.

In which there are negotiations, and Ron wins at whist again

(September, 1814)

.

Knightley Park was a handsome red brick manor house surrounded by even handsomer grounds — some part of Bill was pleased, at least, to see that his grandmother's gardens had been properly maintained, and of all his uncle's unnecessary expenditures he could not bring himself to begrudge him this one. A bit less in the way of flowers, perhaps, than when Mrs Septimus Weasley had reigned over this estate, but the roses were in bloom and the ivy creeping up the southwest walls was just as Bill remembered it — as were the two marble lions flanking the front door.

Gone, however, was Cedrella Weasley's distinctly classical touch inside the house; it now looked like a repository for all of the Prince Regent's castoffs and idle fancies. Sir Bilius had obviously spared no expense in furnishing the house with every fashionable idea he'd heard whispered from the general direction of London.

Chinoiserie in the hall, striped curtains to match the wallpaper and satin damask upholstery in the parlour; rosewood, zebrawood, everything polished to a high gleam; cornices upon cornices, lion's paws for chair legs, gilt mirrors (why did one person need so many mirrors?) — gilt everything, really. It hurt the eyes a bit, though it might not have been so offensive had there not been so much of it.

Sir Bilius applied the same principle to his personal fashion as he did to his interior design — he put a great deal of effort into appearances, and what's more, he needed people to know he put a great deal of effort into it.

His shirt points were almost up to his eyes; his waistcoat was an exhausting pattern. There were dandies and then there were dandies, and Sir Bilius had firmly staked his place in the latter group.

But for all his proud shows of a wealth he no longer possessed, he was a genial man, and perhaps that was why his excesses had gone unchecked for so long, his behaviour tolerated first by his parents and then by his brothers (or Arthur, at least — Godfrey barely spoke to Bilius anymore).

And Bill was spared the awkwardness of circling carefully around the subject he was there to talk to his uncle about — the management of an estate that was not actually Bill's and which he therefore really had no business poking his nose into — for Sir Bilius addressed it first, as cheerfully as if he were asking Bill what he'd like to drink.

"Well, Billy," he said easily, swirling his glass of claret as they lounged in the parlour. "What are you really here to talk to me about? For I know this isn't a social call, as you've not brought your bride with you. Have my brothers sent you to manage me? I'm told I'm quite unmanageable." He flashed a smile that had been rather winning in his younger days.

"Well, if my father and my uncle have been unable to do it, I fail to see why I should be expected to succeed. I think I could sooner convince the Americans to give the colonies back than persuade you to retrench."

Sir Bilius chuckled appreciatively.

"Now, the estate, on the other hand… " continued Bill. "Well, let's call a spade a spade. I'm given to believe that you've no patience for the tedium of business."

"Are you?"

"Either that or you've no interest in making more money, and I've yet to meet a man like that. Of course, maybe that is the case, for I'm told that Knightley Cottage down the way has lain vacant for quite some time."

Sir Bilius waved his hand. "Oh, I abominate neighbours."

This drew a quizzical look from Bill. "But you've always enjoyed society and company."

"Company, yes. Neighbours are a different devil entirely."

Bill sipped his claret, pausing for effect. "What if I were that devil?"

"What?"

"I have no house yet. And I can't put my wife up at Burrough forever. So I'll rent it from you."

"You can't live in a cottage like that, man! With your position? Have some dignity. And do you really want to pay me rent?"

"Well, in fairness, I would be paying me rent. For Knightley is mine one day unless you've some children I don't know about."

"It's a distinct possibility," chortled Sir Bilius.

Bill allowed himself an indulgent chuckle.

"So, what, you'd like to act as my steward in effect?" Sir Bilius asked slowly.

"In effect. Let's leave the title out of it, if you don't mind."

"And what's more, you were willing to pay me for the honour? Billy, I thought you were the intelligent one."

"Well, the estate needs to let that cottage to someone. Might as well go throw all your pounds down a well if you hate money that much. Or, you know," Bill added with a smirk, "go buy some more vulgar waistcoats."

That had the desired effect; his uncle laughed appreciatively.

"Now, see, why didn't my brothers ever think to do this?" declared Sir Bilius.

"What?"

"Waltz in here and offer to do all the work?"

"I can't imagine."

Sir Bilius tried to scratch his jaw in contemplation but was impeded by the height of his collar. "If you're to manage the estate, why don't you join me here? I've rooms enough, and I spend half my time away, and I should think this would suit your fine French lady better than a cottage."

"You may call her Mrs Weasley," returned Bill, polite but pointed.

"Mrs Weasley, then, may treat this house quite as her own, if she needs something to occupy her. But — " He pointed assertively — "no dismissing any staff. I need every single one of them. Maybe more now if you're to live here."

Bill rose from the satin-upholstered sofa and poured another glass of claret to buy himself a moment to think.

"I'm usually very good at discerning the catch," he said at last. "I'm not certain what it is here."

Sir Bilius looked delighted. "Do you accuse me of trickery?"

"Yes."

"Well, don't. You're telling me you'll make my land profitable where I can't. Who am I to turn my nose up at that? And if you live here, it's hardly any different to running an estate of your own. Which befits your rank better than if you lived elsewhere and came here to work like some common solicitor. I'm very mindful of these things, you know."

"Hmm." Bill ran a finger down the handle of an Egyptian vase on the mantle. "And I manage the leases, the investments, everything?"

"Everything."

"You have to let the cottage. To someone."

Sir Bilius sighed. "If I must."

"I must speak to my own manager, of course, as to the living situation. But…" Bill extended a hand, which Sir Bilius clasped firmly. "I believe we have an understanding."

Now all he had to do was tell Fleur.

.

.

"If you wish it."

That was Fleur's response when Bill proposed removing to Knightley Park, and it was maddening.

It was maddening because that had been her precise response when Bill had asked her to return to England with him. At the time his sanguine, romance-addled brain had chosen to interpret her restrained acquiescence as an indication that she simply felt contented with the idea.

Hah.

Bill was still learning about Fleur's various silences — but this side of the Channel, he thought he was beginning to truly understand the persistent, chilly silence that had followed them from Vienna.

"We may, of course, look elsewhere. My uncle's house is large and we may scarcely ever see him; but you shall have your own house entirely if you wish it. Anywhere."

"Anywhere," she echoed, gazing out the window of their modest room at his parents' house, out across the stretch of green dotted with trees.

"In Devonshire," she added in clarification. "Not London."

London, at least, had French society, salons and fashion and arts, and she would have that if she could not have Vienna — which she'd only had because she could not have Paris. But what she'd never bargained for was life in an obscure country parish.

When Bill did not answer, Fleur added in a voice that was no less steely for how quiet it was.

"You said this was a visit."

"Nothing was for certain," he said apologetically. "And this is where I'm needed now. To secure our future."

Bill did not miss the way Fleur was refusing to look at him as she sniffed and nodded, her chin held high.

"Eh bien. Let me see this Knightley Park."

The following day found Fleur trailing her fingertips along the carved bannister as she ascended the central staircase at Knightley; her eyes never resting, from the wrought gold chandelier to the heavy portraits clustered on the wall to the rich carpet a bit worn straight down the centre of the stairs; ignoring the way the housekeeper kept an eye on her during her exploration. Sir Bilius's room, she was told, was to the left, and so at the top of the stairs Fleur went right.

The rooms upstairs had been largely unchanged in recent years, with Sir Bilius focusing his efforts on his own bedchamber and downstairs. They were elegant, if under-ornamented — white and clean lines and soft colours that deferred to one another.

Fleur paused upon a bright, south-facing bedroom in pale blue with gilt edges and a scrolled pattern of blue and yellow flowers on the walls. The canopied bed was hung with curtains in a rich brocade and under the window was a handsome satinwood chaise.

Oui.

It was not a town house, but neither was it the crowded little house where they were currently staying; and if she were going to be watched with scepticism, rather it be by a nosy housekeeper than a nosy mother-in-law.

Their first dinner at Knightley was the first time Bill believed he'd seen her smile since leaving Austria. Sir Bilius's cook was not French, but he'd trained in the French style. For Fleur, this was a welcome change from the offerings of obscure inns or her mother-in-law's house. For Bill, it gave way to the wry realisation that of all the areas in which he might try to persuade his uncle to economise, the kitchen staff could never be one of them.

"It's comfortable here after all, is it not?" he asked conversationally as he unlaced Fleur's corset when they'd retired to the Blue Room.

He kissed the back of her neck, adding in a whisper, "And much more private."

She actually giggled.

"Not that I'm not exceptionally happy to do this," he mused once he'd got her down to her chemise, "but I think we'll have to find you a lady's maid. I'm sure my mother can help you with an advertisement. Or however that goes."

He went to kiss her neck again but she ducked away from him, pulling at the pins in her hair to release it as she turned and gazed into the fire.

"La gouvernante," she said, unable to drum up the English word for the housekeeper. "She does not like me."

Bill deposited his waistcoat onto the chaise. "Well, if you have any trouble with her, you tell me."

"Let's see, what else?" He encircled her waist with his arms, slouching to bring himself to eye level with her as she finished shaking out her flaxen hair. "My uncle has many carriages — " (many more than he needed) — "and they are all at your disposal. And I know you enjoyed the food."

A knowing smile crept across his face as his clear blue eyes looked into hers and she allowed herself to thaw — just a little bit.

"I think we shall be very happy here," he added wishfully.

Fleur faltered a bit in her own smile before responding nobly:

"I will try. For you."

That was certainly what Bill had always wanted to hear, that someone would try to be happy whilst married to him.

But he straightened his spine and gently tilted her face up to follow his.

"Est-ce que tu m'aimes?" he whispered an inch from her lips, sending a little thrill straight down the centre of her body.

She nodded keenly, her eyes tracing the angles and curves of his narrow face.

"Je ne peux pas t'entendre," he murmured, pulling back just another inch.

"Oui."

She looked him in the eye as she said it, and he didn't break away when he asked his next.

"Me fais-tu confiance?"

"Oui."

His kiss was like the sealing of a pledge, deep and insistent, and she met him unquestioningly.

"Et," he breathed against her, the words nearly swallowed by the kiss that had not actually stopped, "sais-tu que je t'aime?"

"Hmm…" Feigning scepticism, she moved her body against his in challenge. "Persuade-moi."

Bill's mouth curved slyly. "Te persuader?"

"Mm-hmm."

So she wrapped her legs around him as he carried her to bed; and Bill — whose clever, convincing, and (mostly) courteous mouth had served him very well in life — persuaded her three times over.

.

.

"So how bad is it really?" Fred enquired of Bill a few afternoons later in the parlour at Burrough House.

"His hand?" asked Ron, as they were all sat around the table at a game of whist.

"No, you noddy. Uncle's estate."

Bill cleared his throat as he searched his hand and laid down a nine of hearts, upon which Ron immediately laid down a ten of hearts and took the trick.

"Well," said Bill as Ron led with a two of diamonds, "he hasn't let that cottage in over six months; his Midsummer rents were short, either because his tenants are falling on hard times or his bailiff is skimming — not that Uncle would notice if he were. And speaking of rents, I've no idea when was the last time Xeno Lovegood paid any for that shop of his."

"Last time it actually turned a profit?" suggested George wryly.

"When was that?"

"Likely the year four, I should think."

Bill sighed.

"Wait," interjected Ginny from across the room where she, her mother, and Fleur had not had any real conversation for the better part of fifteen minutes, despite Ginny's best efforts. "You wouldn't dare do anything to the Lovegoods' shop!"

"I haven't the slightest idea of turning Xeno out, I'm only — "

"Oh, fiend seize you, Ronnie!" declared Fred as Ron, with a six of clubs, took Ron and George's seventh trick of the game.

Ron chuckled wickedly, tongue between his teeth, as he assessed his remaining cards.

"I wish you wouldn't talk business," chastised Mrs Weasley, glaring in the direction of her sons — but then her mouth fell open slightly as she stared beyond them, out the window, where a lone rider was just visible turning onto the path that led to the house.

"He's here!" she whispered gleefully, jumping up, patting her hair, fluffing up the pillow she'd been sitting against.

"Who, the Prince Regent?" quipped George, making a face.

Ron turned to glance over his shoulder out the window. "Ah, no, it's only Harry!"

Mrs Weasley pulled an unwilling Ginny to her feet whilst Fleur looked on warily.

"Ginny, turn around, let me fix this ribbon. And don't scowl, dear. Here — " Mrs Weasley grabbed a bit of sewing Ginny had long since abandoned. "Try to look occupied. And what is it?" she snapped at the sniggering sounds coming from the card table, where her four sons were steadily going red in the face trying to hold in their laughter.

"I wish you wouldn't talk business, Mama," managed George as Fred succumbed to his laughter and Ron snorted.

Only Bill retained his composure respectably enough — though only just — and he glanced at the ladies in time to see Fleur's eyes widen in horror as Ginny threw her sewing at George's head. Bill sighed.

The game was abandoned without scoring as the boys all stood, Ron heading outside to greet his friend.

"Potter!" Ron flung his arms out to the sides as Harry dismounted and gave his hired horse into the care of a waiting groom.

"Weasley," he beamed, removing his hat and shaking hands.

"How the devil are you? When did you get in?"

"Oh, early this morning, and I lay down and quite lost half the day, I'm afraid. I'd have been here sooner — "

"Nonsense! Here we are." Ron led the way into the house and into the parlour where Harry blinked and smiled pleasantly at half a dozen faces waiting to meet him.

"Ladies, allow me to introduce the Viscount Potter. Harry: my mother, Mrs Arthur Weasley; my sister-in-law, Mrs William Weasley; and my sister, Miss Ginevra Weasley."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance," said Harry as they all bowed. Absently, he swept back a bit of fringe that had fallen across his forehead.

Ron directed Harry's attention to his brothers. "And over here — and I'm going to dispense with the formalities because it's exhausting in this family — my brothers William, Frederick, and George." He indicated each in turn.

George gestured between himself and Fred, offering helpfully, "Same surname."

Harry laughed and bowed. "Your servant."

Then his eyes fell on the abandoned card game. "I believe I've interrupted — "

"Nothing of the sort," objected Ron. "We may even get up another game — in fact, there are eight of us now."

"As long as it isn't piquet!" Harry looked around at the group. "I refuse to play Weez at piquet anymore — learnt my lesson a dozen times over."

Ron smiled a little sheepishly under the taunting stares of Fred and George. He should have told Harry to take care about the diminutive; they were never going to let this one go.

"Lord Potter?" ventured Mrs Weasley.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Harry at once, turning his attention to her in earnest.

(What lovely manners he had!, thought Mrs Weasley.)

"Well… I noticed you don't seem to have brought any things with you… But it would be our pleasure to accommodate you here…"

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of imposing! Ron told me about his brothers coming home; I couldn't possibly add one more on top of that. Besides, I've set up very comfortably at the inn. And Ron can confirm that I snore, so for your own sanity I believe it must be for the best."

"Oh… Well, you'll stay to dinner, of course? And dine with us every night, I insist!"

"Of course, nothing should please me better!"

Mrs Weasley split the rest of her day between annoying her daughter and haunting the cook so that each might put their best foot forward in the dining room.

Ginny relented to her mother's insistence that she wear the blue silk dress — the one that had never made it to the ill-fated Cousin Barny visit. It hardly made a difference what she wore and she'd have only been resisting on principle — and anyway, it was a nice dress. Why not wear it whilst giving a Viscount a setdown or two?

But she checked her mother's efforts to have Ginny be among the first to enter the dining room, for she knew exactly what her mother would try to do.

As the guest of honour, Harry would be seated to Mrs Weasley's right — everyone knew that, he knew that, and everyone knew that he knew that. And when Mrs Weasley stood at her own chair, she watched her children entering the room like a hawk until she picked out Ginny, at which point she glared insistently between Ginny and the chair to the right of where Harry would sit.

Instead, Ginny chose the seat three chairs down from her mother's left, pointedly avoiding Mrs Weasley's eyes.

"Ginny," whispered Mrs Weasley, pausing for a moment to give Harry a warm smile as he appeared at her right.

"Ginevra."

Ginny looked over nonchalantly, and Mrs Weasley again tried to direct her across the table using only her eyes. And when Mrs Weasley looked at the prized seat and saw Fred had appeared behind it, she gave him a warning glare.

Fred returned a bright smile before looking across the table at Ginny and sending her a wink.

But Mrs Weasley was not so easily defeated.

"Ginny, I do love that dress!" she declared once all were seated. "It's new, is it not?"

Ginny looked at her mother as thought the latter had lost her senses. They had, obviously, been together when the dress was bought.

"My lord," Mrs Weasley said fondly to Harry, "does not that colour suit my Ginny?"

Only Ron caught the brief look that crossed Harry's face, like that of a startled deer, before Harry recovered.

"Miss Weasley looks very well," he said mildly, with the most cursory of glances at the subject.

"What about me, Harry?" asked Ron. "Do I look very well?"

Harry broke into a grin. "You'll do, I suppose."

As everyone were serving themselves from the first course, Harry turned to Fred beside him.

"Ron tells me that you, Lieutenant, spent a great deal of time on the Peninsula — and you, Major," he added, craning his neck to look at Bill, "have until recently been in Vienna."

Fred and Bill voiced their confirmation.

"That's capital," said Harry. "I should have loved to see those places. I spent some time in the Low Countries this year but was disappointed not to visit the rest."

"Unlike you, my lord," mused Ginny, looking to Harry for only as long as necessary to complete the statement, "I don't believe my brothers were there on a pleasure mission."

"Ginny," hissed Mrs Weasley — the only sound filling the few seconds of silence during which Ron caught his friend making the Slow-Top Harry look again.

"No, Miss Weasley's right," said Harry then, fairly. "I spoke thoughtlessly. I beg your pardon."

Ron, sat immediately to Ginny's right, leant towards her and muttered between his teeth, "What are you doing?"

Ginny ignored him.

"Ah." Fred smiled at a forkful of potatoes halfway to his mouth. "Who's going to tell Ginny that eighty percent of being in the Army is getting foxed fifty percent of the time?" He took a cheerful bite.

"That's true," concurred Bill.

"And what will you do while you're here, my lord?" enquired Mrs Weasley after a lull. "I'm glad the weather is fine. My son tells me you're a most accomplished sportsman."

"I believe Weasley may be easily impressed. But I don't know — Weez, what shall we do while I'm here, do you think?"

Ron finished a bite, bringing his napkin to his lips thoughtfully. "We'll shoot at least one day, I think, and plenty of riding. And there's the Honiton assembly in two days."

"I hear Sir Zacharias is to sponsor a mill," offered George.

There was a general burst of reaction around the table, ranging from indignant (Mrs Weasley) to excited (Ron and Ginny).

"How do you always know these things?" asked Fred.

"I always keep one ear open," was the casual reply, prompting a collective groan and quite a hearty laugh from Bill.

"But a mill!" said Ginny excitedly after this had passed. She shook Ron by the arm. "I want to go!"

"Why are you looking at me?" protested Ron before Mrs Weasley could chastise Ginny. "I'm not taking you."

"You said you would one day!"

Ron froze before glaring at Ginny. "I said nothing of the sort."

(He had.)

"I said nothing of the sort!" he repeated, now to his mother, who looked fit to murder.

"Yes, you did," said George blithely.

"Oh, how would you know?"

"I was there."

(He wasn't.)

"There, you see," pressed Ginny.

Ron made a face at her. "I said if you didn't annoy me, and now look, you've annoyed me."

Mrs Weasley was mortified. She had a Viscount at her table and here were all of her children behaving as utter heathens.

"I must apologise for my children's behaviour tonight." She looked to Harry — and found herself bemused by the way their guest was beaming from ear to ear as he watched these events unfold.

George, sat directly across from Harry, noticed it, too.

"And you've not even had the full experience," he said to Harry, gesturing around the table.

"Oh, yes, I believe there are two more brothers?"

"Yes," said Mrs Weasley proudly, glad to have the conversation brought back to a sensible topic. "Charlie is asea at present; he's a Captain of the Navy. And Percy is in the employ of Lord Avery of Moorpark Manor. He's always quite busy."

"He'd like us to think he's quite busy," remarked George.

"Certainly he is!" insisted Mrs Weasley. "Why, I wrote to him at least three days ago to tell him that Bill has removed to Knightley Park and he may have his room back, and yet he's so occupied he's been unable to come home!"

.

.

The day that Lady Avery and Constance were due home was a bittersweet one — almost more bitter when at first it appeared that Penelope's new acquaintance (... yes, she supposed you could call him that) might have decided not to make a breakfast appearance.

Penelope poured herself one more cup of tea at the end of her breakfast; and she had just resumed her reading of the book she'd brought with her from the library, when he appeared — behaving, as he always did, as if he were a bit surprised to encounter her there.

"Oh, good morning, Miss Dawlish."

She lowered her book.

"Good morning, Mr Weasley."

He placed a folded newspaper on the table as he sat, and silently he poured out some coffee for himself, until his eyes fell on the cover of the book which Penelope held in her hand, marking her page with a finger.

"Swift," he observed dryly. "I had not taken you for a cynic."

"What," she returned affably, "just yesterday you criticised me for enjoying the Romantics!"

"And so you've decided to annoy me?"

Penelope pressed her lips together, hiding them behind her hand for a second to swallow a laugh that had risen. It was difficult to tell whether Mr Weasley had meant to be funny.

"Then I shall have to rely on you to entertain me," she said after composing herself.

Mr Weasley kept his eyes on an indistinct spot in front of him as he helped himself to toast and replied with not unpleasant irony, "I think you had better go back to Swift."

A companionable silence fell whilst Penelope lingered over her tea and her book now lay fully closed in her lap. She'd finished her breakfast already, but the society of other adults was difficult to come by and she wasn't eager to leave it so soon.

And Penelope, like any other genteel young lady, had been raised with instruction on the importance and proper form of conversation… but never before had interaction with a gentleman been so unfraught or uncomplicated as it was now — now that she was no longer doing it in some exhausting attempt to reel someone in (whilst also acting as if she wasn't); now that, as a governess, such an avenue was foreclosed entirely.

So it was almost — almost! — with an unaffected confidence reminiscent of her sister when a few moments later Penelope remarked, "Well, don't leave me in suspense, Mr Weasley."

He glanced up enquiringly, and Penelope nodded towards his newspaper, which he'd left folded there, having (she presumed) already read it earlier.

"What news have you to share with me today?"

"Nothing particularly happy," replied Percy, rotating the paper where it lay to give himself a better view without picking it up.

"That's all right, let's have it anyway."

"And I don't read the gossip," he lied (it was, in fact, often very useful in politics).

"Excellent. Neither do I."

Percy contemplated the page currently facing up and decided politely to bypass the news of Lord Fawley bringing a suit against his wife for criminal conversation.

"One British frigate sunk," he reported in distaste, omitting the identity (Americans) of the culprits — as if by not saying it aloud he might not give them the satisfaction.

"And a rather disorganised Luddite riot in Birmingham," he finished. "Take your pick."

"Luddites?" exclaimed Miss Dawlish in genuine surprise. "In Birmingham? Surely not."

"That is what's believed."

"Where in Birmingham?"

His eyes flicked up to hers curiously before scanning the article.

"I'm sure it doesn't say exactly," he replied dispassionately before giving her another quizzical look. "I hadn't known you had such a… keen interest in industry."

"You can't live in Birmingham and not take an interest," she said, having regained her reassuring tones once more.

"You lived in town?"

"We did."

"And so now that you are here, how do you like it?"

"Oh, the country has grown on me. I believe I'm envious of you for having lived your whole life here."

"Really. I prefer town."

"So many people!" she said in dismay. "Never a moment to oneself."

"I don't believe I've ever had that problem. And there's much more to do in town. If you're inclined."

"That's true, I do enjoy the — arts," she finished a bit lamely. "And the galleries and concerts are wonderful, I'm sure."

"And rotating libraries." Mr Weasley sipped his coffee. "Full of non-seditious authors." He nodded pointedly to the spot where her book had lain on the table not too long ago. And he almost looked amused.

"Now I know you're trying to make me laugh," she said in mock reproach. "It's very unkind of you."

"I'm sure I've never made anyone laugh in my life."

Penelope suppressed a little smile and let that one fall unanswered so that Mr Weasley might resume his breakfast and she might make a polite escape. Because it would not do for anyone — whether a servant or, heaven forbid, Lord Avery — to walk in here and see the governess smiling and laughing at a gentleman.

Even if she hadn't been a governess it would have been a sight. She could hardly say which version would be worse.

Finally, she rose. "I won't trespass any further on your morning. I hope you have a pleasant day, Mr Weasley."

"Good day, Miss Dawlish," he said, already on his feet and bowing her out.

Not too many steps beyond the breakfast room, Penelope encountered the master of the house.

"Lord Avery," she acknowledged with a quick curtsey before carrying on with her own business.

He gave her a terse nod, though when he'd reach the threshold to the breakfast room he glanced over his shoulder at her retreating back, until Percy cleared his throat with a pointed, "Good morning, sir."

"Weasley." Lord Avery proceeded into the room, going for the flagon of ale without bothering to sit. "What do you have for me today?" he asked as he poured.

"Mr Clay wishes to speak with you about the Michaelmas rents."

"What about them?" Lord Avery took a drink.

"He didn't say, sir."

"Find out. What else?"

"A response is still needed to Winchester."

Lord Avery looked bemused. "That boy in trouble again? After, what, last week?"

"This is the letter from last week, sir."

"Ah. And what is it, again, that my caper-witted son's done this time?"

"I believe he's been rather hard on some of the younger boys."

"What?"

Lord Avery did not react in surprise to the idea that his son could have behaved in such a way; he reacted to the idea that he'd been brought to task over it.

Percy awaited further direction.

"Isn't that, well… expected?" chortled Lord Avery at last, as if in delayed reaction to a good joke.

"I suppose to a point."

"Hmm. Perhaps they did things a little differently at Harrow?" Lord Avery said it with a bantering air but Percy kept his face neutral.

"I'm not sure they do, sir. At any rate, whatever Winchester permits, it appears they believe Mr Avery's exceeded."

Lord Avery released a long-suffering sigh. "Find out what they want to make this go away." He finished his ale and gestured Percy to follow him.

"Is that everything?" he asked as he traversed the hall to the front door, Percy trailing behind him with his arms crossed.

"That's everything needing your urgent attention. I've looked over Mr Clay's proposal for settling the land dispute between Mr Shepherd and Mr Barry. I believe it's appropriate and intend to tell him you approve."

"Good." Lord Avery pulled on his gloves as they continued outside where his horse was saddled and waiting.

"And at some point, sir, I should like to advise you on the current situation affecting corn prices… "

Lord Avery had become Lord Avery barely four years prior, when his father died, and he was unconcerned and affectedly helpless about, well, everything, whether it was his involvement in Parliament or the running of his own estate. He lived with a sort of carelessness that Percy truly believed must be impossible to achieve without putting a great deal of effort into it.

"... and Lord Liverpool's anticipated response, which I don't believe will come quickly enough, for Parliament won't convene for another month and a half yet."

"What?" Lord Avery glanced over his shoulder as though Percy had just said something preposterous.

Percy never said anything preposterous.

"It's September," Lord Avery argued.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you mean to tell me they convene in November this year?"

"Yes, sir."

"I've only just got back from London."

(Where, Percy noted internally, he'd spent much more time at clubs and dens of iniquity than he'd ever spent at Parliament.)

"Well, we shan't be going any sooner than February," decided Lord Avery.

"Sir, I beg you." Percy tried to keep his voice toneless, with the result that the only tone that crept into it was one of annoyance.

"It's all trials and nonsense before then, anyway, and I abominate all that."

With that declaration, Lord Avery mounted his horse. "You'll sort out whatever Clay wants?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good man, Weasley."

And with that he was off, leaving Percy to ruminate for five seconds about his Oxford education before returning to the house to retrieve his hat, and thereafter go in search of the estate's steward, Mr Clay.

Percy was halfway up the staircase when he heard it, and as he had done nearly every day before for the past week, he ascended the remaining steps at a snail's pace as he listened.

Schubert today. A minuet.

For as she had done for hours every day for the past week whilst Miss Avery had been away, Miss Dawlish was playing.

Beautifully.

.

.

.

Notes:

Bill's lines in French: Do you love me? / I can't hear you. / Do you trust me? / Do you know that I love you? - to which Fleur responds Persuade me, and Bill replies Persuade you? (It is entirely possible that I messed up some French here - apologies if so!)

'foxed' - drunk

'a mill' - a boxing match

'criminal conversation' - euphemism for adultery; husbands could bring a suit to divorce adulterous wives and also sue her lover

Luddites - an organisation of workers who destroyed new machinery in mills/factories that they believed threatened workers' jobs