emerson balfour.

Tonight, Montmere House was like a bottomless champagne glass; hordes of people filled every nook and cranny like bubbles. And yet, in a crowded room, even with cigarette smoke clouding her vision, she could pick out the back of his head in a passing glance— that is, if he was there. She could not help it when her eyes flitted upwards to every man passing by, only to turn downwards haplessly when she realized that it was not him.

She excused herself wordlessly, doubtless that her absence would be noticed. Minutes later, she pressed through the oak door of the library, a stolen bottle of champagne and two flutes in hand. "How did I know to find you here?" she asked facetiously to the figure in the winged armchair.

"The party's over," she sighed, but the band could still be heard, even from inside the house. "For me, at least. Some brute ripped my stockings while we were dancing," she pouted, before raising her knee-length skirt an inch or two to show the gash in the fabric on the side of her thigh. "But no matter," her eyes pointed toward the book in his lap. "is it any good?"

It was far too loud downstairs, for him. No matter how much he wanted to try and achieve his goals, there - he simply couldn't when there was that much... mess taking place. He wanted nothing more than to hide the second it began - and so that's exactly what he did. He took off and found a place to read and listened to the party rage downstairs with a disdain typically reserved for whatever Edwin was up to this week.

Unfortunately, Pru had managed to get just a bit too much champagne in him before his retreat. That was definitely part of it, he felt off guard and vulnerable - and he hated to feel vulnerable around anyone, even the people he trusted. It made him too easy a target.

He looks up when someone enters the room, fully ready to swear until they disappear - but it's just Aurelie, thank god. He doesn't know why he's so relieved, he also doesn't want her to see him this way, but... Well, it's better than if it was anyone else.

"How rude," Emerson comments, shaking his head, "I say, as if I wouldn't do the same thing by accident. It's why I avoid the dance floor at all costs - the safety of a young ladies' stockings is paramount." His voice is light, it's a joke - and it's presented as one instead of the normally deadpan humor he likes to let out.

The Gardner wouldn't start. Maud pumped the clutch and listened to the motor splutter, and cough, and do everything that it wasn't supposed to do. Irritation, then outright anger, flared, and she hit the steering wheel hard enough to make the front windscreen rattle.

Only just about holding onto the urge to scream, she clambered back out of the car.

"You!" Maud pointed, then crooked her finger to indicate they obey. She took her sunglasses off as they approached, her frizzy hair like a wild cloud around her face. "Know anythin' about cars? The bleedin' chauffeur's gone and left me in the lurch."

Privately, she thought it was because he took one look at her, one look at the car, and decided it wasn't worth his issue.

"Tell me you know somethin' about cars, please, I'm beggin' you! I've got an appointment, and if I'm late they'll skin me. Please!"

He jumps, when someone's yelling at him, and stares at her for a long few seconds. Does he look like a man with a vested interest in cars? He doesn't like to think he does, actually. But the problem is - he'd read the manual, once, when he was exceptionally bored. So - he sort-of was a man with a vested interest in cars similar enough to this.

"I know a bit?" Emerson offers, "What did you try, or - you know it's ready to go, right? The chauffeur wouldn't leave you with petrol." At least - he hopes the chauffeur wouldn't leave them without petrol. Who knows, Emerson barely interacts with the guy, if he can help it.

He barely interacts with anyone, if he can help it.

It was unbelievable how easily the thought unfurled, like a dormant reflex that had been kicked into submission too many times and had finally had enough.

He's smacked in the face with a pillow, and he immediately goes for the next closest one. He's pretty sure that his brother has always brought out this, the absolute worst in him.

The drive to Ripon was usually pleasant, and on a day as stifling as this, it was a boon to be out of the house. Topsy and Emerson bumped along in the backseat as the chauffeur took them through the village. It took about twenty minutes by car; Topsy had had the butler make a reservation for them at midday. Plenty of time.

"Well, this is nice, isn't it?" Topsy smiled at Emerson. Her closely-fitted cloche did not obstruct her view; at this proximity, she could study every twitch and grimace of her youngest, arguably more sensitive, son. Topsy patted Emerson's knee in a manner one might an over-excited spaniel.

"Of course, mother," Emerson answers, his voice level and normal. He'd been off kilter for a while, ever since his fight with Edwin had escalated to a near-wrestling match, as if they were children once more and not fully grown men. Honestly, Emerson was lucky he'd made it this far with Edwin not tattling to his mother about the whole thing.

He'd kind of figured this trip to Ripon was so he could be scolded, like he would when he was a child. Maybe this is his chance, to get ahead of it.

He rose, too fast, to his feet, jamming his hands into his pockets so that Emerson wouldn’t see how white his knuckles had gone.

And then the picture of how Emerson might look at his own brother—You killed him, you’re a murderer—were pushed out in a second. Outrage swelled in Edwin, like the petty urge to bring up the fact that he could read in fucking Latin if push came to shove, shove being what he would do to Emerson out the nearest window.

"I should be careful?" he repeats, slowly, trying to prove how Edwin sounds pretty insane here - how his brother's decided to go off the deep end because he considered going back to school, once, to his cousin, "Sure. I'll be very careful, like I was being before you so rudely interrupted my reading - to stand in the light and bother me with things that do not concern you."

He sneers, at that - Edwin has always known that there's something about his appearance that makes those insults the most effective.

It's only too bad for him, that he's dwelt on that for long enough to have a comeback at the ready, always standing there.

Leaving me, he thought, to be responsible for you, as if that wasn’t a crushing responsibility to put on any human being. Make sure this other one doesn’t get fucked up and runs the family name to the ground. Make sure he’s happy and thriving and so is his mother and his uncles and his grandmother and the rest of the clan. Make sure no one looks agog at Gog and—on and on it went.

Edwin drew in the deepest breath he could afford himself. He closed his eyes. Opened them slowly. Lowered himself into a crouch on the carpet so that Emerson wouldn’t automatically go on his guard with someone looming over him. Edwin could already see it in his face: that clawing, itching urge to shed his skin and hop out of the conversation. Well, it wasn’t happening. Emerson was his only brother, the last bit of real family he had left, and it was Edwin’s job to look out for him.

"Obviously," Emerson parrots, trying to keep his voice steady. He's not quite sure where this conversation went wrong, actually - perhaps it's been doomed from the moment his brother walked up to speak with him. He's making a concerted effort to pretend that he's not the cause of any of this, no matter how often his own mouth has gotten away from him.

He pauses, as his brother bends down - trying to pretend to be a nonthreatening presence. It doesn't fucking work, because it never works for Edwin. The man's all sharp angles and scary features, and Emerson's just learned to not actually fear him from years of practice.

He gives him a look, as if asking what the real issue is, turning his head and offering him half a sneer.

"Oh, is that really all you need me to promise? To not snap my neck?" He pauses, hopes his brother will take this as him giving in to his stupid, almost childish demands, "Too bad, actually. I think I am a grown man, who can do whatever I please. You can choose to snap my neck, but they'll know exactly where to start to hunt for my killer - I'm sure the whole family will recognize it."

"Alright," Patrick said, "but let me lay here for a moment longer. I've only had one nap today."

Languid as a cat, Patrick lengthened his body and relaxed onto the grass. From their vantage point they could see straight across the acerage of Montmere's front towards the copse of willows that hid the lake.

"If you hear anyone laughing, tell them that they can come to me. I'll sort them out." By which Patrick meant he'd come over all disappointed in their lack of chivalry and sportsmanship, and guilt them into acting properly. It wasn't fair to laugh at a man for his lack of skill.

Patrick studied his cousin. Emerson wasn't bad looking by any means, so why did he always act as if he were hideous?

He stares at a cloud, as it goes by, "I think that is even more embarrassing. I should prefer to ignore them, and not encourage the behavior with a response." That's always his strategy. The only hurdle is that it never actually seems to work.

And, really, it wasn't as if Emerson wasn't the type who should be made fun of. He'd had awkward phase after awkward phase, until he'd ended up looking like... this - and with no social skills to work with at all.

It was hopeless. He'd be wrapped up in his books forever, no matter how many vows to be more social he made to himself, privately. It wasn't going to work.

"I have thought of it," he says, slowly - avoiding the question on his work. If he were to tell anyone in his family of his secret... It definitely would be Patrick, though, "Not until next year, definitely. But there is still much for me to learn, I think."

And, really, he knew, this morning, that this was going to be one of those days.

"I did get my degree in literature, you know," he says, shaking his head, "and I'm thinking of returning for another one. If you didn't want me scribbling all day, you should have said something when father let me head off to Oxford to write." He turns, "If you're just here to hassle me about being lazy, Patrick beat you to it. Apparently I am the worst cricket batter he's ever seen."

Emerson just hopes this won't end in a fight he cannot win.

"What did you actually need, then? I don't need more work, I've already got my own, if that's what you're here to ask about again. And this isn't that great of an approach for a job offer," he sighs, and places his book next to him fully, waiting for the other shoe that surely must be about to drop.

Feeling a sulk coming on, Patrick looked back in the direction of the ball. The copse wasn't even that far. Glancing at Emerson, he shouted, "Give me a moment!" The copse was dense and thick with undergrowth. Patrick poked about for several minutes before emerging, victorious, with the cricket ball.

"Got you," he whispered. Holding it aloft, Patrick paraded out of the trees as if he'd won the cup. "Oh, he does it again!" Patrick called, putting on his best newsreader voice. "Patrick Ry-land, champion bowler of Yorkshire!"

Laughing to himself, Patrick broke into a jog and headed up the slope towards Emerson. He threw the ball at his cousin and, as easily as if his strings had been cut, fell into a supine position on the soft grass.

"You don't look like a fool, by the way," Patrick said, squinting up at him. "You look more stupid when you throw a fit. Here, how are you going to play next weekend if you won't even practice?" Earnestly, he propped himself on one elbow and lay on his side, imploring Emerson with his very best spaniel eyes.

He does laugh, though, at the little bit of a show that Patrick puts on as he comes back. It is kind of funny, to watch his cousin parade around with a cricket ball, that was so far off course it wasn't even that funny, as if it was a winning trophy.

"I do look like a fool," Emerson disagrees, frowning, "I always look like a fool when people ask me to run or hit a ball. It's just... not what I was made for, I think. And I shall have to coach the team, next weekend. I am not going to be laughed at by the village again." He means that, he doesn't think he'd be caught dead swinging a bat into air again. He'd been the laughingstock of the entire area for a few weeks.

Good thing he was rarely seen outside, anyways. He avoided the laughs, but he heard them throughout the servants on occasion.

He sighs, and Patrick knows the begging is going to work. He shakes his head, at least croquet is a little easier, "Fine. One round of croquet. But just one, and then I have to return to my study, to get actual work done." By work, he means reading the books he's been sent this week and writing up a review on a few of them, but, he'll let Patrick think he's got some sort of actual work.

"No, Emerson, you need to-"

The cricket ball went sailing through the buttery air. Silhouetted against the sky it appeared almost magical, a symbol of youth and masculine strength. Or it would be, if Patrick's cousin knew his bat from his... well, you know.

Shielding his eyes from the blistering sun, Patrick squinted as the ball disappeared behind a copse. Sighing, he lowered his hand and scuffed the grass with one wingtip. Patrick turned and raised his eyebrows at the sad figure standing not twenty metres away.

"Well, I am not getting it, either," he says, already getting a little short. This is why he prefers hiding away in his rooms - there is nothing to be terrible at, there. One cannot really fail at reading.

"What if we just... let the birds have it. It's too hot for me to be chasing a ball behind the tress, and we can just... do something else, that doesn't involve me looking like a fool on the lawn," Emerson knows it's a long shot - probably, he'll be made to stand here trying to hit this stupid ball in the right direction for hours, if Patrick has anything to say about it.

He's just glad it's not horses, this time. The horses hate him.

Title: The Honorable (Mister) Full name: Emerson James Balfour Age: 26 Occupation: Literary critic Faceclaim: Will Poulter (Why Didn't They Ask Evans?)

❧ There’s always been a loneliness buried inside him, perhaps it began when he was born too far apart to ever truly have a brother. It’s a trick of timing, isn’t it, that he ends up forgotten despite being the baby? He’s meant to be doted on, isn’t he? Every other final son is the apple of their mother’s eye, yet Emerson always slipped right through the cracks where the world was concerned. And he hated it, from the second he realized that other people had the ability to create connection with each other - and he did not. Life was unfair, because he had been completely cursed, to hide away and never be noticed in ballrooms or hunting trips alike. He’s grown comfortable there, but it does not mean that he does not still abhor every second that he is ignored, that it does not drive his blood pressure higher to be forgotten when the invitations go out. 

❧ And everyone agreed that when they did speak to him, he was an insufferable know-it-all, who’d rather be conversing with characters in novels than he would with actual, living people. And so what if that was a little bit true? At least the characters in novels were predictable, calculated and you could see clearly where the trajectory was going. The goings on at parties and in public were far too much of a risk, too easy to get out of hand. There’s a certain anxiety to things he cannot control, and that is part of the reason he will retire to his study instead of actually doing something productive - all to write back. He runs a small column discussing new releases in fiction, in a London newspaper, which he’s told is quite popular. It’s not as if he cares about the popularity, it’s just a way to express himself - without the discomfort of his surname being attached or the way that things can be misconstrued when they come out of his mouth. 

❧ Where he longs for the company - like his brother has found in his marriage, he supposes - he isn’t quite sure what he would do with it, if he found someone. There are plenty of women that his mother has suggested as suitable, but not a single one he has been able to actually see himself enjoying being around. Perhaps this is a personal fault, he isn’t sure - but perhaps it is the root of all of this… angst, that he’s holding inside.

❧ Emerson truly believes that he is cursed. He finds no explanation for the way he feels around the world other than the fact that he must have been doomed to be lonely from the start, and that has led to years of heartsickness. Recently, though, he is beginning to change - perhaps it is age, perhaps it is a few too many sappy novels, but he is ready to give it another chance by actually trying to make conversation at parties, or not walk away when he is no longer interested in the topic. It’s… a work in progress, but his efforts will not be in vain: because if there is one thing about him that has always shown above all else, it is that he is as stubborn as a mule.

Relative(s): Hedone (mother); Hybris (brother); Nemesis (sister-in-law).