showing signs of great strength and power, as Poe's hands ran over the gray coat covering its muscular shoulders and hind quarters. The Lipizzan had already accepted the saddle following Poe's arrival, and there was an intimate connection between animal and man which was not presents just several days ago. Poe had explained that the horse should always perform in a controlled harmony with its rider, saddled yet while maintaining its natural motion and atheleticism.
Poe's eyes caught Finn's figure hovering tentatively in the distance, and a broad smile lit up his face, white, wide, and brighter than the flashing colors which filled the autumn sky.
"Finn! Come on over! I'm almost done cooling Barksby down. I'll be finished in just a minute."
Finn edged closer to watch as Poe continued to walk the horse. His linen shirt and vest clung to his toned torso, and his sleeves were rolled slightly to show off a set of tanned and muscular forearms. His strong hands continued to gentle the horse as he removed the saddle, checking for any sores before washing and toweling off the beautiful gray coat.
Finn swallowed heavily, wondering for a second what that would have felt like, to feel hands so strong yet gentle and caring, against your own.
"Good afternoon, Sir Dameron." Finn felt ridiculous. He was the first footman, comfortable in introducing royalty, a symbol of the Marchess' household, suddenly reduced to a shy and fumbling schoolboy.
Poe grinned. "Looking forward to some conversation which involves more than an annoyed look and a snort from the receiving end."
Finn looked down at his white stockings and dark shoes as he debated heading into the stable yard. There was still a considerable distance between them, and the conversation was set at a higher volume, which was not aided by the occasional waver which threatened his voice. There was a high chance that his shoes would be soiled by the dirt despite the dry weather, but he figured he could at least rub the spots out and take a rattan to them later if needed.
Poe saw the uncertainty which flickered on Finn's face. He waved him off. "Stay. I'll come over to you."
He finished brushing the dust and grease out of the horse's coat and picked out the much and stones from the hooves before allowing Barksby to graze in the pasture. Finn notices that some of the sweat which dampens Poe's curls has started to dry. A quick breeze settled softly, promising a later chill.
Finn spied the brown tailcoat which is sat on top of the fence. Habit as well as a sudden, more personal desire to help Poe, causes him to pick it up as the older man approached.
Poe stretched out slightly, dusting himself off and unraveling his sleeves to cover his arms before taking his coat from Finn.
"Thank you." Poe's fingers grazed Finn's underneath the woolen fabric, a brief, searing heat which left Finn's heart racing and feeling a slight disappointment at the fleeting nature of the contact. Poe placed the coat in the crook of his arm as he buttoned his shirt fully, his strong fingers quickly working their way up the fabric coverings, until linen hid the tantalizing expanse of golden flesh. He slid into the coat, one of the wide lapels remaining tucked underneath itself.
Finn quickly leaned over, removing the twisted fabric and flattening it back into its proper position against Poe's chest. There was a sudden intake of breath underneath where his fingers were splayed, as he felt the deepening rise and fall of movement, and all Finn can think about is that perhaps being a valet wouldn't be such a bad career choice after all.
The two men walked away from the stables, the long stone buildings and courtyard becoming smaller in the distance as they strolled along the wooded path.
"I believe that we will be able to start working on lungeing in the next several days." Poe hurriedly clarified in response to Finn's confused expression. "Lungeing helps the horse to respond to my verbal commands and the touch of my hands. I'll also use it to help Barksby get a feel of the reins and the pressure of the bit. It's part of what's called the Remontenschule stage of training. In the end, his movements will be as free and natural as possible, all while accommodating me in the saddle."
"How many stages are there?"
"Three. The final is the Haute Ecole, a perfection of a horse's natural talents and mental and physical abilities. It is a show of established discipline and understanding between rider and animal."
Poe chuckled, but the laugh was slightly bitter. "One of the movements of the Haute Ecole is the Capriole. It is ironic, how something could be seen as beautiful by the casual observer, derived from a deadly move meant to decapitate foot soldiers on the battlefield."
Finn was slightly taken aback by Poe's uncharacteristic sharpness.
"Is it very different? Riding a horse in a setting such as this compared to a battle?"
Poe hesitated. "The feel of a horse underneath you is something that is powerful and thrilling, no matter what the circumstances. But the setting..."
A faraway look crept into his eyes. "The night before the battle of Salamanca, there was a terrible thunderstorm which caused many of the horses to stampede. Men were trampled, and several of our horses broke loose and ran into French lines. On the day of battle, we attacked the French's infantry division in a heavy cavalry charge, but lost Le Marchant in the process. Although we ultimately annihilated the 65th Regiment and captured many prisoners, the fear and noise of battle is something that is not easily forgotten for man or beast."
"It must be difficult for your family as well as yourself."
Poe had a slightly wistful smile. "My parents are long gone, although they are always part of me, as they passed down to me their love of horses and skills in riding." He hesitated once again, looking quickly into Finn's trusting and unassuming gaze, before continuing.
"And there is no wife, nor will there likely ever be."
Finn wondered if this was because of Poe's dedication to the military, but something in Poe's gaze indicated it was something different. He felt a sudden sadness for the handsome colonel, who seemed so self-assured and who drew the attentions of many, but who was in some ways possibly as lonely as Finn.
Finn had not yet felt the pull of love in his young life, never having tried to steal a prolonged touch or give lingering glance to a woman. He remained dedicated to his job, steadily saving up his wages with the end of each day, and going to bed tired and with an aching emptiness in his heart.
And yet, with Poe, with a virtual stranger, he found himself opening up, entrusting him to feelings which he never voiced to another, and looking forward to another day which was not just defined by habitual repetition.
The position of the sun in the sky suggested that Finn had another twenty minutes before he had to be back at the main house. They reached a large oak, it's huge trunk and foliage flaming colorfully against the blue sky. The sun filtered through its branches and the remaining leaves, flickering shadows and light against their profiles.
Poe's eyes were gentle. There was also something else in them, something which darkened slightly as those eyes appreciated Finn's form, and as he placed a large, calloused hand against the cut of Finn's jacket.
The heat of his touch burned through the layers of fabric onto Finns skin. He felt his breath stop under Poe's dilated gaze. He had heard of men who enjoyed the company of other men, even seeking pleasure with them. Finn had never thought about it, although he had never desired to seek pleasure with a female as well. But Poe left him wanting something more, a desperation, and a quiet lust.
Poe moved closer. He saw Finn's desire amidst his confusion, how his breath quickened and the wetness of his lips, and the unconscious change in his stance as the footman pressed towards him ever so slightly. Poe has too much bravado, and has seen too much loss in his lifetime to waste on second guesses. He is fierce yet understanding, dominant yet gentle, a master of harnessing another's living creature's energy, taming it and making it part of his own.
He lifts his hand, cupping Finn's jaw as he slides his thumb gently against the softness of Finn's cheek.
Finn closed his eyes, wanting what Poe promises in his touch even as the words leave his lips.
"To be with another man..it is illegal." Indeed, there had been a brutal wave of prosecutions against such men in the last several years, with buggery labeled a crime punishable by death.
Poe pulled back slightly, forcing Finn to see him, to hear the conviction in his words.
"I love my country, Finn. I willingly give up my life for her. But I refuse to give up who I am, for England, or for anyone else."
The sun is still warm in the late afternoon, and the sky is clear and crisp, without a cloud. And for the first time, a clarity hits Finn, sweet and warm, as he gazes into Poe's eyes. He feels himself nodding, eagerly reaching for Poe as well, and he gives in to the softness of his lips, the smell of horse and grass and sweat, the sweetness of his mouth, and the feeling that he finally belongs.
~O~~O~~O~~O~~O~
Notes: Bazine's letter:
"À l'œuvre, on connaît l'artisan
Les habitudes ont la vie dure
À la prochaine"
English translation:
"A workman is known by his chips
Old habits die hard
Until next time."