Alistair’s disdain, once a subtle undercurrent, now flowed freely, a cold stream washing over Elias. After the regrettable incident at the Havisham’s winter ball – a fleeting whisper of impropriety, a misstep Elias had yet to fully comprehend – his cousin’s carefully cultivated veneer of cordiality had splintered. No longer did Lord Alistair affect the polite indifference of a distant relative. Instead, a pointed, glacial animosity had taken root, visible to all.
And by his side, ever present, was Mr. Edmund Thorne. Thorne now occupied the coveted position of Alistair’s favored companion, a shadow perfectly cast by the viscount’s glow.
Elias, for his part, felt the prick of shame, a familiar companion in his precarious world. He harbored no illusions of pride in the face of such public censure. Yet, he refused to be the trembling supplicant, the abject figure begging for scraps of favor. Approaching Alistair, feigning normalcy, felt an insurmountable task. The words would choke him.
So, Elias retreated into a quiet despondency, a dull ache of isolation. Sometimes, a flicker of petty vindication would ignite, a fleeting desire for Alistair’s ruin. But always, Elias suppressed it, enduring the quiet torment.
That arrogant peacock, Lord Alistair, so easily swayed by pique, had begun to regard Elias with a childish envy, a resentful petulance. The cause, Elias knew, was transparent: Mr. Thorne.
Regardless of the truth, Elias found himself despising Thorne with a fervent, illogical intensity. Thorne had never been ‘his’ to lose, yet he had not merely usurped Elias's place by Alistair’s side; he had also inflamed Alistair’s animosity. A vicious viper, Elias thought, unable to shake the conviction.
Intentions, Elias knew, often mattered little when confronted by the illogical turns of the heart. Blaming Thorne became a perverse solace, a scapegoat in the bleak landscape of his misery.
Yet, Elias was ever a man of rational inclination. He understood Thorne was but a puppet in Alistair’s capricious theatre. For this reason, Elias maintained his composure, never allowing a flicker of hostility to mar his public demeanor towards the younger gentleman.
Part of it was the searing shame of revealing his raw, ugly jealousy. Part was the knowledge that any outburst towards Thorne would only mark Elias as a fool, further solidifying Alistair’s contempt. And worse, it might invite the whispers, the unspeakable accusations that would brand Elias with an irreparable, ruinous label. A degeneraté. Unnatural. The thought made him shudder.
“...This is intolerable,” Elias muttered, the words barely audible.
He loathed the situation. Loathed it more than Alistair’s open scorn. The thought of being exposed, of his own hidden inclinations brought to light, was a cold dread that eclipsed all else.
Then, for reasons he could not quite fathom, Mr. Silas Blackwood came to mind. Perhaps it was simply Blackwood's irritating proximity of late. What would Blackwood say if he discovered Elias’s secret thoughts, his private shame?
‘Ah, Finch,’ Blackwood would likely pronounce, with that infuriating lack of tact, ‘it appears you, too, are burdened by a certain… *peculiarity*.’
Elias clenched his jaw, the image of Blackwood’s knowing smirk, laced with disdain, an unbearable horror. He would rather perish than face such an indictment.
Friendships in their strata of society often proved surprisingly fragile. As Alistair’s estrangement from Elias became an undeniable fact, his former coterie naturally distanced themselves from the Viscount’s shadow. Amusingly, the least heralded member of Blackwood’s own rather unconventional set, a Mr. Cedric Hawthorne, had only yesterday initiated a strangely pointless conversation with Elias.
“Finch, Blackwood was enquiring after you earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“Cannot say, merely that he was.”
Such exchanges were frequent now – hollow pleasantries, devoid of genuine import. It appeared the ton now perceived Elias as having gravitated towards Blackwood’s orbit rather than remaining within Alistair’s.
Yet, the old ties were not entirely severed. Occasionally, in the gentlemen's clubs or during a chance encounter on a morning stroll, Elias would exchange a brief, polite greeting with one of Alistair’s former associates. Often, this was limited to Mr. Hawthorne.
“Finch! Good morning.”
“...Hawthorne. A fair morning.”
Elias recalled one such awkward exchange, Hawthorne’s voice hushed with a nervous urgency.
‘Alistair has been most… singular of late. His preoccupation with Thorne, rather unsettling, wouldn’t you agree?’
Elias must have conveyed a subtle grimace, for Hawthorne seemed to take it as agreement. He then elaborated, detailing how Alistair insisted Thorne sit beside him, how his hand would linger over Thorne’s arm a moment too long, a possessive grip.
Elias tightened his fists, a tremor running through him, before offering a chilling response.
‘I find such matters utterly devoid of interest, Hawthorne.’
The man immediately fell silent.
Lately, Mr. Hawthorne had been making overtures to Blackwood and his associates, a quiet, desperate maneuvering to extricate himself from Alistair’s increasingly dubious reputation. Perhaps his confidences with Elias were a clumsy attempt to forge a new connection.
Today, as often, Elias and Blackwood remained alone in a quiet antechamber of the Athenaeum, the other gentlemen having departed for their various engagements.
Blackwood, draped rather casually against a velvet-clad wall, regarded Elias with an inscrutable gaze. Was he ignoring Elias, or merely assessing him? Irritated, Elias averted his eyes, mirroring Blackwood’s disinterest.
“Finch.”
“Blackwood?”
“Let us find a decent brandy this afternoon. That rather potent Irish brew we sampled last week was quite commendable.”
Blackwood ignored Elias’s attempt at mutual aloofness. As he spoke, he idly bounced a small, polished wooden sphere against the wall, its erratic trajectory threatening to strike a nearby bust. No one, of course, dared to chide him.
He possessed an utterly brazen disregard for the prevailing atmosphere, an indifferent, almost selfish constitution. Elias watched the sphere rebound with a faint frown, finally breaking his silence. His annoyance at Blackwood’s utter lack of propriety sharpened his tone.
“The one you consumed entirely yourself? I recall you procured it solely for your own indulgence.”
“Not entirely, I simply have a discerning palate for the emerald spirit.”
“So my own preference held no sway in your considerations?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.”
The wooden sphere, having rolled beneath a Chippendale chair, was retrieved by a passing footman. The young man, after a moment’s hesitation, awkwardly presented it to Blackwood. Blackwood casually caught the sphere, turning it in his palm. He dismissed the retreating footman with a brusque,
“Much obliged, fellow.”
A most aggravating temperament.
‘Fellow this, chap that.’ Every utterance from Blackwood’s lips grated upon Elias’s nerves.
Honestly, it defied all logic that someone as boorish as Blackwood preferred Elias’s company to Alistair’s. Blackwood always joined Elias for luncheon, sat opposite him during card games, and seemed to seek him out for company. Alistair might be absent, but Blackwood could easily dispatch a note or arrange a meeting if he so desired.
The thought presented itself without warning, and Elias voiced it without much reflection.
“Why do you not frequent Lord Alistair’s company these days?”
Blackwood, mid-toss of the wooden sphere against the wall, suddenly froze. He turned to Elias, a puzzled expression on his face.
“You had a dispute with him,” Blackwood stated.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Lord Alistair.”
“I am well aware. I am the party involved. Why should that concern you?”
“You utter the most peculiar things, Finch. It is because you are my companion.”
Blackwood’s gaze swept over Elias, oddly frank. Feeling a tremor of disquiet, Elias avoided his eyes and posed a counter-question.
“You were also a companion to Lord Alistair, were you not?”
“Good heavens, you are a marvelously droll individual. What, pray tell, are you suggesting? That you are not my companion?”
Blackwood’s tone was now incredulous, his finger jabbing lightly in Elias’s direction.
“No, I am your companion. But you also kept company with Lord Alistair. Why, then, do you align yourself with me?”
“Well, because I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense is this? Our acquaintance commenced because of Lord Alistair, did it not?”
“See here. What are you even saying? We were quite well-acquainted in our earliest days in London!”
“When, precisely?”
“Truly, you are an infuriating rogue. Extraordinary. In the very parlours of Belgravia, our gazes met with a surprising regularity!”
“Ah… those instances.”
“So, what, was I the only one who interpreted those encounters as nascent friendship? You charlatan. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same social circles, I sought out your company first! And you dare to disregard that? Unfathomable. I confess myself quite put out.”
“Oh.”
“Truly. The very notion. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?”
“Forgive me, I beg you. I am truly sorry, is that sufficient?”
Elias mumbled a hasty apology, a fleeting recollection of those awkward, yet surprisingly frequent, encounters from his earlier days in the city.
So that, in Blackwood’s peculiar estimation, had constituted ‘friendship.’ Elias felt a peculiar sense of being defrauded. How could one interpret those fleeting, often hostile, stares as anything but mutual irritation? Wait. Could it be that the initial overture for companionship had not come from Alistair, but from… Blackwood himself?
The realization struck Elias with the force of a carriage impact, leaving him momentarily speechless. It was unsettling, almost shocking. Yet, unwilling to become further entangled in such a thorny discussion, Elias merely feigned understanding and nodded.
“Very well, very well. I grasp it. My apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite distressed just now.”
Blackwood glared briefly. At times, Elias truly failed to comprehend the workings of the man’s mind.
“And besides, Lord Alistair is behaving with a singular oddity.”
“...”
“The fellow is quite lost to reason at present. He has always been a trifle eccentric, but this? This verges upon… well.”
Blackwood caught the wooden sphere with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The gesture brought to mind Mr. Hawthorne and the other gentlemen who had awkwardly sought to speak with Elias about Alistair.
From that alone, Elias could glean one inescapable truth: Lord Alistair’s reputation was in precipitous decline.
“Unnatural.”
The word – the most feared, the most damning stigma in the rarefied world of late Victorian gentry – sent a chill through Elias. His body trembled imperceptibly at the thought. Simultaneously, a wave of guilty relief washed over him that his own secret remained unblemished. Did that relief signify a prioritization of his own preservation over Alistair’s ruin?
Uneasy, Elias studied Blackwood’s face, feeling like a blasphemous priest concealing an impious truth before God.
“Truly, myself,” he murmured.
Then he let out a short, bitter laugh – a strange alloy of fear and derision.
It was almost laughable that, to others, he was Blackwood’s closest companion. In truth, Elias was no different – a criminal branded with an unspoken transgression. Only months prior, he had been Alistair’s confidante. And yet, here he was, sequestered in a perilous snare he had barely eluded.
He had only managed to avoid outright capture. That was all.
---
It was the hour before dawn, a time when the gaslight glowed weakest and the city held its breath. A terse message, unsigned, arrived unexpectedly, carried by a nervous housemaid who had been roused by an insistent knock at the servants' entrance. A summons at four in the morning. Half-asleep, Elias momentarily entertained the impossible thought that this entire ordeal was but a dream. Even though he had assiduously avoided seeking Lord Alistair, protecting himself from further injury, his heart gave a wretched leap at the notion the message might be from him.
He rubbed his eyes hastily, checking the elegant script again. His feelings were a conflicted knot. A part of him wished it was merely some unfortunate missive from a distant, importuning relative. But as soon as his gaze fell upon the content, he knew it was not Alistair’s hand.
‘Finch,’ the note read, the address jarringly familiar, ‘I beg your pardon for disturbing you at such an hour. Might you step outside your residence for a brief moment? I am deeply sorry. Truly, I am.’
‘Only this once. I implore you.’
Lord Alistair would never apologize to Elias, let alone plead.
Among Elias’s acquaintances, only a handful dared to use such a familiar address, and of those, only one was currently so utterly abject. How did Mr. Thorne even know where Elias resided? The moment Elias read the message, his face twisted into a scowl. He wanted no part of Thorne’s desperate pleas, wished never to see him again. The man was an unwelcome harbinger of chaos.
But despite his vehement internal protest, Elias swung his legs from the bed, buttoned his dressing gown, and stood. He walked to the door of his bedchamber but stopped short of stepping through, resting his forehead against the cool wood of the frame with a deep, weary sigh.
“...Damn it all.”
The feeling was an oppressive weight, a tightening knot in his stomach. That was the sole description he could muster. He clutched his chest, as if to contain the tumult. Elias had always prided himself on his extensive vocabulary, amassed from countless hours spent with weighty tomes, yet not one word could fully express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The lingering resentment for Mr. Thorne, the disturbing memory of the bruises that had once marred Thorne’s face, the desperate weeks Elias had spent attempting to establish distance between himself and Alistair’s orbit – all swirled together in a suffocating vortex. Biting his lip, Elias fiddled with the doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the garden below, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of an early autumn. To avoid the wet lawn, Elias stepped carefully onto the cool flagstones that paved the path. The chilling dawn made him pull his dressing gown tighter around him. His slippered feet carried him all the way to the wrought-iron gate.
He paused there for a moment, clicking his tongue lightly against his teeth, and grasped the handle. The mournful creak of the hinge made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, a theatrical reluctance.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the flickering gaslight on the cobbled street, stood Mr. Edmund Thorne. He was clad in somewhat rumpled evening attire, his head hung low, idly scrawling invisible shapes on the pavement with the tip of his polished boot.
“...Mr. Thorne.”
At Elias’s quiet voice, Thorne’s head snapped up with a frantic swiftness.
“Finch, Elias!”