.

In which there is tea and brandy

(October, 1814)

.

Lord and Lady Avery's annual house party was a longstanding tradition and a lavish affair. What Lord Avery lacked in knowledge of, well, anything he was doing, really, he made up for in knowing many of the right people. (And even many of those acquaintances had been made for him prior to his birth.)

In addition to the twenty-odd guests invited to stay the duration of the party, lasting nearly a week, on the second day the hosts held a large assembly to which dozens more families were invited.

Percy had spent the first hour or so of this affair more or less orbiting Lord Avery — partly because all of the people Lord Avery wanted to talk to were the people Percy wanted to talk to, and partly because Lord Avery happened to find it useful to have Percy nearby to remind him of some bit of news or political development or who was currently on the outs with whom.

Eventually, Percy found himself left to his own devices, until a series of conversations left him seeking a bit of respite.

There was Lady Malfoy (who clearly had no interest in talking to him anyway), her son Mr Malfoy (who — no; just no), Mr Shafiq (who only ever wanted to talk about hunting, whilst Percy was not a sporting man), and Lord Crouch (who always got his deuced name wrong — How was it that he always got the first and last letters right but still managed to get the rest wrong every time? Amazing.)

He found himself gravitating to a room where a Miss Fawley was playing very prettily at the piano, with guests milling about, listening appreciatively or conversing here and there. Percy was still holding an empty glass of what had once been brandy but had, sadly, run out during the Crouch interaction, and he turned to set it aside — and then he saw her.

She was stood in the corner, her hands folded in front of a blue muslin dress, lace at the hem and the sash embroidered, her decolletage modestly covered by a fichu. It was likely the nicest gown she owned — and it was quite nice for a governess, really — but it was out of place among gowns of crepe and silk. Her hair was pulled back plainly as it always was, and she wore no jewels. But she held herself like a countess.

Not that she looked very comfortable here — no, she didn't look quite comfortable at all, but neither did she seem intimidated. She was just watchful.

Percy found himself engaged in a debate with two glasses of brandy as to whether he should go over and say hello, when she turned her head — in that smooth, deliberate way she had of doing everything — and caught sight of him, her mouth curving in a little smile.

Two glasses of brandy thought she looked well pleased, actually, recognition and relief lighting up her face.

Percy told two glasses of brandy that she was probably just bored to tears and would have had this same reaction if he were one of the housemaids.

Nevertheless, now that they'd seen one another, the decision had been made for them.

"Good evening, Miss Dawlish," he said upon his approach.

"Good evening, Mr Weasley."

"I hadn't, ah…" Percy hesitated, as the original thought that had gone through his head and started to creep out of his mouth was I hadn't expected to see you here, with the unspoken part obviously being because you're the governess.

Penelope took pity on him.

"Lady Avery was kind enough to invite me tonight," she explained. "It's certainly a nice change of routine for me."

"Are you enjoying the party?"

"Oh, yes, it's lovely."

"And for how long have you been standing in the corner?"

"You must understand, I hardly know anyone, beyond a couple of introductions Lady Avery made earlier."

Percy gestured towards the centre of the room. "May I introduce you to anyone — ?"

"Oh, no, no!" Penelope reached out as he took a small step away, her fingertips brushing his arm before she pulled her hand back again. "Please. I think I'm better off where I am. Lady Avery's generosity aside, believe me, I understand that this is not meant for me. Besides, I'm enjoying the music."

Percy followed her gaze to the piano, where Miss Fawley was still playing.

Then he turned back to Penelope, and two glasses of brandy asked, "Is there any chance of you entertaining us?"

She ducked her head but seemed amused when she looked up again. "I don't think that's a good idea."

He looked at her in disbelief. "You play flawlessly."

Penelope's lips parted a little in surprise, before she recovered: "I don't think that's true, and even if it were, I don't like to be the centre of attention. And it is for Lord and Lady Avery's acquaintances to display their talents, not me."

Then she tilted her head as she looked up at him. "What makes you believe I play flawlessly?"

"You — I've heard you."

She looked like she was waiting for him to say more, so he decided not to disappoint.

"When Lady Avery and Miss Avery went away, you played often. Unless some member of the house staff decided to help themselves."

"No," she agreed, "that was me. I do hope I didn't cause any distraction."

"Er, none. None at all."

Two glasses of brandy were also responsible for his next question — but it was two glasses of brandy that had manners and had been raised not to leave a lady without a partner.

"Do you dance, Miss Dawlish?"

Her gaze, once again on the pianist, seemed distant, as though she were lost somewhere for a moment.

And then she came back to him, and there was a warmth but also a distinct finality in the way that she said: "Not anymore."

Percy was not sure how to respond to this, so he fell back on a question that he realised too late he'd already asked before.

"But you're enjoying the party?"

Penelope graciously made nothing of it.

"I am. It's a beautiful party. I like to be able to stand by and watch a little, take it all in. Particularly when one doesn't have to worry about being jostled about. I wonder if all country parties are so pleasant? Gatherings in town can be such an awful crush, can't they? One tires of it rather quickly."

"In… in Birmingham, you mean?"

"Yes, of course."

"Is there much society in Birmingham?" he asked, curious as to what sort of society this lady had enjoyed before this had become her life.

"Oh, yes!" She seemed to have taken his curiosity for disbelief. "Certainly, there is. Much more than you'd think.

"Did you know… " She leant towards him with the air of someone who has vital information. She was tall for a lady and Percy did not have to bend much to hear her when she spoke in conspiratorial tones. "We are something of a favourite for the Prince Regent. He favours buttons made in Birmingham."

Percy laughed in astonishment at her satisfied expression. "What?"

"Oh, yes," she said with mock pride. "He buys all of his buttons there. They're the best."

"Buttons," he repeated.

She nodded gravely. "We're very proud of our buttons. And all manner of metalworks, of course."

"I… I hadn't ever given much thought to the Prince Regent's buttons."

"Well, you surely will now."

"That's true, I will." Percy allowed himself a bewildered little chuckle and assessed the blue fabric-covered buttons on his coat sleeve. "Now I… I'm a little afraid to ask, but now I'm concerned."

He held up his arm demonstratively, and Penelope obliged by leaning a little closer to peer at the fastenings at his wrist.

"Oh, dear," she teased. "I regret to inform you that those are not Birmingham buttons."

"I'm… just ashamed, reall— " he tried to say dryly, except that he could hardly get the words out for laughing.

His laughter set hers off, the first time he'd heard her fully laugh, her smile stretched cheek to cheek. It wasn't the restrained chuckle she usually allowed herself, and yet it was still pretty and polite like everything else she did, a little uplifting of the low, soothing tones she always spoke with. It stirred up the same feelings of warmth as listening to any kind of beautiful music.

Or maybe that was just the brandy.

"Oh," she sighed at last, bringing a hand to her mouth to stifle the last few giggles as a few guests glanced their way. She looked up at him and bit back another laugh, letting her gaze return to the pianist.

Percy followed her lead, and they watched and listened together in silence.

It seemed that hardly a minute had passed before she said quite abruptly, "Do you know, I think I'm feeling a little unwell."

"Are you all right?"

Composed as ever, not looking the least bit unwell, she replied, "It's just a headache, I hardly regard it, but I do think I'd better retire early. I must be awake early for Miss Avery in any event."

"Do you need assistance? Might I find a lady to see you to your room?"

"No. No, no, thank you, I can manage. Good evening, Mr Weasley."

"Good evening, Miss Dawlish."

Later that night as Percy lay in bed, staring up at the plaster moulded ceiling, he recounted every step of this interaction.

He got as far as, " 'Haven't given much thought to the Prince's buttons'... What? Christ's sake, Weasley."

And then he poured himself another brandy.

.

.

"I've had a letter from Fred," remarked George as he and Angelina took tea in the parlour at Holden House.

It had been dreadful weather the past several days, and George had taken advantage of a brief cessation in the rain to visit Angie, though the threat from the heavy, dark clouds that remained had driven them inside.

They were at their ease, George with one arm draped along the top of the sofa and one leg crossed over the other, and Angie sat across from him with her legs tucked up beside her.

"Sounds devilish bored," he continued. "Says the weather's been dismal there as well and he can hardly do anything. They're meant to have a cricket match against the sailors but — "

Something in the indulgent way Angie was looking at him made him stop, realising, "Ah. Of course, you've had a letter as well. You've already heard this. Next time tell me to shut up, why don't you?"

He took a cheerful sip of tea, but his expression grew wary as he lowered the cup. "What?"

"What do you really think about it?" she asked.

"The letter?" A little crinkle formed between George's brows.

"Fred and me. What do you really think?"

George set his cup on its saucer on a little table next to him, and he pondered it a moment, slowly twisting it around by the rim until the cup handle had made a full revolution counterclockwise.

"Fred's a fair shot, but his boxing skills leave something to be desired," he mused.

He met Angie's withering stare without seeming the least bit perturbed by it. "And you're a fine dancer, but you do like to ask silly questions."

"It isn't a silly question."

"It is, what on earth can you mean by it?"

"He's your brother."

"And I'm obliged to you for taking him off my hands."

"And you're my friend."

"Of course, I am. Need I remind you, it was me who told you to get married, and now look, you're doing it with the best person I know. I can't think of anyone more worthy." He paused. "Of either of you, really."

Angie did not seem convinced — convinced of what, George had no idea, but whatever it was he knew she wasn't satisfied.

"Angie, what's this about?"

It was a rare occasion indeed when Angelina seemed at a loss for words — not purposefully silent, but shaking her head, apparently lost in her contemplation; and for a moment George wondered whether she really was searching for the words or whether she had them and — in very un-Angielike fashion — was not saying them.

"Don't you expect this will change things between us?" she said finally.

All the air in George's chest may just as well have turned to lead, and his mouth grew dry. His teacup handle made another full revolution.

This, he realised, had been the cause of any peculiar feelings the day he'd realised that Fred was going to propose. He simply hadn't allowed himself to grasp before now — for he hadn't had to — that a married Angelina was an Angelina who would never have as much time for George. A married Angelina would be forever putting someone else first.

"Things were always going to change," he admitted with a rueful smile. "I always knew — We always knew that this must happen someday. You were going to marry eventually, and I might."

Then he shook himself out of his sentimentality with some annoyance, demanding, "And why are we talking as if we're never going to speak again, anyway? You're not going to be — well, all right, yes, you're going to be Fred's wife, but you're not going to be 'Fred's wife.' You're still Angie. Fred knows that.

"And really," he added, "that's another reason this is a good thing, you and Fred. It's different than if you'd chosen someone else. You'll really be family, even more so than you are now.

"So you see, you won't be rid of me quite so easily after all." He went to take a smug sip of his tea for effect but found the cup empty.

Then as Angie appeared to be sat very comfortably where she was, he moved to pour a second cup for himself, waving her away when she began to uncurl her legs in an attempt to take over.

"I'll travel with the regiment," she pointed out after he'd set the teapot down.

George's hand froze for a second or two over the milk.

"Fred won't be in the Army forever," he recovered in a reasonable tone, adding milk and sugar to his tea. "And even then, he may take leave almost as often as he likes. And the war's over — at least, as soon as that business in America's finished."

"There will be other wars," she noted as he sat down again.

"How cynical, Ang."

George studied her, troubled by the way he could not quite read the meaning behind her expression. Angelina studied him, trying to decide whether it bothered her that this didn't seem to bother him.

"Lord, Ang, aren't you happy?"

"Yes!" She blinked. "Yes, of course I am."

"Then I'm happy for you!" He shrugged innocently, adding, "Your intended's ugly as sin, but there's no accounting for taste, I suppose."

Angie rolled her eyes but could not keep herself from returning the irresistible grin that spread across his face.

George got caught up in examining his own hand for a moment, the ink stains that always seemed to linger on his fingertips from writing down ideas or drawing up plans.

"Are you happy, George?"

George looked up. "Me?"

"What other Georges are present?"

"I'm marvellous. You know when Potter was here he kept going on about the velocipede? He's going to put me in contact with a solicitor who may help us apply for a patent. Dashed expensive, those things, by the way. I'll have to think about it. After that I don't know what I'd do. Production is far too expensive, but I suppose I could sell the patent. That would rid me of any risk in the venture as well…"

"You know what I must ask you."

"Yes, and the answer is No, thank you, my dear."

"George."

"No."

"I have plenty — "

"Not taking your money, Angie."

"You're being unreasonable — "

"Time and time again…"

"George."

"Angie."

"You're infuriating."

"I can still be infuriating whilst not having this argument with you."

"We're going to be family now."

"Let's talk about something else."

"Fine," she replied, sending him a spiteful smirk. "Lady Bixby."

"Let's talk about something else."

"A-ha!"

"Not so."

"Oh, she's quite a catch, George."

George chuckled darkly. "No, she isn't."

"What a thing to say! What, because she's older?"

"You misunderstand me. Lady Bixby does not wish to be caught."

"Oh, don't sham it with me, I've seen her dangling after you with my own two eyes, I'm not stupid."

"Let me rephrase: What Lady Bixby is interested in is not a second marriage."

Once again George had trouble reading Angelina's response.

"Don't go schoolgirlish on me, Ang; need I remind you what you were encouraging me to do when you made that mad proposal?"

"You're insufferable."

"Yes, I am."

Angie glanced out the window, where the rain had begun to pour once again. "Stay to dinner?"

"Love to."

.

.

The rain had kept Lord and Lady Avery's guests cooped up inside for the better part of the week, and when the sun deigned to shine on the second to last day Lady Avery took the opportunity for a garden party. No one was more excited than Constance, who'd also been trapped inside, with the added difficulty of having to not be seen or heard for several days whilst the guests were in residence.

Lady Avery had agreed that Constance might attend the party — it was good, after all, for her to begin to learn how to conduct herself in company — and Constance was beside herself. Two young ladies just recently out in society, Miss Endora Fawley and Miss Elizabeth Bones, were in attendance at the house party, and Constance was keen to attach herself to their sides (with or without their enthusiasm) and learn all sorts of things about how to be eighteen years old.

"I'll be in the garden," Penelope was telling her as they made their way down the corridor from Constance's room to the stairs, "but I won't be with you when your mother is making your introductions. Remember what I — Oh, good afternoon, Mr Weasley!"

Percy had just come from his room down the opposite corridor, hat in hand, nearing the stairs just as Penelope and Constance had begun to descend.

"Good afternoon, Miss Dawlish, Miss Avery."

Constance froze, looking up at him, her face flushing bright pink, and then she ducked her head and turned to continue her descent.

"Oh!" exclaimed Penelope in tones of shocked amusement, causing Constance to look up again in trepidation. "What on earth has poor Mr Weasley done that he deserves the cut direct?"

Constance looked appropriately abashed but said nothing.

"I'm sure you didn't mean to," continued Penelope sympathetically, "but that's quite embarrassing to him, you know."

"It's really quite all— " Percy stopped short when Penelope threw him a look.

"You're an important young lady," Penelope informed Constance. "If you fail to greet him in company you could do his reputation real harm, you know."

Percy thought this was doing it a little too brown.

"Now, I don't think that's quite— "

Once again Penelope quelled him with a pointed look.

"Good afternoon, Mr Weasley," Constance managed, looking at a spot some distance to Percy's right. Then she looked to Penelope for approval.

Penelope nodded with a knowing smile. "You can go on ahead if you like."

Constance didn't need to be told twice; she hurried down the stairs just a little faster than was strictly ladylike, and before Percy and Penelope were halfway down she'd disappeared in the direction of the ballroom that opened out onto the garden.

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," said Penelope once Constance was out of earshot.

"No, no, that's all right."

"I couldn't let it go unchecked."

"I understand. I can't allow thirteen year-olds to go around destroying my reputation."

Penelope laughed openly as they made their way into the empty ballroom. Then she glanced over her shoulder and all around them to ensure they were alone, before lowering her voice.

"Had you noticed that you had gained an admirer?"

Percy was caught entirely off his guard. "I beg your pardon?"

Penelope tilted her head in the direction of the terrace just outside, where Constance stood looking down upon the garden. Constance glanced over her shoulder, saw them, and hurried down the stone steps to find her mother.

Percy pulled a sceptical face. "I think I'm a little old for her, don't you?"

"Yes, I think everyone is a little old for her."

She added as they made their way onto the terrace: "But I found it rather sweet."

"Do you?"

"You don't?"

Percy was not entirely sure what he was supposed to do with this information; consequently, Penelope was unable to read the response on his face.

"Don't tell me you're so easily embarrassed, Mr Weasley." Her tone was teasing but her smile indulgent. "She's but a child."

"Exactly. Do you think she ought to be taking notice of anybody?"

"No." Penelope slowed to a stop at the top of the steps. "Of course not. She should not be taking any notice of boys or gentlemen or deciding what she likes or thinking about it at all. Not until she's seventeen, when we shall send her out into society, where she will be expected to manage the attentions of dozens of gentlemen and make the most important decision of her life by the end of the season."

It was probably the sharpest thing Percy had heard from Miss Dawlish's mouth, yet delivered in the gentlest tones imaginable.

Not to mention there was something about it that felt a little revolutionary despite the fact that it was all, technically, correct.

Penelope was gazing out over the party, apparently sublimely unconcerned about whatever Percy thought.

"Well, I hardly think I'm the sort of person her father would like her to be looking at," he pointed out.

"There's no accounting for what Lord Avery wants for her." Penelope shook her head a little but continued in a positive attitude: "But for now I find some cheer in the fact that the person who makes her blush isn't some handsome, thrilling rogue or charming, rich lord, but her father's mannerly secretary."

Percy supposed that contrast was also, technically, correct; but some strange, irrational part of him almost wished that it weren't.

"You know," he said, recovering himself after a second or two with something like a laugh in his voice, "if I were a foolish person I might be a little offended."

"Mmm, if you were offended, you might be a foolish person."

Percy stared. She was still looking out over the party, not at him, but there was an odd little smile on her face.

"You could do much worse, Mr Weasley, than to be someone a young lady can trust and admire."

That struck him truly speechless. What was there to say to it? What was to even be understood by it?

Percy allowed himself a moment to consider enjoying what his brain almost told him might be a compliment — and then solved the entire problem by continuing to argue.

"Miss Avery is the daughter of a peer. One day she will have to accept the best offer, assuming it isn't already arranged for her, and then what will thoughts of anything else lead to except grief?"

Any trace of a smile disappeared from Penelope's face.

"I don't know the answer to that," she murmured. "But I think about it every day."

The party chatter seemed a dull hum, as though they were separated from it by a pane of glass. Mingled garden scents carried on the breeze, notes reminiscent of one of those perfumes that was currently so fashionable. Rose and jasmine, but since when did Moorpark grow lemon trees…? Some of the ladies at the party must have laid the perfume on thick today.

Percy shook himself out of his stupor and glanced out over the party. Lord Avery looked up from where he was speaking to several other gentlemen and met Percy's eye, and Percy nodded and cleared his throat.

Penelope, too, roused herself from her thoughts, stepping back a little from the balustrade.

"I've said some immoderate things to you just now," she acknowledged. "Will you tell Lord Avery?"

The way she said it almost sounded as if she knew he'd say no.

Percy placed his hat on his head.

"Lord Avery doesn't employ me to concern myself with his daughter's upbringing." He gave her a pointed look. "Good day, Miss Dawlish."

"Thank you," she said as he turned to descend the stairs.

Percy glanced over his shoulder.

"Whatever for?"

.

.

"Who was that woman you were speaking to, Weasley?"

Percy looked up from where he'd been twisting his glass in a circle where it sat on the dining table, as Lord Avery and the gentlemen sat talking after dinner, the ladies having removed to the drawing room.

The question had been posed by the younger Lord Fawley, who was sat across from Percy.

"Which woman?" asked Percy.

"That article in the white dress, on the terrace in the garden. She isn't one of the ladies in attendance."

"Oh, she. I encountered the governess on my way out, that's all."

Fawley's eyes widened.

"Christ, Avery!" he exclaimed towards the head of the table. "That's your governess?!"

"Eh?" Lord Avery glanced over from where he'd been speaking to the elder Lord Fawley.

"The governess, I saw her at the party with Weasley. Was she a gift from your wife?" young Fawley laughed.

Lord Avery chuckled.

Percy did not like where this was headed.

"You don't find her a little plain?" he asked in his most apathetic voice.

"Well, perhaps, but that ain't the most important part, is it?"

By now the entire table was laughing along, and young Fawley goaded, "Come on, Avery!"

"Granted," Percy said as Lord Avery delayed by taking a drink, "I don't have children, but isn't one supposed to avoid compromising the governess?"

Nobody at the table seemed particularly impressed by this argument.

"Can always get a new one," offered Mr Warrington to more laughter.

Lord Avery shook his head. "I've a policy of keeping these things away from home — simpler, you know. 'Course, Weasley's welcome to do whatever he likes as long as it doesn't cause me problems."

Nearly every head at the table turned to Percy — with the notable exceptions of Lord Scrimgeour, Mr Bones, and young Mr Malfoy, who were quietly abstaining with looks of varying degrees of boredom which may or may not have been genuine.

He hoped that the low light and whatever colour the drink might have already brought to his face might obscure the flush he felt beginning to build.

A number of truths were evident to Percy. Among them was the fact that everyone were looking at him expectantly for a commentary he found distasteful. Another was that there were precious few alternative responses likely to be believed or get the topic dropped. Yet another was that these were lords and Percy most definitely was not.

"I don't know, I should think that even I could do better than that." He followed this with a gulp of brandy to wash the taste of the words out of his mouth.

"Marrying, perhaps," said young Fawley. "Fucking, who cares?"

"Weasley's a bigger snob than any of us," Lord Avery informed them all.

Percy shrugged an admission.

Warrington scoffed. "Well, where do you find your ladybirds, then?"

Percy took another drink.

"Leave it to the professionals," he bluffed. "At least they know what they're doing."

"See, didn't I tell you?" Lord Avery said to a couple of men on his left. "Weasley never has any fun. Not even when he's fucking."

Percy forced a smile at the subsequent burst of laughter.

"I have no time for fun, sir," he said as if nothing could have contented him more.

The ensuing conversation did not stray from salacious topics — but Miss Dawlish, at least, was forgotten.