Two days thence, a discreetly folded note found its way into the breast pocket of Elias’s morning coat. Its fine vellum felt cool beneath his thumb. A swift hand, unmistakable in its looping script, had penned: 'Elias, I must implore your presence in the West Wing Conservatory before the dinner hour. A matter of some urgency.'
No signature was affixed, yet Elias knew the author. He wondered, for a fleeting, foolish instant, if it might be a request for a deeper understanding, a confession of sorts from the young viscount.
The notion was swiftly, brutally dismissed. Such affections were a luxury not afforded to men of their disparate stations, nor indeed, to men at all, in such a visible, damning manner.
The demands of the Blackwood household, ever a swirling vortex of minor crises and imagined slights, consumed his attention until the approaching chimes for the evening meal stirred the memory.
He made his way to the conservatory, a glass-domed marvel where exotic flora languished in humid air. A peculiar curiosity tugged at his sleeve. One never knew what fresh vexation Arthur might conjure.
Arthur Blackwood awaited him. His slight frame was clad in a richly embroidered smoking jacket, lending him an air of fragile sophistication. He perched on the edge of a wicker chaise, his dark curls, usually so meticulously arranged, now seemed a trifle disheveled. A certain nervous energy made his fingers pluck at a loose thread on his cuff.
“Arthur?” Elias’s voice was carefully neutral, a practiced mask. “What is it, pray tell? I confess, the dinner hour draws nigh.”
The young viscount started, his head snapping up. A faint blush dusted his high cheekbones. He offered a wavering smile, a familiar gesture that, even now, tugged at a knot in Elias’s chest.
“Ah, Elias. Forgive my presumption. I… I have something of import to impart.”
Elias’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He wished to conclude this interview with dispatch. The precarious edifice of his own social standing could ill afford to be seen in such an intimate tête-à-tête. Already, the whispers of the household staff were a constant, low hum in his periphery.
Arthur, oblivious to Elias’s silent disquiet, gnawed at his lower lip, his gaze flitting from the trailing fronds of a fern to the intricate pattern of the glass ceiling. He seemed on the precipice of speech, only to clamp his lips shut.
A flicker of irritation pricked at Elias. Arthur's delicate indecision, though perhaps endearing to some, grated on Elias’s frayed nerves. His own head, ever since the episode in the infirmary, felt a coil of taut string.
He suppressed a sigh, forcing a patient cadence into his tone. “Indeed, Arthur? If you would be so kind as to simply articulate the matter. My responsibilities—”
Arthur finally steeled himself. “Elias… I… that is to say, I wish to… to declare—”
The heavy oak door, usually kept latched, swung inward with an abrupt creak. Both Elias and Arthur turned, their gazes locking with Miss Genevieve Blackwood. She stood framed in the doorway, a vision in an evening gown of deep sapphire, her expression a study in chilling fury.
Her breathing, though not ragged, seemed unnaturally shallow, her chest rising and falling with an agitated rhythm. Her eyes, dark pools of accusation, settled first on Arthur, then on Elias, before returning with a cold fixity to her brother.
“Arthur, what in heaven's name are you doing closeted with *him*?” Her voice, usually a silken murmur, was now edged with a dangerous steel.
Elias felt a cold dread unfurl in his gut. His hands, without conscious thought, clenched at his sides. He knew that look. It was the prelude to one of Miss Genevieve’s exquisite, public humiliations.
After a heavy, suffocating silence, her gaze finally, damningly, pinned Elias. Her eyes were not merely scornful; they burned with a possessive, almost pathological rage. A derangement born of devotion, Elias recognized, and found it equally pitiable and terrifying.
*No, Miss Blackwood, please. Do not look at me so. I am but a pawn, caught in the wake of another's… fancy. Blame Arthur, if blame must be laid.*
“Why, *pray tell*, are you with him?” Each word was a lash. “You, Mr. Finch, who preys on the innocent, who seeks to corrupt the impressionable—”
*You look a fool, Miss Blackwood. A pathetic spectacle, consumed by a love so twisted it deforms you.* Yet, in that moment, Elias felt that the truly pathetic one was not her, but himself.
Before Elias could even muster a coherent thought, Miss Genevieve’s long strides had brought her directly before him. Her hand, gloved in delicate lace, rose with astonishing swiftness. A sharp crack echoed in the glass chamber. The world tilted. A white-hot pain bloomed on his left cheek.
“...!” He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. His body swayed, his knees threatening to give way. *No... it cannot be.*
He touched his cheek with trembling fingers. The sting was undeniable, the imprint of her wrath burning against his skin. How could she? How could she so brazenly violate the very decorum she so fiercely upheld?
“Genevieve! No!” Arthur’s voice was a terrified gasp. He scrambled to his feet, rushing forward.
“You naive, idiotic boy! I told you to steer clear of this… this *opportunist*! Damn it, Arthur!” Miss Genevieve shrieked, her face contorted. She seized Arthur's arm with surprising strength, dragging him from the conservatory. “Come, you are to be seen by the physician immediately! Such… *influences*… must be purged!”
The heavy door thudded shut. Elias was left alone, slumped against a trellis, the scent of orchids suddenly cloying. A shaft of gaslight pierced the gathering gloom, illuminating the tear tracks that silently, shamefully, coursed down his raw cheek.
He hated it all. Arthur, for his naive summons. Miss Genevieve, for her brutal, public assault. He wished them both to simply vanish. How wretched he felt, reduced to a mere spectacle in their grotesque theatre.
He managed to pull himself upright, his legs unsteady. Dinner was out of the question. He fabricated a sudden indisposition to a passing footman, his flushed, stinging face lending credence to the lie, and retreated to the solace of his meager lodgings.
---
He collapsed onto his narrow cot, the worn mattress offering scant comfort, and sought oblivion in a fitful sleep. When he awoke, the left side of his face felt taut, a tender, bruising purple beneath the skin.
Out of habit, he reached for the small stack of correspondence on his bedside table. A few perfunctory invitations, household accounts. Then, a smaller, folded note, its seal broken.
It was from Lord Alistair. An unexpected courtesy, considering their acquaintance was primarily confined to the gentlemen’s clubs and political soirées. Alistair, second only to the Viscount in social influence, was not a man one could easily ignore.
“Elias, where did you vanish so abruptly?” The penmanship was bold, direct. Elias dipped his pen, scribbling a terse reply. “A touch of the ague, my Lord. Nothing of consequence.” He kept it light. He could not bear the thought of this humiliation becoming common knowledge.
Hours later, a wave of profound desolation washed over him. Alistair’s polite concern felt like a fresh wound. Other notes had arrived, inquiries from various staff, but none offered the balm he craved. No message, not a single hurried word, from Miss Genevieve Blackwood. How mad he was, to even anticipate such a thing.
Yet, he lay there, like a fool, doing what he did best – closing his eyes to the inconvenient truths that clawed at him.
He heard a faint tap at his door, then the whisper of parchment being slipped beneath. A frantic, almost illegible scrawl from Arthur.
“Elias, are you quite unwell? Please, I am so sorry. It was all my fault. Forgive me. I beg of you, forgive me.”
The frantic repetition of ‘forgive me’ made a bile rise in his throat. How had the boy obtained his lodgings address? Then he remembered. He had given it to him once, a casual courtesy long forgotten.
He crumpled the note, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He pummeled the threadbare bedding with his fists until exhaustion claimed him. Just before sleep dragged him under, one last plea from Arthur’s desperate hand echoed in his mind: 'Please, do not hate me.'
He found the sentiment, in his bruised state, almost comical. He had hated him, in some unspoken corner of his heart, for months. And for himself, for his own weakness.
The following morning, Elias’s face felt as if a brick had been pressed against it overnight. The bruise was undeniable, a stark mark of his fallen standing.
---
He would not attend to his duties at Blackwood Manor. No matter his rigid adherence to propriety, he possessed not the fortitude to face the prying eyes and whispered conjectures with such a stark testament to his degradation upon his face.
Mrs. Davies, his landlady, brought him a tray. Soft gruel and bland toast, her expression a mixture of maternal concern and thinly veiled curiosity. She advised him, in a hushed tone, to be 'more careful in his perambulations.'
As he set his spoon down, reaching for the water pitcher, Mrs. Davies returned to clear the dishes. “Mr. Finch,” she murmured, her voice lowered conspiratorially. “You have a visitor.”
A visitor. His heart, against all reason, gave a tiny, traitorous flutter. Before he could rein in the errant emotion, his mind conjured an image of who might stand beyond the threshold.
Could it be… Miss Genevieve? It was a wild, fantastical notion, yet not entirely impossible. There were few indeed who knew the address of his humble lodgings.
If it were she, then she must have come to offer some form of recompense, a grudging apology for her uncharacteristic lapse. Her pride, surely, would demand it.
He convinced himself, in that desperate moment, that her uncharacteristic fury had given way to remorse. “Yes,” Elias said, his voice a little too eager. “Please, Mrs. Davies, do show them in.”
The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. He chided himself for such foolish hope, yet an inexplicable warmth spread through his chest. Despite all, he was still of some consequence. The thought was a small, illicit comfort.
He turned towards the sitting room door, his pace quickening with a fragile excitement. But the man who stepped through was not who he had so desperately imagined.
“Finch! What ho, old chap?” A sharp-featured face, framed by impeccably coiffed dark hair, greeted him with a careless smirk. A bag of sugared almonds, a rather common indulgence, dangled from one hand.
But the smirk faltered as Alistair’s gaze fell upon Elias’s face. “Good heavens, man. What ghastly misfortune has befallen your countenance?”
Elias’s knees very nearly buckled beneath him. The sudden, brutal disappointment was a physical blow. “I… I stumbled,” he offered, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Alistair’s brow furrowed, his lips twisting in that characteristic manner before he delivered a barbed remark. “You are, I fear, a clumsy sort, aren’t you, Finch?”
Elias did not bother to dispute it. He merely rubbed his throbbing cheek, a fresh wave of mortification washing over him. What an utter imbecile he was. Miss Genevieve thought him nothing, truly. And here he stood, like a hopeful, idiotic dog, wagging his tail.
“Here,” Alistair said, extending a small flask. “A restorative. Brandy. For the shock.” Elias accepted it, uncorking it to catch the familiar scent of amber spirits. “Why are you here, Alistair?”
“Why, to ascertain your well-being, naturally. Might I come in?” Without waiting for assent, Alistair’s long legs carried him into the cramped sitting room. “Where is your study, Finch?”
“Alistair, wait—”
“Where else? There is scarce any other chamber of note in a dwelling such as this, eh?” Elias had no retort. The words were true, after all. He followed Alistair, who, with an almost insolent disregard for privacy, proceeded to cast a critical eye over the sparse furnishings of Elias's humble abode.