The morning sun, usually a cheerful harbinger, felt more like an interrogation lamp through the thin curtains of my lodgings. I rose with a peculiar ache, less from the bruise upon my cheek – which, by some grace or the diligent application of the poultice I'd acquired, had receded to a mere faint discoloration – and more from the phantom sting of Miss Blackwood’s contempt. My cheek was still tender, a faint violet shadow lingering, but it was the sort of mark one could dismiss as a careless bump against a doorframe, not the public humiliation it truly represented.
Yet, the world awaited. Duty, as always, pulled me towards the Ministry of Royal Correspondence. I had foolishly hoped that the night’s solitude would have purged the lingering stench of scandal, but as I stepped into the hushed, gaslit corridors, the air felt thick with unspoken whispers, a heavy, oppressive blanket muffling the usual industry.
My gaze, an involuntary habit, sought Arthur. He was late, slipping into his designated alcove near the Foreign Despatches just as the morning’s first dispatches were being distributed. The sight of him arrested my breath. A jolt, sharp and unwelcome, pierced through me. My own bruised cheek had seemed a trifle. Arthur’s face… it was a ruin.
His lower lip was split, a dark, angry line barely camouflaged by a hasty application of some balm. One eye was swollen, a purplish bloom almost as severe as my own had been hours prior, yet far more prominent on his delicate features. A wave of suffocating remorse washed over me. I had entertained, however fleetingly, a childish thought that he might receive some reciprocal justice. Now, shame burned a hotter brand than any physical blow.
“Good God,” I breathed, the words caught in my throat.
Arthur, ever hesitant, glanced nervously about the room. Then, as if drawn by a cruel magnet, his eyes found mine. He stared for a long, agonizing moment, his expression locking into a startled grimace, a flicker of something akin to terror crossing his features. Then, abruptly, he wrenched his gaze away, his shoulders hunching as he shuffled to his seat, avoiding me entirely.
That peculiar evasion left a prickle of unease upon my skin. I scanned the chamber, and the reason became instantly, painfully clear. Miss Genevieve Blackwood, poised by the grand oak desk, was glaring at me with an intensity that promised bodily harm, her eyes two chips of frozen malice. Had I possessed the foresight, I would have feigned illness, remained cloistered in my rooms. Regret, bitter and acrid, flooded my senses.
Throughout the morning, Arthur, who had only days ago attempted a tentative friendliness, steadfastly avoided my presence. During the brief respite for luncheon, he vanished with Miss Blackwood, disappearing into some private corner of the Ministry, or perhaps even beyond its walls.
Left to my own company, I found myself drawn to Lord Alistair Croft. A part of me, a morbid, nagging curiosity, yearned to seek out Arthur and his sister, to ascertain his well-being. But I found I lacked the courage. I was too afraid of what I might discover. Surely, Miss Blackwood would not inflict further cruelty upon him… not again? The question coiled in my gut, a tight, sickening knot.
Lord Alistair, meanwhile, seemed a creature entirely unburdened. He kept up his usual stream of lighthearted chatter, seemingly oblivious to the storm brewing within my own breast.
“The air in here could curdle milk,” he remarked, gesturing vaguely towards the bustling clerks. “Nearly choked on my own civility, I assure you.”
“You seemed quite unperturbed over your brandy and biscuits yesterday,” I replied, a corner of my mouth twitching.
“Ah, but one must maintain appearances, Finch. A gentleman always rises to the occasion.” Alistair winked, a glint of genuine amusement in his eyes.
His words, though trivial, were a strange anchor. I found myself, despite my own turmoil, offering a slight, dry laugh. He grinned, a boyish, almost impish look. His carefree spirit, once a source of mild irritation, now provided an odd, unexpected solace.
---
Life possessed a cruel, capricious streak. When I had first encountered Lord Alistair Croft, a frivolous nobleman flitting through the social calendar, I had no intention of forging any kinship. Indeed, I had found him rather tedious. And yet, here we were, and he had become the closest semblance of a confidant I possessed. His flippant charm, his resolute refusal to be drawn into the gravitas of any situation, had a way of preventing me from drowning in my own anxieties.
In earlier days, I would have dismissed such qualities as shallow. But now, I relied upon that very levity to keep myself grounded. Had I remained tethered to the Blackwood family’s orbit, I might never have recognized the quiet necessity of Alistair’s presence.
In the days that followed, Miss Blackwood subtly distanced herself from the periphery of our social set. Sometimes, she would whisk Arthur away to some unknown destination. Other times, she would enlist the reluctant aid of others. I had observed certain gentlemen shaking their heads, a flicker of unease in their eyes, when she approached.
One afternoon, I chanced upon young Master Theodore Finch, a junior clerk, scrambling over a low hedge in the Ministry gardens, clearly avoiding an unscheduled meeting. He confessed, with a nervous laugh and an uneasy shrug, that Miss Blackwood had taken to ordering some of the younger chaps to ‘chastise’ Arthur – a subtle cruelty, a forced admission of shame, a slight physical jostle by command – all to remind him of his place. My face tightened. Theodore, sensing my reaction, quickly added that he had been giving Miss Blackwood’s coterie a wide berth of late. He was off to a billiards club with Master Julian Price, he explained, and begged me not to misunderstand. With a hurried nod, he was gone.
Master Julian Price, I recalled, had once been rather keen on Miss Blackwood’s attention, but since their circles had diverged, he seemed to have adopted a healthy distance.
Later that day, Alistair and I took a quiet stroll through St. James’s Park. He produced a silver flask, offering me a bracing sip of brandy. The warmth spread through my chest, momentarily soothing the chill of unease that clung to me. But beneath that fleeting comfort, a bitter knot of apprehension remained, tightening its hold. I forced a placid expression upon my face.
“Good, isn’t it?” Alistair asked, his gaze distant, observing a swan glide across the pond.
“A fine spirit.” I lifted the flask, offering it back. “Would you…?”
He smirked, a flicker of mischief in his eyes, and without a moment’s hesitation, took the flask, lifted it, and swallowed a generous draught. It was an almost brazen act, a shared intimacy. “Merely demonstrating its efficacy, Finch,” he quipped.
“Good heavens, you drank half of it!” I exclaimed, a genuine laugh escaping me.
“Only a gentleman’s measure,” he replied, shrugging a shoulder. The moment was, for all the turmoil in my mind, oddly peaceful. The crisp autumn air was still, the clouds scudding serenely across the sky.
Where were Miss Blackwood and Arthur now? A few locales came to mind, but I did not seek them out. Perhaps I was, still, too afraid of what I might uncover. I tried to banish Miss Blackwood from my thoughts. But the harder I strove, the more acutely I realized the vast, desolate space she occupied within my mind.
How long would it take to excise her influence? How much effort would it demand? I had no answer. It felt like an endless desert, not merely sad and suffocating, but terrifying, insufferable. Sometimes, I retreated, much like a weary traveler seeking solace from the scorching sun, finding momentary respite in Alistair’s company. And, well, that was that.
Suddenly, I turned to him. “Alistair,” I said, the name feeling foreign on my tongue.
“Finch?”
“Do you believe,” I began, the question feeling uncharacteristically raw, “that flowers can truly bloom in a barren desert?” The words, so unbidden, brought a flush of embarrassment to my cheeks. I scratched the back of my neck, but Alistair did not mock me.
“They must,” he replied, his voice quiet, devoid of its usual mirth. “Life is bleak enough without such small miracles.”
Hearing such a sentiment from Alistair, a man I had never considered capable of such earnestness, was oddly discomfiting. It cast into sharp relief the futility of my own desperate hopes. How much longer before I surrendered these meaningless affections?
“Yes,” I murmured, “Life is bleak.”
Miss Blackwood. That infuriating woman. Why did she seem so intent on crushing every last vestige of loyalty I felt, every flicker of concern? She continued her capricious attendance at various social functions, sweeping in and out as she pleased. And always, a grim shadow at her side, was Arthur.
As her behavior grew more flagrant, the whispers in society escalated. It became clear: Miss Blackwood’s cruelties, both social and personal, were intensifying. And so too did the quiet tide of resentment towards her, slowly, imperceptibly, spreading through our circle. None of it boded well.
One evening, as the gaslights cast long shadows down a less-frequented corridor during a Viscount’s reception, I saw Miss Blackwood seize Arthur by the wrist, pulling him towards a shadowed alcove. I stopped in my tracks. Watching them, my gaze darted between their rigid faces before I finally spoke, my voice a quiet intrusion.
“Your father,” I said, a deliberate lie, “is becoming concerned for you both.” It was not an apology, nor flattery, but a calculated falsehood. That was the extent of my pride. But Miss Blackwood was known to have a strained relationship with her father; she might not discern the untruth. And even if she did, I could always argue that, at this rate, his concern would soon be entirely warranted. I always ensured a strategic retreat.
“If someone must bear the brunt,” I continued, my voice steady despite the thrumming in my chest, “let it be me. What has Arthur done to warrant this?”
“Move, Finch.” Miss Blackwood’s gaze, the moment I uttered Arthur’s name, snapped onto me, sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to burst. I despised her in that moment. Yet, poor, pathetic Arthur stood frozen beside her, his tear-filled eyes wide, looking as though he might crumble at any moment.
“Unless you wish for another lesson,” she hissed, her voice barely a whisper, yet laced with venom, “move from my path.”
“G-Genevieve, please,” Arthur stammered, his voice trembling, reaching out a hesitant hand. Only then did Miss Blackwood cease her verbal assault. Her gaze shifted, fixing solely on Arthur. I watched as the back of her head turned, her attention wholly consumed by her brother.
“As I said,” I pressed, trying to reclaim her attention, “your father is—”
Arthur, on the verge of tears, clung to his sister, his small protest a desperate plea. Witnessing that pitiful scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating that I closed my eyes, unable to watch.
After a moment, I heard a sigh, then the rustle of fabric. Miss Blackwood looked at Arthur, then turned and walked back towards the main ballroom, pulling her brother along. For the remainder of the evening, she remained in the more public spaces, just as she had a few weeks prior.
---
The long-anticipated journey to Lord Ashworth’s country estate had arrived. A carriage, well-sprung and surprisingly spacious, had been hired for the younger members of our social set. While a few grumbled about being dragged away from the more vibrant London scene, most were simply eager for the change of scenery. There was no need for extensive packing, as we would return within a few days. The chaperones offered only a few desultory warnings before allowing us to settle in.
We were not schoolboys, after all. There was no giddy excitement keeping us awake. I considered it simply another obligation—depart without a fuss, return without one. But I had no inkling that this particular journey would be the crucible where my long-bottled frustration finally erupted. I had always known a reckoning would come, but not with such abruptness.
Typically, whenever our paths converged outside the formal Ministry offices, I found myself in Miss Blackwood’s proximity. I was, after all, once considered her closest confidant. It had not even occurred to me where Lord Alistair might choose to sit, as I had never before embarked on such a journey with him.
At first, a faint flicker of apprehension had crossed my mind, a foolish fear that Alistair might usurp the seat nearest Miss Blackwood. Looking back, the thought was pathetic. Neither of us, I now realized, would occupy that place.
As we arrived at the assembled conveyances, I located our designated carriage and climbed aboard. The rearmost bench, capable of seating five, was already claimed by a boisterous group of acquaintances, including Master Theodore, who waved at me with a nervous enthusiasm, then hesitated, his gesture subtly pointing towards Miss Blackwood’s customary spot.
“Elias! There’s room here!” he called, his voice bright.
“Ah, yes.” Of course. I had always been the one to sit beside her. Yet today, I paused, a strange reluctance seizing me, as I approached Miss Blackwood’s chosen seat, now a plush corner facing the forward direction. I swallowed hard, a tiny spark of stubborn pride flickering within me. It was *my* spot. That last bastion of dignity, that one foolish claim, compelled me to approach, even after the sting of her slap, even after the ordeal of Arthur.
I nervously touched the velvet upholstery of the seat for a moment, my gaze sweeping across the other occupants, before I quietly inquired, “Miss Blackwood… this seat…”
“It is not taken by you, Finch. Seek another berth.” She cut me off before I could finish, her gaze fixed steadfastly upon the carriage entrance. Following her line of sight, I saw Arthur Blackwood tentatively making his way towards us, his shoulders hunched. My fists clenched. I bit back a retort.
“As you wish,” I managed, attempting an indifferent tone, though my heart felt as though it had been cruelly shredded. I turned quickly from the seat and surveyed the carriage. I espied an empty spot near Alistair’s group, directly opposite where he was already settling. With a surge of relief, I hurried over, practically collapsing into the seat, and spoke without preamble.
“Alistair. Sit beside me.”
There was no answer. When I looked closer, I realized he was already drifting into slumber. He seemed prone to dozing in the mornings, and this was no exception. His head rested against the window, bouncing gently with every subtle sway of the carriage. Shaking my head at his utterly undignified posture, I slipped a folded handkerchief between his head and the hard glass, then settled back into the uncomfortable seat, my gaze drawn, as if by an invisible thread, to the dark brown hair across the aisle. It was Miss Blackwood’s—she possessed a height that made her easily discernible amongst our companions. Though I could not clearly perceive it, I imagined her jaw was still set, her gaze still burning, and Arthur, pale and subdued, beside her. And I was not. The bitter taste of it clung to my tongue.