Long Live the Grave

"No," Patrick agreed, already giggling at his joke, "she's got the reins -- but has she the whip, Eddy? Is she whipping you, too? Is that what you'd like?" And that image, pure imbecility, sent him into a gale of laughter. "I'm joking, I am joking!

"Really, though," he continued, having sufficiently recovered. "I do hope you'll stick around here, Ed. There's so bloody much to accomplish. Of course, I'm perfectly wonderful and able to undertake most of it, but it would mean ever so much to have your steady hand at the-- my-- tiller. So to speak."

Goodness, the whiskey was working. Patrick's tongue felt thick. Careful, he thought, don't say anything too... fruity. He did get a bit, erm, loose-lipped after a few, and he hadn't been so thoroughly drunk in years.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll shoot him myself. Though responsibility, exactly, isn't really what kills people, is it? And by 'kill' I mean... soul-sapping in a way that even God can't fix. I mean," Patrick enunciated, using his whiskey glass to punctuate the point, "I believe -- personally, of course, you might have some other -- I believe that what really hurts the soul is a lack of freedom. And r-responsibility isn't a lack of freedom, per se, because it gives you structure, like the army, but it's knowing that you have to give up certain things that makes the whole business so terribly unejoy-- unenjoy-- blast, what's the word?"

Patrick propped one elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand, a thick forelock of golden hair curling over one narrowed eye as he gazed dumbly at Edwin.

He nearly tripped on the words as he tried to talk. “Yes.” That was all that came out.

Lolling in his dead uncle’s chair–Patrick’s chair now–he sounded asinine. Like he came from a branch of the family that should have been selectively breeded out years ago. To keep Patrick from realising it as swiftly as he had (inebriated Edwin might be, but the speed of his faculties remained untouched), Edwin leaned forward in his seat and lightly cuffed the side of Patrick’s head. The base of his wrist grazed the silken smooth hair, a whip of cold short-circuiting Edwin’s nerves all at once.

What a difference a few hours, some pheasant, and whiskey made. Patrick couldn't remember the last time he'd cried twice in a day -- if he ever even had.

As he gasped, his laughter bubbling away, Edwin's hand slipped off Patrick's knee. The same knee, mind, that he'd clutched in the drawing room. His skin prickled, overheated by whiskey and adrenaline, and Patrick's stomach flipped as Edwin withdrew.

"Poor man," Patrick managed. Their gaze caught and he burst into another round of laughter. Sighing happily, he wiped his eyes and crossed his hands over his stomach, groaning with relief.

"Dear me. Poor, poor man. Pity he didn't come along with me, really. I could have done with some marmalade. A balm for the soul, when one is being blasted into oblivion."

Chuckling, he rubbed the side of his face and reached for his glass. The table was scattered with debris: half-stubbed cigarettes, ashtrays, the uncorked bottle of Fa's whiskey. Patrick's footman had thoughtfully left them a plate of fruit and nuts to enjoy after dinner, which he and Edwin had promptly set upon like a pair of starving dogs. The whiskey was sweet, peaty, and the combination of salted peanuts with the drink was irresistable.

"Goodness, you are funny, Ed. I can't remember the last time I laughed so. It's odd, isn't it?" Patrick waved his glass to punctuate the point. "In another world, we might never have gone away. I would have languished through my degree - what was it? Classics, wasn't it? No! Modern literature." This he delivered with all the pomp and circumstance of those public school ninnies who'd turned their noses up at anything other than swotting. "God preserve me. I can barely read as it is."

Sighing again, this time in contentment, Patrick smiled fuzzily at Edwin and knocked their knees together.

It was good of Uncle Marchy to leave something for them. The whiskey throbbed inside Edwin’s head, each spasm leaving no room for anything else. No thoughts of how he might have stayed handsome if there hadn’t been a war. How he could have had years of dancing and cricket and maybe women. He absently rubbed the loose cuff of his sleeve, trying not to think if that Edwin would still be at this table, flush-faced with gratitude for Patrick.

"I ought to write to the consulate. He did send me a letter a few years ago. I believe he had a-- um, well, a special friend." Patrick had been about to lurch into more detail but Edwin's sensibilities were delicate at the best of times.

"Ah. Yes. Hildy." Scratching the back of his neck, Patrick gazed towards the windows, the pummelling rain, and thought of how to respond. "It's not her, exactly," he managed. "I've always... Well, you know me. I've liked my time alone. Hilly is the opposite. I suspect she fears I'll forget what she looks like if we don't see each other every hour, on the hour." A bit like a cuckoo clock: startling, abrupt, annoying.

"Speaking of, old boy, we ought to go up." Patrick clasped Edwin's shoulder and smiled at him. "Pheasant, remember? And cigars." He couldn't help himself. "If you change your mind."

As they started towards the door - Unity and Hildy would already be in the dining room by now, with a martini for Unity and a soda for his wife - Patrick checked the damp patch on Edwin's front. "Here, you've got..." He adjusted the lapel of Edwin's suit and smoothed it down. "No one will know. Though spilling your drink all over yourself is rather stupid and reckless, Eddy."

Patrick chased the flicker of disappointment with a sip of whiskey. They'd been here before, hadn't they? One swallow didn't make a summer, and all that. Still, there was no denying that the atmosphere between them felt different, and by that extension of logic Patrick could not be a fool to wonder if Edwin thought any differently about... all that 'stupid and reckless' business.

But it had been three years ago. Perhaps Patrick was a fool after all.

"No, I'm afraid," Patrick replied, his expression wrinkling. The anniversary was coming up soon: one year. He'd been trying not to think about it. "I did wonder... but I thought it was a little macabre, maybe, or inappropriate. I'm not sure. It's not really important. I'm still in my old rooms. Hildy has what used to be my drawing room and I have the study. Peace and quiet," he added bashfully. Edwin probably had no concept of marital disharmony. "You know. It's good for us to, um, have some time apart. To keep the spark fresh!"

Patrick had another sip of whiskey. He could taste it now, and it burned in his throat.

The mention of Marrakesh made Patrick grin lopsidedly. "I confess I haven't thought about him in a long time. We met during the war. Passchendaele, to be specific. He was another lieutenant. We shared a dugout. Out batman was some grey beard with an absolutely impenetrable accent." The memory made him laugh. "Goodness! Simon and I weren't half cruel about it. I do regret that now. The chap had a foot blown off; it was awful. But Simon and I kept in touch. He was supposed to marry some..." Patrick searched through the archive of the past. He recalled a studio portrait: soft brown hair, plain-looking but sweet. "She was horribly rich. From Kent? Anyway, we said our goodbyes in London and the next I heard he'd buggered off to Africa. No pun intended." This he added above a sip of his drink.

Once he swallowed, he contemplated Simon's fey looks. He had been a little too delicate for Patrick's tastes, but, well, necessity was the mother of invention.

He nodded along to the story, pretending not to see the parallels. That Patrick brought home a single pleasant memory from the front—It was like an itch on the side of Edwin’s face, deadened scar tissue suddenly awake like he’d rubbed poison ivy on it—Distracting, buzzing, desperate to be scratched even though the beds of his fingernails crawled at the thought—He fumbled the next swig of whiskey, dribbling some over the front of his shirt.

“Oh, for—” Edwin slammed down the glass with such force that it was a marvel it didn’t crack. “Apologies, Giles, it has nothing to do with the quality of your story.”

Where was his handkerchief? He was always losing things nowadays that there was so much more to carry. The handkerchief! Of course it had been spirited away into Alva’s care because the sudden change in weather had brought on a round of sniffles, and a man’s handkerchief was less decorative and more suitable for the snot of three-year-olds. Edwin was reduced to mopping his collar with his sleeve, shaking his head in annoyance.

Patrick's face grew warm as Edwin exchanged their cufflinks. The act was solemn as a vow. As Edwin tidied Patrick's sleeves, he felt how foolish and soft his smile had become; embarrassed, he tried to rearrange his expression into one less pathetic. Yet, even as he hardened his heart, he reflexively grabbed Edwin's wrist on the retreat and squeezed it once. It might have been thank you, or even please. Whatever his intention had been fluttered away like a lark and he swallowed thickly, forcing himself to release Edwin and pick up his whiskey instead.

He'd sip it this time. Funnily enough, he didn't have the taste for anything other than Edwin's mouth.

"It's only a scandal if it gets out," Patrick replied vaguely. Edwin's bottom lip was damp, reddened. His tongue had been so pink. When he summoned the willpower to meet Edwin's gaze, something sparked in his chest, and Patrick swallowed again. His trousers were still too tight.

"I, um... Sorry." Patrick shook his head and frowned, bemused at himself. His grin slipped sideways. "Um, what were you..." Casablanca? Oh! "Gosh. I can't believe you remembered that. Uh, it was Marrakesh. I think. I only thought about it because an old pal of mine... It doesn't matter. Well, I was always going to stay." He flashed Edwin a wry look as he sipped his drink. "It hasn't been easy, obviously, but I would never run away. Besides, I want to have a life here. Hilly -- Hildy -- she's positively in love with the place. Reminds her of home-- Are your rooms alright, by the way?"

Patrick kept his voice light, easy.

"Because if you and Unity wanted some more space or, um, separate, uh, arrangements, then it's really no problem. You ought to be as comfortable as possible. While you're here. If you'd like."

For one night, Edwin wanted normal.

He wanted the only person who had known the worst of him and wanted him to come back anyway.

"Wait. Wait, Ed, I... Hang on a minute." Patrick surreptitiously adjusted himself and stood up, cheeks aflame. His fingers were still damp; the memory of Edwin on his knees flashed through his mind. Smoothing back his hair, he stared up at the ceiling for a pronounced moment, then refocused on the back of Edwin's pink, clean neck.

Divorce? Who the hell was talking about divorce?

Feeling even more puzzled than usual, Patrick rewound the last few minutes of activity. There had been the kissing, and the crying, and the cheque...

Patrick ventured closer to Edwin. Approaching from his good side, he tentatively rested a hand between Edwin's shoulder blades and studied Edwin's bowed head.

"I've told you before," Patrick said, sounding rather sad even to his own ears, "I kissed you because I wanted to." Nothing - not even Ed's infamous bluster - had deterred him in the past. He supposed it was pointless to probe why Edwin always defaulted to the sorriest reading of a situation: that Patrick might have kissed him out of obligation or, God forbid, pity. Did Edwin still think so lowly of himself? Was it really impossible to realise, three years on, that they might kiss out of mutual desire?

Patrick realised that he was absent-mindedly stroking Edwin's back. He could feel the heat from his skin even through his shirt and suit-jacket, and wondered if Edwin still had that funny set of freckles on the back of his right shoulder.

"Everything I seem to do these days is either stupid or reckless," Patrick admitted, "I don't mind adding to the list... though I don't want you to do something you'd, um, regret, I suppose. We're grown up now, aren't we?" His smile was short-lived. Edwin's hair had become somewhat disheveled during the act. He very carefully smoothed Ed's crown. His hand rested briefly on the back of Edwin's neck before he withdrew. No use pushing one's luck.

"I meant every word I said. You've saved Montmere and, by extension, me. I won't go on about it," he added. "I don't want to embarrass you. But... thank you. Again. And you can have the kiss for free, if you like."

It was pathetic. It was wilful and thoughtless and he would not—

Edwin reached sideways and with a swipe of his hand, tousled Patrick’s hair. It was an impulsive thing to do. It made him forget that he was looking at the Earl of Grantham; only that one bright blue eye was peering back at him from under a forelock of hair. His palm was tingling as if there was an electric current shooting under Patrick’s skin. Like his body knew this was the Rubicon and the water was not safe to wade through.

“Sorry,” he said as insincerely as he could. “Let me fix that for you.”

Angling himself towards Patrick with a studied expression of concentration, Edwin picked up Patrick’s left hand. The cuff link had gone crooked on his sleeve. Edwin unhooked it gently, holding the loose cuff link between his teeth, as he undid his own. His—less antique than Patrick’s, but newer, more recently boffed, better maintained—fit neatly on Patrick’s wrist.

Exchanging the other one took less than a minute, and Edwin pocketed Patrick’s as if it was loose change. “You can have them back once they’re good and polished.” It wasn’t I care about you in ways I could not fathom and You are being suspiciously considerate and I wish you wouldn’t and it never would be.

Patrick breathed shallowly, his lips parted, watching with lidded eyes as Edwin mumbled between sucks. He took Patrick's finger deep into his mouth and the corresponding visual made him buck where he sat, his trousers straining.

Edwin's words were underwater. Still, some of them filtered through Patrick's haze and he bit down a moan that was half encouragement and half acknowledgement. Yes, they ought to be sensible. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could...

Patrick added a middle finger and, as Edwin continued to fellate them, heat coiled in his groin and this time he did groan, a low, broken sound that could only be associated with one act.

"Ed... Eddy." With immense reluctance, Patrick withdrew his fingers and gripped Edwin's chin. Tilting it up so that he could admire him, Patrick grinned lazily.

"I don't want this to be quick," he murmured. "In fact, I want to take my time with you."

The door remained closed; there were no distant sounds of laughter or conversation. Rain continued to pummel the windows, effectively cocooning them from their wives, the debts, life. At once, Patrick realised that this was what he needed: a man on his knees, the prospect of a good buggering. Sex had always been his cure-all. He shifted forward and leaned down for a deep, open-mouthed kiss, the sort that one might bestow in the ebb of climax, when all was supine and tacky with sweat. Patrick withdrew and kissed Edwin's bottom lip once, chastely.

“That would be stupid and reckless, you know that.” Hypocritical words dispelled by a single glance at the front of his trousers. “We,” he said more firmly, “are not stupid and reckless.”

He heaved himself to his feet with some effort. Something was restless and aflame under his skin, his cheeks red from how much he tried Not to Think About It. There was a fog and a pulsing in his brain, and he nearly lurched as he looked around for the sideboard again. Hang that watered down whisky; in that moment, even diesel would do.

The decanter dripped whisky into two glasses from his trembling hands. He wanted to run, for the car, for his life in the city, Patrick a memory and a name on a chequebook. The idea of him sitting on that sofa, delirious from the ease with which Edwin sucked his fingers one by one, was intolerable. Painful. Dangerous. Edwin would not let Montmere drag him back in time; he and Patrick would take it with them into the future.

He adjusted his grip at Edwin's nape, his hair slipping over Patrick's fingers, the urge to tighten his grip almost overwhelming. Someone's heartbeat pounded through every sinew of Patrick's body; at once he was too hot, the heat crawling up the sides of his neck and flooding his cheeks, his mouth parting for words that dissolved.

Think of what you're saying. We'd kill each other before the week is over.

Some distant part of Patrick's brain stirred as he nudged their noses together. Edwin's breath panted against his open mouth.

Words. There were words for this.

It was nothing at all, to slip past Edwin's defenses and kiss him, the first taste of Edwin's tongue sending a violent tremor through Patrick until he felt as if he were burning, or being electrocuted, or both, because Edwin so very close and yet not close enough, and Patrick's pulse thundered in his ears loud enough to drown out his thoughts.

Edwin's lips were wet. Salty. Patrick licked the tears away and shifted until their chests were flush and Patrick grasped the dip of Edwin's waist and kissed him deeply.

His hand was shaking as it rose to cup the side of Patrick’s face, the smoothness of the skin still masculine, like stubble had once been scraped clean. No one Edwin touched like this felt like this. His grip tightened, fingers digging into Patrick’s thigh. His thumb pressing down on the soft underside of Patrick’s throat. The need to press closer, to be closer was running through him like a fever. The sofa was falling away from under him, or maybe it was Edwin who was slipping off.

The carpet was tufted wool—thank the heavens no one had come to repossess it yet—and Edwin sank down on it. Half-hard in his trousers, the fingernails of one hand scraped down Patrick’s clothed thigh. Edwin’s mouth followed, knowing that if he felt skin, he’d be undone. This was no longer the frenzy of rage and jealousy. This was loneliness—God, he hated that he knew—and it was loneliness he could feel in Patrick. Patrick’s touch on the back of his head was some grotesque parody of absolution. Edwin would have put his forehead to Patrick’s feet if that would take away the ruins of Montmere around them. Instead, he picked up Patrick’s other hand. Kissed the tip of his index finger, slid it into his mouth.

They were so close that even if Patrick wanted to look - really look - at Edwin, at the freckles he hid beneath his clothes, at his pale eyelashes, the vision was too blurry for him to focus. But he could revel in this: the warmth of Edwin's skin; the pulse that thrummed beneath Patrick's palm, for he had reached up and blindly found the side of Edwin's neck, and as his thumb nestled into the dip between jugular and jaw he remembered kissing that same place.

So much had changed.

Patrick's fingers slid into the hair at the nape of Edwin's neck, which was, indeed, vaguely damp from where Edwin must have shaved before coming down. A peculiar trail that might have been desire unfurled from the lump in Patrick's throat down, down to the vicinity of a place Edwin had, once, ventured, but likely never would again.

Cold lake water. A stifling bedroom, vermouth. The devil in the library. Edwin was as bound to Patrick as he'd ever been. And Montmere had never been closer.

"You belong here," Patrick murmured, their foreheads still pressed together, eyes closed. Vetiver and the steady thump of Edwin's heartbeat. "You belong here with me, Ed. This is your home."

He retreated just enough to search Edwin's face.

"No one will ever do as much for Montmere as you have done," he continued. "Stay here. We can rebuild, together."

You belong here. With me.

He’d lost his mind. Patrick must have, because how else could he stand to touch Edwin like this? Stand the proximity of Edwin, to even hold him so tenderly as if the clock could be rewound and redemption offered up like whiskey and soda? It was impossible to hold his gaze; there was an unflinching sureness in Patrick’s eyes that made Edwin’s throat constrict. How much had Patrick lost that even Edwin seemed like enough?

“Home.” What a thought. Montmere had never been his to call home. “Giles. Please. Think of what you’re saying.” His nerves were stuttering, turned liquid under the stroke of Patrick’s thumb. All he had to do was stay.

His free hand was sliding up Patrick’s leg. Only a scant inch above the knee because he had self-control, and it was breaking, but if he didn’t hold on to something he might crumble too. His fingers were bunching up the fabric of Patrick’s trousers, grip so tight it still couldn’t have halted the hot prickle of tears on the cold skin of his cheek.

Then Edwin started talking.

His meaning took Patrick some time to grasp. Even after the Frog petered out, Patrick continued to stare at him, only half-conscious of the look of absolutely bamboozlement that had eclipsed his expression. Gratitude competed with confusion. A cheque, signed by Edwin, sent to the bank. Most of the debts gone in one fell swoop...

Edwin, being kind?

Patrick blinked, and at once two fat tears slid down his cheeks. Dashing them away only invited more until, at last and for the first time since Fa's funeral, Patrick allowed himself to cry. Turning away from Edwin, Patrick shuddered, suppressing his sobs, not wanting to make more of a scene than he already was, what nonsense, to cry over something as simple as someone's kindness... But it was Edwin's kindness, his brusque voice, the pink in his cheeks, that made Patrick cover his face with one hand and merely experience the tidal wave of grief and helplessness and relief that surged and swept over and through, over and through, endless advances into No Man's Land, so many tin soldiers crashing upon the enemy like water on rock until they at last broke the line, a bayonet in the heart, blood on his hands. Victory. Safety. Release. At last, at last.

Eventually, Patrick rejoined the living. Edwin was warm beside him; the rain puttered against the drawing room windows. There was a distant burble of conversation, Hildy's lilting laugh, and something that might have been Unity's crisp response. There were here, at Montmere. It was all going to be alright. Could that really be true?

Were they safe?

Patrick wiped his eyes and caught his breath, feeling terribly self-conscious. Once he felt that he'd collected himself, he slowly looked at Edwin.

"I c-could never- I could never repay your kindness, Ed. I- I..." Swallowing, Patrick closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to regain what little control he had, and continued.

Earnestly, he whispered, "Thank you. Eddy, thank you."

(Was this why men fathered children? To wait out the days when they walked into the nursery, picked up their sons, smoothed their hair and called their name only for the child to struggle out of their grip in ever-constant search for ‘Mummy’? Did they do it to feel wanted, and anyone would do? Unity’s love was a cool upward flick of her eyes, appraising, approving. Patrick—oh God, Patrick—)

“Don’t,” he said again, more forcefully this time. But he didn’t extricate his hand. Didn’t stop himself for leaning his shoulder into Patrick, their heads knocking together in the lightest of touches. The bourbon on Patrick’s breath was stiflingly sweet. “It’s not kindness, you blasted fool.” It was the most selfish thing he could have done. Edwin no longer had a mother who would tell him, Oh darling, you always find a way to ruin your chances to be happy. By ruining others. Write that cheque and go back to London. It’s only the right thing to do.

But it was not a thought that Edwin really processed. He wanted for too much. Patrick was too glad to give.

"No, no. You're right. It's... useful to put it so bluntly." After all, fluffing about the edges had never done him much good, had it?

Patrick miserably contemplated the bottom of his glass. Then, with immense strength, he lurched forward and put it on a small lacquered table (£470). Slumping back against the cushions, Patrick tipped his head sideways to stare up into Edwin's face. He'd gained more wrinkles since the last they'd met - stress from the baby, he assumed.

"Thank you." He was beginning to sound like a stuck record. "I mean... You were there, with Smythe. You understand the- the depth of trouble we're in. But I can't bring myself to-"

His breath caught in his throat. Patrick swallowed the panic and concentrated on the side of Edwin's neck, which was flushed and clean, as if he had just shaved. Vetiver.

"I've done all I can think of," Patrick whispered. "I shrank the staff. I sold a load of American bonds, although the Mancurian advised against." The lawyer-cum-accountant had offered to come to Montmere, but Patrick, terrified that Hildy would put two and two together, insisted on making the journey himself. Two nights in a bed and breakfast. God preserve him. "At this rate I'll need to sell the horses, although I'd rather die."

This he delivered with uncharacteristic venom. He'd turned the concept over in his head a thousand thousand times and still could not contemplate an alternative. Rob Roy, Duchess, and Whistlejacket were an expense that they could not justify, but without them, Patrick was terrified that the darkness would grow too immense, too inviting, and he'd be tempted to do something so utterly shameful and sinful that he had never contemplated, not ever, not even when he was knee-deep in French mud and praying hourly for reprieve.

Like an overtired child, Patrick rubbed his eyes and exhaled, breath shuddering.

"I've reduced the worst of Fa's debts," he continued softly. "I couldn't have done it without Hildy. But it's the blasted interest rate on the rest. Come this time next year, we'll be..." He could not finish the thought. "If I sold everything - well, almost everything - we'd be scot free. But I can't!"

Patrick dropped his hands and gazed miserably up at Edwin.

Good accounting suggested that he agree with Patrick—selling off the other assets would at least preserve the house and they could start afresh. Cut the trees, don’t scorch the land. But how could it be Montmere if even this sofa was gone? Those portraits that hung on the wall in between the dust-free outlines of the more expensive art sold off? The marble end tables and the sconces? The little flourishes that had always been there as long as the horses had. If they ripped the soul out of Montmere to keep the body fed, what strength would they have to keep on going?

“You can’t,” Edwin found himself saying, seized by the same helpless ghost of family that was squeezing the life out of Patrick. “You can’t sell any more like this.”

His hand was on top of Patrick’s, he realised a minute too late. Clutching like he could shake the defeat out of Patrick. Their hands entwined uselessly in Patrick’s lap, and Edwin realised how inane he sounded. Sentimentality had been Uncle Marchy’s undoing. He wouldn’t let it lead them—him and Patrick, it seemed, not the larger more ineffable them—into the marshes too. Faking a cough, he used it as cover to bring a fist to his mouth, shrinking a few respectable inches away again.

He would not be sucked into this vortex of misery. He would keep his head, and that’s why Patrick had wanted him around at all, wasn’t it? There was nothing else they had to say to each other except cold, dispassionate misery over money matters.

“Listen,” said Edwin. It was a tone that warned that he was not to be met with resistance. Resistance was anticipated, but it would not be tolerated. “I have copies of the letters from the bank. They’re not the same thing as the updated position—you can show me the ledger tomorrow—but I have a fair idea of how much interest it is. I can cover that. Not entirely, unfortunately—“ Not even if he didn’t have a family, not even if his mother wasn’t controlling his father’s estate. God wept at how much was being haemorrhaged as interest on his uncle’s debts. “Tomorrow, I’ll write the cheque. You’ll send it off. We’ll speak to the accountant about a recurring instruction. Whatever it doesn’t cover, we’ll…”

Survive it. They simply had to.

Edwin cast a sideways look at Patrick, bracing himself for some gallant speech about how charity was not necessary. Or worse, how Edwin’s money would only be a drop in the bucket that was leaking. He was not prepared for the sheer blanket despair gazing back at him.

The room was not quite spinning, but it also wasn't quite still either. Patrick had a slug of bourbon and was surprised to see that he was close to the end of his glass. Crossing his legs at the knee, Patrick sank back into the cushions, hoping that he didn't look as unstable as he felt.

Dear God, he wanted to cry.

"Thank you," Patrick mumbled, frowning against the emotion that pricked his eyes. He contemplated his drink, then met Edwin's gaze. Bobo had once, very kindly, told him that when he was upset, his eyes took on a cow-like quality. He suspected that his inner bovine was showing now, for Edwin's expression of polite discomfort had morphed into one a good deal less sympathetic.

"I'm a bit lost, you see." The words spilled forth. He wasn't even that drunk. All those sleepless nights, catching up to him; Hildy insisted they sleep in the same bed. There was a deep ache behind his eyes, one that was worse than a hangover because he couldn't even bloody well sleep to get rid of it. "I'm..."

Ed didn't want to hear this. When had Edwin and confessions ever gone well?

With immense strength, Patrick sat up straight and focused on the conversation. Unity, right. Something about horses?

"Hildy's just being nice," Patrick said, feeling shame at the syrupy-bourbon-sleep-slur in his voice. "She's got about five brothers and sisters. It's normal for her. Besides, she and Unity will get on like a house on fire. They could... Crikey."

The room lurched. A pang of exhaustion. Patrick gave Edwin a sideways grin.

A history of blood.

“You look foul,” said Edwin as nicely as he could. “Of course, considering the circumstances, which are considerable, I can’t fault you.” Orphaned in a blow, new wife and massive estate to run. Despite his station, Patrick had never been made to withstand the drudgery of real life. The Rylands had never been that kind of people. “That sounds rather cold, I apologise.”

A quick swig of the water-and-soda, while he tried not to wonder if Patrick hadn’t been adulterating his own drink to get through the day. He looked to be in terrible shape.

If Patrick didn't remember all too well what had happened the last time they had touched, he might have... but he wouldn't. Burned once, and all that.

Instead, he settled for smiling at Edwin's compliment. The action was small but it was genuine. These days only Hildy managed to coax such warmth from him. The rest of the time he really felt like a bloody automaton, or at least a man who had forgotten everything except the persistent dread that dogged his footsteps.

"You're being suspiciously nice, Ed," Patrick observed, pouring himself another drink. It was his third, but neither Edwin or his wife needed to know that. "And that's not a critique. I could do with some niceness."

He returned the decanter and picked up his glass. Gesturing for Ed to join him, he sat down on the sofa that his mother had once picked out. The sofa was worth about two thousand pounds; he'd been forced to check.

Hildy's name in Edwin's curated accent sounded somehow bizarre, possibly because it was bizarre that Edwin should not only know of Patrick's wife but speak of her in semi-familiar terms. Edwin and Bobo were the only members of the family who knew what Patrick was... and Ed hadn't breathed a word, even after all these years. That meant something. At this moment, when Patrick was as touch-starved and lonely as he'd ever been, it meant something.

Shooting Edwin another smile, Patrick sipped at his drink and forced himself to savour it.

"She's older than I was when I came back from the Front," he pointed out. "And she's a good egg, really. I'm glad you'll get to know her. She's desperate to befriend Unity." Good luck to her. "I bought her a horse as wedding present but we had to s- rehome the poor thing." Another smile. It was like dancing after an extended hiatus. One more rotation of the record and he'd have his lines down pat. This wasn't unlike that fuzzy, strange period when he first returned home from the war, his head heavy and thoughts dark. Give him enough time, and he'll be the golden boy they all loved. He'd done it before; he could do it again.

Dusk fell swiftly. The lamplight made Edwin's reddish hair glow.

"How long do you think you'll stay? There's no need to rush," Patrick added clumsily. "It'll be like old times. Summer in September. What do you say?"

Edwin had quite enough of Patrick’s old brand of hedonism. The old Patrick anyway. Merriment suited this version of his cousin like lipstick on a corpse. Just watching him slough through one drink was bad enough—Old Patrick seemed to enjoy cocktails mainly for the excuse to spend time with company. And this was what? Bourbon straight from the bottle?

He shook his head. The glass stayed in Edwin’s hand, because to put it down now might send the wrong message. Your whiskey tastes like water and your soda like nothing. “I’ll stay—I said I would, didn’t I? For however long it takes.”

God, it had been a miserable evening at the club. Patrick swaying on his feet by the end of it. He’d been wearing the grin of a man who’d lost everything but had to still keep the show going. Had he asked or had Edwin offered? Either way, the deal had been struck. Well, that wasn’t fair. It had been a familial lending hand. Nothing that Patrick wouldn’t have done if their places were switched.

Unity would kill him if she knew. He’d promised her it would only be for a month, two at most. She would have looked at this withering version of Patrick and only turned her face away.

The rush of emotion was frightening - and confusing. Guilt, shame, anger - all competed for attention as he forced his glass to his mouth. It trembled against his bottom lip; the bourbon, like ash on his tongue.

The last time he'd seen Edwin had been in London. The lawyers' office, the club, a boozy dinner. Patrick still couldn't remember half the bosh he'd spouted as the waiters turned on the whiskey tap. He must have been in shock. The mere memory made Patrick's ears ring as they had when the news had been broken to him, delivered in Smythe's supercilious tone. That was unkind. Smythe was a good man; he'd sent his son to Eton just this past term. But even good old Smythe could not protect Patrick from the surge of white-hot humiliation: that Montmere was little more than a shell.

That same humiliation made Patrick drain his drink. Steeling himself, he stared at his glass for a protracted moment before meeting Edwin's gaze.

"Hello," Patrick manged. His voice sounded very far away. He thought he might cry.

Cocktails. Right. Yes. He could do that.

"A whiskey soda?" As he had all his life, Patrick dredged up a smile of his own and joined Edwin at the sideboard. He put down his empty glass and raised a decanter. "It's not a patch on the club, I'm afraid, but it'll do. I believe we're having pheasant for supper."

A good combination, that was what he meant to say. His thoughts unspooled from him, bouncing over the carpet, eluding his fingers. Patrick concentrated on mixing Edwin a drink, which he handed to him like an automaton.

Smile, old boy. Smile.

Patrick looked old. The last few years had aged him faster than the war. Edwin tried not to stare too watchfully over the rim of the glass, but he forced down another sip just to disguise the urge to gawk. Patrick had come home from the trenches quieter, certainly, but not like this.

“Hildy’s, er, doing well?”

It had been a whirlwind of introductions the previous night and she had been enough to make Unity nearly balk. She was a flurry of touching and gushing, and thank god his mother had gone in their place to the wedding because there would have been no convincing Unity to come here if she’d known in advance.

Date: September, 1926 @imposterkings

There was a time, not so long ago, when Patrick would come down to dinner and be greeted by a dozen people. A dozen that he knew only fleeting facts about. There, a Turkish aristocrat; here, a sporting champion. And they were all so splendid in their finery, for Montmere was a place to enjoy French champagne and to dance and hunt until one grew fat and content on pleasure. It was the estate jotted down on dance cards and sworn to in letters.

I'll meet you. I'll meet you at Montmere.

Rain misted across the grounds. Patrick stood at the window, a cut crystal glass in one hand. Since May, the estate had grown shabby, almost wild. Poor Clive did his very best, but there weren't enough hours in the day to collect bulbs and trim the grass. They'd taken to permitting Rob Roy, Duchess, and the other horses to graze the lawn - something Patrick was nervous to do, for fear of colic.

As he watched, Whistlejacket cropped a patch of weeds, his golden coat a blur in the watercolour landscape.

In five months he would turn twenty-nine. The same age as Fa when Bobo was born. It had taken him a few months to grow used to the sensation of a ring on his left hand. Even now, Patrick toyed with it in his trouser pocket. There was no use flagellating himself. He'd married; children were next.

Provided they could afford them.

Patrick lifted the glass to his mouth, paused, then sipped. The bourbon - a gift from Lola in Boston - was syrupy, and he mulled it over in his mouth before swallowing.

Hildy would be coming down soon; she rarely took long to dress. When they'd first married, she'd laughed at his insistence that they do things 'properly'. But Giles, she'd complained, teasing, it's 1926! If you want a cocktail, you can have one in my presence. But he needed this. That was what she didn't understand. He needed these few moments alone - a drink, maybe two - to compose himself before dinner. Fa had done it, as had his father before him. It was tradition. It was what was done at houses like Montmere.

The drawing room door creaked behind him. He stiffened.

He hadn't talked to Edwin since their arrival late last night. What was there to say? They'd have plenty of time to be reacquainted over supper.

Except, of course, for the cocktail hour beforehand.

Patrick turned around.

(Unity must loathe him for it. Unity, he told himself, could put up with it for a few months more.)

The only one in the drawing room when Edwin entered was Patrick. He was the picture of a young Uncle Marchy, save of course the signet ring. Maybe it was why Patrick kept that hand out of sight the way an amputee might. Edwin forcibly dragged his gaze away to the sideboard, examining the decanters instead.

A smaller collection than what it used to be. He hoped it had not been boosted with Lola’s offerings—some had made its way to London and his mother as the bounties of goodwill. Edwin had written back with thanks, stopping short of saying You mistake me for being in need of generosity. He wondered what the American slop might taste of. He wondered if everything to Patrick now tasted bitter.