the poor relation

Goodness, SARAH ST. JOHN has arrived in London. SHE is 24, of the EFFINGHAM ST. JOHNS. Though they are NEW to the Season, we can only describe them as EARNEST and CURIOUS, dear reader. Accompanied by HER COUSINS, the LORD & LADY EFFINGHAM, they have settled in and are accepting social calls. But be warned: they are known for their TENDENCY TO BOIL PEOPLE AND RELATIONSHIPS DOWN TO MONETARY WORTH.

⸻ 2022.07.24: Character retired and back to Effingham (you, know, in Surrey?). Thanks all for a great Season!

Nothing she was saying made sense to him, he knew many families did not like to have two daughters out at once, lest the younger daughter outshone the elder, but Sarah had described this sister as younger.  

His head shook in denial, not liking to hear her speak this way, as if her sister had all the good qualities, when surely she must understand that she was just as enticing, if not more so, than any younger sister could be. She was pretty, and clever, and practical, and determined. What piano skill could hold a candle to all that.

“Surely your sister will need a guide, a friend through her first season in London. Why should you not both be out together? Why should you not hope for yourself.”

Still the reality was setting in, that he may go off to Scotland and her to Surrey and they would never see each other again.

He felt that usual restlessness, the one that made his hands twitch and his leg bounce, overcome with the sensation that he should be doing something. Finally, he released her hands reaching up and releasing his cravat pin, not caring if his careful waterfall knot would fall out of place. The pin was a beautiful one, a pure silver unicorn with small pearls set in its eyes. It slid easily into the lapels of her spencer, and he felt quite a thrill at seeing his national symbol upon her.

“I must warn you, Miss St. John - I may be easy going, and resilient and often quite preposterous – but I can also be extremely single minded when I want to be. I do not give up on the things I want, I certainly do not give up on the people I care about.”

He caught her gloved hand once more, holding it up to his lips for a determined kiss, one that lingered a moment longer than he knew was proper.

“And you, Miss St. John, I care about very much.”

-

He wasn’t listening!

Or maybe he was listening, but it was as if she were speaking some other language altogether; her mere half-a-year’s foray into the foreign world of the London Ton insufficient to the task of communication. Why should you not both be out together, he said, carelessly, as if, as if simply wishing would make the funds available. 

And to think, only a moment before, she had thought saying goodbye would be the hardest part, oh!

But no, she thought, hands spasming when he extricated his own, she would have to lay it even more bare than she had; he would not afford her even the veneer of being circumspect on her family’s much diminished circumstances. 

Silver pinned to her blue spencer, neither of which belonged anywhere in Effingham or on the farm.

Against her better judgment she watched as he pressed his lips to her hand, heart thumping from equal measure of dread and... terrible, awful, traitorous hope. 

“There is no money, Sir -- Sir Fraser,” she cried out, immediately turning a different type of crimson from mortification, “Pray forgive me for speaking so plainly, but you must understand: there is no dowry, no new dresses, nothing to spare for another trip out to London for at least until the harvest is all in and sold again, let alone to, to anywhere else, oh!”

Never was the gap between them so evident as now, for despite him being a gentleman, and her a gentleman’s daughter, she must explain the economies necessary in her life that he had likely never had to consider before. 

“And it is all lovely and wonderful to hear of and read about, oh, the love matches, but it is another matter entirely if, if such a match would in effect be one between unequals, and unfair to us both if you thought, if you thought my situation far better than it is, or...”

Or to assume whatever it was between them amounted to love, an affection strong enough to overcome such things when the number of times they had spoken could be counted upon the fingers of one hand.

The correct thing to do here would be to refuse, to cut off any and all hope; however wealthy he might be, there was no denying that on any front, she would be a terrible prospect for him. 

All of the hope he had built up, acquired so recently and suddenly after months of hopelessness, was being smashed, each statement only crushing it more. Her polite decline, so reasonable and understandable, but no less devastating for it.

Of course, her family could not do with out her, this practical little creature with her cremes and her reasonableness. A woman who would board a barge, and immediately sniff out the absence of lunch. How could any family spare her for the length of time that would be necessary to make a trip to the highlands worth it?

Nor could he make the journey back down. Not with so long away, there was only him to see to business, to ensure tenets had the supplies and protection needed to survive a inhospitable country. There were repairs to be made and disputes to be settled (and Campbells always eager to extend their lands to be contended with.)

He had responsibilities he needed to start facing.

It was so easy to imagine a world where they did not both have responsibilities, or a world where Surrey and Scotland were not so far from each other, could be traversed in a matter of hours, and not a matter of days.

But of course, he had to fall for a woman who lived across the country. What was the point of these seasons, introducing you to people you could not have?

“Aye, of course, six months would be far longer than I would be willing to spare you if you were…” He cut himself off, suddenly flushing at the words he had been about to say. My wife. If you were my wife.

He felt he was scrambling now, trying to find something hopeful out of this mess. “What of next season? Will ye… will ye be back?”

Stop it, he wanted to tell her, stop talking to me as if this is goodbye. I will not allow it, cannot stand it. His free hand came up now, tentative, cupping her cheek to turn her face towards him, allowing himself to drink her in, commit each part of her face to his memory.

“I will write to ye this time, properly, I will tell ye of Loch Ness and the moors. I will send you thistle and tell ye the stories of how that little weed defended Scotland from the Viking invaders.” He was rambling, he knew it, but he could not bring himself to stop. “I will not be persuaded this time, even if they go missing , or are late, or bore ye half to death, I will write this time as I should have before!”

-

This was it, she thought, miserable, this was the end of it all, and oh! At the very least there was an end to it, rather than him simply disappearing on her into the mists of unknown; or worse, showing up again and pretending they had never met, leaving her to wonder whether it was only a part of her or all of her that had offended. 

Foolish, foolish girl! For thinking even a bit that she was just like the other ladies at these glittering events, or that she had had a single hope for any such attention. 

“There is no next Season for me,” she forced herself to say, knots in her hands mirroring the knots in her throat, choking up on words, “In fact, there should have been no, no this Season, were it not for, for ...oh, what a muddle I have made!” 

She would not see him again, this Scottish gentleman with the twinkling eyes and warm hands and irritatingly teasing manner; what had she to lose? What did she owe him, if not a clean breast of it all?

Her chin went up, even as her eyes still avoided his, her nerves jangling and delicate as they were. “We don’t have much, you see, though the house and the farm are both entailed and shall stay with the family, or so I am told. I own the whys and wherefores are beyond me entirely, though I do understand the ledgers, and oh! some days I wish I did not, to see how close everything is to, to...”

A fine trembling had taken over her; she was fully dressed, from bonnet to gloves to the tips of her boots, yet she had never felt more vulnerable or exposed. 

“Anne, my younger sister, is the hope of the family fortunes; she is known to be the beauty of the family, if not all of Effingham, and can paint and sing and play the pianoforte just as well as any of the fine ladies out here in London --”

Why oh why was she rambling in praise of Anne in front of this man? She blushed and looked down. “I, I only wished to see for myself what the Season would be like, and what it would entail, and oh! How dear everything is! How many changes of outfits for just one day!”

A list of the items sold at shocking mark-ups was on the tip of her tongue; she made the mistake of looking at him, and her breath caught, before she soldiered on. 

“I came for Anne, with absolutely not hope of anything for myself, you see.” 

Her hands were still on his. 

“If, if I could... if things had been different, if...”

She would fly over to this Scotland in a heartbeat, oh! 

“I thank you for your kindness to me, and shall treasure any letter I receive; you can count on that, sir.”

༻✦༺༻✧༺༻✦༺

“Forgive me, Miss. St. John, I was unaware of how…serious your familial standings were.” Margaret murmured, trying not to sound overly pitiful for the woman. It irked at a voice in the back of her mind though, and Margaret wondered – distant cousin or not; why Lord Effingham shouldn’t sponsor Sarah again. More seriously, why he and Victoria shouldn’t help Miss. St. John and her direct family out of uncomfortable finacial situations.

Perhaps Margaret really didn’t understand the relationship between close and distant relatives. What they owed one another. She surely had a poor example with her own family, small as it was. “It is entirely possible they might surprise you with a reprieve next summer.” She mused, trying to stay upbeat, if not able to be authentically empathetic. If the Effingham’s lost interest in their less fortunate cousin, then perhaps she or Richard could persuade them to change their mind?

“It was quite exciting, wasn’t it?” Margaret agreed jovially, before catching a glimpse of Sarah’s twitching hands around her reticule. A nervous, uncertain behavior Margaret recognized within herself. She was unsurprised then at Sarah’s next cautious inquiry. “You flatter me, Miss. St. John. But whether I should stand to be a paragon or not, I would be happy to continue to assist you.”’

Was she spreading herself too thin? Margaret couldn’t be certain but at least helping Miss. St. John actually felt like a step towards something obtainable, instead of charities that never seemed to solve anything. “I expect to be busy with correspondence no matter what I do.” She smiled, dropping a hand down to pet Barnaby as he came padding back over. “I would hope to see your name once or twice on a letter before next season.”

-

Relief, sweet relief! She brightened at the answer, feeling as if a load had been lifted; one thing ticked off her list, one worry for the future perhaps postponed, oh!

“Oh, thank you, thank you ever so much! For between yourself and Miss Thorne, oh! surely there shall be eyes upon you both, with your successful match, and the Queen having invited Miss Thorne to join the royal entourage.”

Delight had her clapping her hands; she caught herself and tucked both behind her, chastened but still glowing with success. 

“And I assure you I shall write; I may not be the most witty of correspondents, nor will what I have to say be of much interest, but I can say I shall be consistent. Oh!” 

She beamed at the lady, at the beagle, at the pair of footmen going past with another trunk -- which reminded her: 

“But I have taken too much of your time entirely; I shall leave you to oversee the last of your packing, and closing of your quarters. I wish you both the best, and all the happiness possible, and cannot think of two people who deserve each other more, oh!”

She had been about to dash off, buoyant with her news, but stopped; for perhaps the last time in London, she turned and curtsied, properly this time. 

“Bon voyage, Lady Harcourt.” 

༻✦༺༻✧༺༻✦༺

“You do raise a fair point.” Margaret agreed, “When customers are all over England and further, it can be hard to tend to those most interested. Word of mouth may prove most effective, and what’s more important - you should have made a lasting impression this Season.” After a short pause, Margaret clarified, reaching out just slightly, “You - Wyatt’s and your products, I mean.”

She nodded towards Sarah then, “Which would mean, those desirable ladies and clientele are bound to remember it. Besides, not only do you have my endorsement Miss. St. John, but the endorsement of the Season’s Diamond.” Margaret chuckled, “That has to count for something.”

Margaret watched Sarah with an interested intensity, realizing she could never truly sympathize with her, but feeling a tenderness nonetheless. A hope that whatever she was truly after, Sarah was able to achieve it. “Surely your family will appreciate what you have accomplished?” Margaret wondered aloud, “You are only one person, one woman after all.”

Her lips quirked in deeper contemplation, “You will return for another Season won’t you Miss St John? It will be advantageous to business, naturally. But I hope…well if you did not have some leisure or romance this Season I do hope you could find it the next.”

-

“Oh! It is not their appreciation or love that I lack, not in the slightest! Only that numbers and account-books and the solicitors that come with them, why, they care far less for appreciation, or love, or anything that cannot be put into a tally.”

Sarah had never traveled beyond Surrey before this year, let alone abroad, but she was now quite certain of what it might feel like, to be bedazzled and bewildered at the foreignness of it all. This lady’s town residence might be an anthill of last-minute packing, but was still grander and finer than anything Sarah could have ever imagined before this Season; and to think, this was likely only one of many residences, oh!

Lady Harcourt probably thought nothing of it, thought it entirely commonplace to simply send for a carriage to go between them whenever she liked, or that it was a given that one would have as many Seasons in London as necessary.

“I, I’m afraid there will be no next Season for me, my lady,” she said, looking down. “My cousins have been more than generous to, to give me this one, and my family has spared me for long enough as it is, oh!”

Her thoughts leapt immediately to amusement sparkling in blue eyes, curly hair as unruly as its owner’s temperament; she stamped on that part and added with stout good cheer, “But what a lovely time it was! The balls, the dresses, and all the fine and interesting people I have met! I should never have thought I would be at a ladies’ game night with a princess, or see the Queen be so displeased with a group of nuns, oh! No one at home shall believe the half of it.”

Her fingers had knotted up the cord again without her knowing; she picked at it, steeling herself for one last impertinence.

“Might I, might I still send you samples then? And if you have any additional ideas or requests, if you would share them, oh! That would be most helpful. For surely you are one of the ladies everyone else will be looking to, you see, for, for...” Her brow wrinkled, trying to recall the term Lady Mu- Harcourt had used, “...lasting impressions?”

Then, hastily, “But oh, I do not mean to, to impose; I understand completely if, if you do not wish a further correspondence, or if I have presumed too much.”

༻✦༺༻✧༺༻✦༺

Sarah’s sudden blush had not gone unnoticed by Margaret, but she could not begin to wonder what had caused the embarrassment in the first place. As far as she gathered from this, and previous interactions with the woman, Miss St. John was simply easy to fluster. How she managed to survive the Season was anyone’s guess, but Margaret was very glad she did.

“It is working very well.” She enthused honestly, subconsciously, running one hand over the other, “It is a favorite scent of mine, I am flattered you were open to the suggestion. My husband even –“ Margaret paused for a moment in contemplation, “Lord Harcourt, well I do not know if he has a fondness for the scent like me, but he has certainly noticed it thanks to the crème and got me perfume as well…”

She trailed off watching Sarah begin to dig through her reticule. “Has it become that popular?” Margaret asked, both pleased and amused by the possibility. She chuckled over the exasperation of violets. “Quite an idea. One should like to think they work much better in confectionery. But Miss. St. John perhaps I should be congratulating you? You may have an upper hand on the market with an extended offering of honeysuckle toiletries.”

Carefully taking the offered package, Margaret nodded, “Of course. I would be pleased to do so. With offered samples, I imagine, hope your business with Wyatt’s is…improved?”

-

“Oh!” she said, pleased and surprised at it, for she had had every expectation of the new Countess turning up her nose at it, or wishing nothing further to do with her or her (well, Wyatt’s) products, given the Lady Whistledown’s unexpected foray into product review, “Oh! I am so happy you are pleased with it; it means ever so much to me, you see.”

A pause, then, hurriedly, “Me and Wyatt’s Apothecary, that is. Oh! It is, it is going... well? Only it is the end of the Season, and what with everyone leaving for the four corners of the world, why, I am at a loss as to how to keep interest. One could always put advertisements in, but I have found that ladies are more likely to see what other ladies are using rather than believe everything they read, especially when every other flyer up claims their product is the best in the world, oh! For that cannot possibly be true, to have more than one be best, and even I can reason that out.”

Advertisements also required additional costs, which she did not have to spare, and a gentleman to put them in, which she was not. 

But then again, the Sarah of just a half-year past would not have thought herself fit company to converse so easily with a countess, and the daughter of duke no less, either. She was suddenly struck with the desire to linger, to soak up as much of it as she could, before she must quit this particular world altogether. 

“Thank you,” she said, quietly, “I know it must seem such a little thing, but to have someone who is so much admired, so much seen and followed in Society, to use something of mine, oh! It is more than I could expect; it will already be more than I can hope to bring back to my family.”

That pouch of earnings from the Odious Man’s own hands, tucked securely in her trunk, would cover the roof, possibly a quarter of the orchard, even, if they were clever about stretching it. 

“I am ever so grateful to my cousins, of course, but they are... they are distant cousins, and even if they were more generous, I would not ask it of them; we are no penniless relations living off of scraps of their charity. Only I wish...”

She bit her lip, staring out at the beagle bounding about the garden, summer sunlight washing over it all in bright hues lined with gold. 

“I wish I could do more.”

A second hand moved to rest above his own and Tony became certain that he had never been so aware of this right hand. It was as if his arm had been blunged between hot and cold water, every nerve completely aware of the places that her hands touched his.

There was nothing he would not trade in order to gain even a moment longer, in this garden, completely undisturbed by the eyes and ears of the Ton, with both of Sarah’s hands upon his own.

Perhaps the Queen would allow him to dig up this section of her gardens and have it transport to his grounds in Inverness?

She said that she wished they had more time, and he could only grunt in agreement, a strange, strangled sound, as if having to admit something he did not even wish to admit to himself. They would be gone so soon. Would she even be returning next season? Would one or both of them suddenly find themselves tied to another?

“It is… far I mean.” His free had moved up to run through his already mussed hair. No doubt his man servant would admonish him once he returned for destroying all the man’s hard work. “And Inverness is further still… Close to nothing, my father used to say, although I believe he always enjoyed that about it. I will need to commission a boat to return. The roads are too inconsistent, too dangerous, to risk the journey, especially with Miss McLaren relying on me for her passage home.”

He had fallen into discussion of logistics, rather than face the truth that was staring at both of them. They would be so far apart, not only for this summer, but for a long time to come. They may both stop in London for a few months at a time, but his heart was firmly in Scotland, and hers it seemed was forever in Surrey.

Still, his stupid heart could not help hoping.

“Perhaps…” His words came out choked, unsure, a feeling he was not used to. “Perhaps you could come visit? Scotland is much cooler in the summer – a grand way to escape the heat down South… ye could bring your cousins? Or ye sisters? It would be nice to have an excuse to open up the guest wings of the house once more…”

-

Up until this past year, she had measured her life in steps: how many steps to church while wrangling her siblings; how many to the shops in the village; how many to the Crofts’ or the Dagnys’, or even the Templetons’ (but only if pressed); how many to the Effingham seat (twice a year, to receive the Dowager Countess’s displeasure). Anything that required horses was considered a great journey, let alone a full carriage, oh!

How strange, to know that she would be returning to such a routine in a matter of days; even stranger to feel as if all this past Season would become little more than a dream.

A dream in which earnest blue eyes and a rumbling burr of an accented voice would feature. There was a curl of dark hair that kept falling over his brow; she did so wish to brush it away, glad that her hands holding his kept her from acting upon it. 

“Visit... you in Scotland?” 

The Dowager Countess made the trip every summer of course, but summers in Scotland were very much the thing for People of Quality, or those with means, titles, or both. She entertained the thought for the briefest of moments before her practical nature reasserted itself: why, the trip alone would require so many changes of horses, and that was assuming her family could spare her, let alone the expense, oh!

“Oh,” she said presently, “That is ever so kind of you to offer, and indeed I wish nothing more than to, to go, oh! I myself have never been further north than Derbyshire, and from what I hear, Scotland sounds like a lovely place, lake monsters and locked nests and all.”

The unspoken but hung in the air; it was unfair, unjust, and she suddenly hated herself for having done this silly Season at all, if only to realise how much she could want, yet could not have. 

“Only... only my family has done without me for the past half-year and more, since January, you see. Mama has never been as good with figures as I am, and Papa is, well, Papa, and must focus on the farm; Anne does her best, but Anne, Anne is meant for better things, and oh, I am sure that by now Jack and the goat have utterly destroyed the kitchen garden and wreaked havoc everywhere else.”

Her eyes prickled, like when she was handling onions; her chest felt tight, heart pattering away like it would burst from the effort of restraint. 

“But I shall, I shall think of you, fondly and often.”

It was all a dream, and she did not want to wake up, but wake she must. 

༻✦༺༻✧༺༻✦༺

“Better now than when we are gone, I imagine.” Margaret commented, quickly shaking her head remembering how nervous the other woman could be. “It is no trouble. A welcome distraction, actually.”

She nodded slowly as Sarah described the state of her own household attempting to pack for departing London. Barring Victoria from anything made sense, she was surprised the same was extended to Miss. St John. “Traveling is just a lot of waiting when one looks at it directly.”

Margaret smiled, about to thank Sarah for her congratulations when the topic of the Sisters made her hesitate. It had all been rather scandalous, and somewhat humiliating, considering Margaret had assisted them in making their duplicitous reticules. She could only take comfort in knowing she was not the lone lady fooled.

“It will no doubt have the luncheon go down in infamy.” She murmured, tilting her head towards Sarah before continuing, “I sympathize for the sisters whose intentions are true – and it does not seem like many were as devout as they led on.” It left a slightly bitter taste in Margaret’s mouth, not because she felt any betrayal for the church, but because she had fell for the entire ruse.

She cleared her throat, “Perhaps it is best to leave such thoughts of marital duties to those in the holiest union. Come, Miss St. John, surely you did not come all this way to speak of nuns?”

-

Whatever Sarah might have wished to say was quickly snuffed out by the Lady Margaret’s reaction; there was a moment when she suddenly doubted her plan again, for if this was how the lady felt about women trying to find ways to earn a bit more for their families, why, it did not bode well for her. 

The additional rebuke stung her into looking up, face suddenly hot. 

“Oh! I did not, I did not...” She trailed off then, swallowing and latching onto the offer to change the topic. “I only wished to see how you were liking the hand-creme we spoke about, you recall, from earlier this Season? What a wonderful idea to do a honeysuckle scent! No other place in London has it, at least that I have seen, although there was a place on Piccadilly that was trying to do a violets one for the longest time. Can you imagine? Violets!” 

Her gaze caught on the staff busily dashing about, feeling guilty about having abandoned the packing efforts back at her cousins’, even though she had not been allowed to participate. 

She rallied, pasting a bright smile back on her face. “In fact, we,” a barely perceptible pause, “Wyatt’s and I, that is, expanded that into a full set of scented toiletries, for there is nothing worse than when your hand-creme smells of one thing, and then your balm another, and still another for your face-creme, oh! And I, that is, we, we were wondering if you wouldn’t mind also trying them out as well.”

Sarah had been attempting to rummage in her reticule as she spoke, finally emerging with a paper-wrapped package, in which were three brown glass bottles.

“It would be extremely helpful, you see, to have one of the leaders of London fashion be seen using them, and a newly wed Countess as well.”

If her hand trembled a bit as she stepped forward to hold the package out, she hoped it would be overlooked. 

Harcourt Residence, Mayfair

Late Morning, September 1st  1800

for @sarah-st-john​

She had already overseen the closing up of the apartments in Kensington, so seeing the sheets shook out and draped over furniture that would be abandoned for the following months was nothing new. Margaret left most common areas up to the discretion of the attending servants, who no doubt knew the dwelling better than herself, but she combed over the bedroom several times until she was sure there wasn’t so much as a ribbon left behind.

As she came down the stairs with a small box of leftover trinkets, she watched the maid and valet practical zigzag back and forth as they continued to dust and lock things away. Most demanding of her attention though was Barnaby perched at the window by the front door, snout pushing the light curtains aside and ears at attention.

“Did they bring the horses around pup?” Margaret murmured, crouching to scratch the favorite spot between the beagle’s ears when she caught sight of something…well, someone quite different.

The dog jumped against the window whimpering excitedly before leaping down to Margaret’s side and waiting patiently for the front door to be opened.

It wasn’t exactly proper, but Margaret had seemed to catch the other woman just as she was approaching. “Miss St. John.” She smiled, stepping out front and listening for the carriage that would inevitably be brought around. Barnaby took the chance to bound forward into the courtyard as well.

“I don’t suppose you were coming to see us?” She joked. “You will be returning to the countryside with Lady Effingham, yes? Is the preparation not tumultuous for you?”

-

She almost walked away three times, her nerves threatening to get the best of her, sounding rather like Cousin Archie: the Season was over; it was rude to still call on someone, especially a newly wedded, titled someone; ruder still to impose into someone else’s packing.

When the lady of the house herself stepped forward (rather than the butler, or the footman, or even a maid, oh!), Sarah knew she had interrupted indeed.

“Oh!” she said, dismayed at her mis-step, then, “Oh! Yes, I was hoping to catch you before you left, but it appears I have come at a ...bad time?” 

For one did not need to look too hard to see the to-ing and fro-ing happening within; the bustle of packing and preparations that she herself had quitted not moments before. 

“Tumultuous? Oh no, not at all. We have been strictly warned to not cause any tumult, or upset, you see, not with Cousin the Countess being as she is. I think the most unsettling part of it has been how little I am allowed to help; nothing makes you feel more like a sloth than when everyone else about you is dashing about, doing things, and you are simply sitting there taking tea, oh!”

She dithered again, looking down to where she was twisting the cord of her reticule. 

“I only wished to, to congratulate you, in person, now that you are wed? There were ever so many others at the Luncheon that I could hardly presume; and then of course, with how, how it ended! Oh!” 

Hesitated again before continuing: “Although I do feel some sympathy for the Sisters; being a bride of Christ is all well and good, but if they were all forced to such measures, why, surely one must wonder whether Christ was properly fulfilling His duties as the husband?”

It was a strange thing, to watch Sarah cycle through everything he had said, watching her piece it all together. His suggestion that she though herself to refined for him. His questions about her doctor (and should her confusion give him hope that he was not indeed her doctor but perhaps just a doctor for whom she had no particular affection?). His admission about his uncle, the fact that no doctor was actually going to be able to help his uncle.

All of these things that, had one ridiculous letter been delivered, she would already know, would have known as they happened. Perhaps she would have written to him about this doctor, told him who he was to her. He would have written back about how his uncle was faring, described to her their final moments together and the way he had mourned at the shore of Loch Ness, not just for his uncle but for all the family he had lost.

She might have called him grande pomme de terre, and it would have made his heart squeeze, just as it did now. He would have called her mo leannan or mon amour and promised to bring her Scottish flowers and herbs when he returned to London.

His heart ached for those thoughts of what could have been.

Instead, he sat here, on a bench in the middle of the Queen’s Garden holding her hand, squeezing it in a way he hoped told her he was sorry, and he missed her, and he appreciated her giving him this moment of silence together, of comfort even when he worried he did not deserve it.

After a moment he spoke again, keeping her hand locked with his. “I made a right mess of this didn’t I?”

-

Sarah did not do well with silences in general, no matter the situation; she could not help but associate them with criticism, or disfavour, or any number of unhappy things. Had it been any other situation, why, she would have already rambled off on any number of topics: the weather, the number of couples, and how magnificent these roses, and what did the St. James’ Park gardeners use, did you think?

But grief, grief was like church, something solemn and hushed; the taboo on breaking such a silence enough to overcome even her own discomfort. 

She squeezed back, trying not to read too deeply into the fact that his hand was in hers (hers!), or the fact that this was the one time she had gloves on, and rued it; or that Susan the substitute maid had all but fled the scene long since, and -- 

“Oh! Oh no, you mustn’t, you mustn’t blame yourself at all,” she cried out, half in relief that the silence was broken, and half in genuine concern. “Of course your family comes first, as it should, always, oh! I cannot blame you for the failure of the post, nor your priorities, especially now that the misunderstanding has been laid plain.”

Her second hand joined her first, sandwiching his far larger one between them quite without consulting her.

“Only,” she started, then hesitated. 

All things seemed to conspire against her throughout this Season, as if London itself was rejecting her, from the various gentlemen coming and going, to that mean-spirited Lady Whistledown, to ...now.

His head was slightly bowed, the shadows making his cheeks look hollower than in her memory, his eyes darker than she recalled, opaque when before they had always been lit from within from some bright emotion or another. 

“Only I wish we had more time.” 

The words slipped from her, more plaintive than she’d intended; but oh! She hadn’t intended to say that out loud at all. 

“That is to say, this is the last such event; my cousins have all but packed up the townhouse, and we are to decamp for Surrey posthaste. Not that I would expect your situation to be any different, or for you to, to call on me, only...”

It was hot, the air heavy about them, hanging like scented drapery and trapping them in its folds. 

“I looked it up, you see. Or rather, I asked someone to show me on a map, and oh! Surrey is... is quite far from Scotland.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” was what she had meant to say, if she didn’t already have a bag of the cutest pastries in her mouth, two hands full of trays of various sugary and potentially caffeinated drinks, and several tote bags on each arm. 

One threatened to slide off; if it was the photography equipment, the department was going to blacklist her for eternity, oh! 

The paper tray she plunked down, managing to rescue the tote bag just in time to lower it the rest of the way, then held the bag of pastries out in both hands, as if in a peace offering. 

“I’m so, so, so sorry,” she wailed, “The shoot went long because the lighting was terrible, and I didn’t remember what the Photography Phil said about how to fix it because it involved something about the f-stop, and all I remembered was the dirty joke someone else made about that, and, and...”

The longer this stretched on the more he realised just how mistaken he had been. She really hadn’t received it. He had been writing to his uncle for years whilst overseas, entire transcripts had made is safely, if not quickly, across the world. But his letter to Sarah had not made it mere streets.

Tony was beginning to wonder if he was cursed. Perhaps the English had been right all along. Had he angered God with his rebellion against the crown, and was now being eternally punished?

Nay, he could not believe that. Not after what had been done to his home.

Still, he had certainly experienced unbelievably bad luck.

Sarah had found herself a seat, and he was bloody envious of her for it. He was beginning to feel light headed, as if all the blood had rushed from his body. “How could you have written to me?” He asked, shaking his head at his own stupidity. “Ye would not have had my address.” He supposed his staff might have been able to redirect his mail to Scotland, but he had instructed them only to do that if it was the utmost urgency. He had no wish for his staff to be paying out of pocket simply to deliver mail that contained little more than dinner invitations he could not fulfill.

Tony hesitated for a moment, not wanting to close the distance between them, not without her permission. Eventually, however, the great exhaustion that had settled over him won out. He collapsed into the chair next to her, head buried in his hands.

“I am sorry – I should have written again, when I realised a reply was not coming.” He had thought about it, but his ego had not been able to handle the thought of writing to her again if she truly was rejecting him, “I was too proud, to afraid of being ignored by ye twice.” Hi voice had become husky; broken by his reluctance to admit he was wrong.

“Would you believe me if I said I had thought the same? That I had been entertainment for you? Or perhaps that you had thought me a mistake, too unrefined for you, not treating you the right way.”

It seemed the floodgates had opened now, he could not stop, all of the things he had not been able to talk about with anyone else slowly seeping out of him. “And then I wondered, perhaps the distance had been to much for you, that me departing for Scotland so suddenly made ye realise just how far it was from your home. That ye could not see yourself ever being able to live there, and thought silence would be easier that telling me that, while my uncle was dying.”

Something about what she had said came back to him, a phrase he categorically rejected, even now could not bare to hear uttered from her lips. “Of course ye deserve better, mo luaidh. Did you not tell me that yourself once? Ye deserve someone you can trust, someone good to you, someone who cherishes you!”

And once again his voice broke, struggling to ask the question that was burning in his mind. “Does… does your doctor treat you that way?”

-

This was such a shocking turn of events that it near overset her; Sarah leapt to her feet in protest, bottles clinking merrily. 

“Oh!” she said, feeling wretched, “Oh, how could you even think such a thing? I, thinking you unrefined! Oh! When you are the one with the titles and estates and all sorts of travels, and I the one at home with a goat at the table!”

There it was again, the mo-something-something she had come to associate with him; she began to hope that perhaps all was not entirely lost, that somewhere in the morass, Sir Potato was still there. 

Her free hand fluttered, hovered, unsure whether or not to approach, only to be arrested by his question. 

“Doctor?” she questioned, perplexed, “Oh! I am not so high and mighty to have a personal doctor; we do not have one even in Effingham, and must needs send for one from London, otherwise making do with the local... oh!”

While my uncle was dying, he had said; she flushed with shame then, for having missed all that in the midst of his other words. 

“Is it for your uncle? Oh! I am sure Dr. Collins would be more than happy to help; he was kind enough to check on a friend who was hurt at the last event on the spot.” 

She had tugged her reticule open to check her own resources as she spoke, suddenly happy she had thought to be well-prepared this time. 

“Is he here, in London? Your uncle, that is, for treatment? Oh, whyever are you here then, you, you grande pomme de terre, if your uncle is... if your uncle ...is...”

Dying. 

Was dying. 

She plonked herself down again, ashen. 

“Oh,” she said, quiet this time. 

For a moment she simply sat by him, trembling with words she knew were expected and feelings she knew no longer fit in the light of what he had disclosed. Blue skies shimmered bright above, filtering down in the warm riot of colours of the gardens below, all of which appeared dull to her eyes now. 

He had just lost family; now was not the time or place to ask... to ask of herself. 

Tentatively, she reached out for his hand. 

Slowly it was beginning to dawn on Tony that something was amiss here. That feeling in his gut, the one he had gotten so used to ignoring, that warned that perhaps he was wrong, terribly wrong, was beginning to swirl. It made him feel as if the floor had dropped out from underneath him. Where he had felt so strong in his conviction before

For even when he was hurt, even when he had no idea what she was on about, he could not bare to see Sarah upset, to see her angry. All he wished to do was to cross the ever expanding distance between them so that he may hold her, feel her safe in his arms, and promise her he would find the bastard who had upset her, fix whatever was making her sad.

Except of course, this time the bastard was him. Mighty inconvenient.

So instead he sunk into a familiar defence, perhaps the oldest defence in existence – Denial.

“How can you say this?” Once more his hands were scrubbing over his face, weeks of torment beginning to show. The grief, the loneliness, the realisation that he truly had no one left, no one to turn to. Frances had been dealing with her own family affair, one that had a much happier ending. Lucy was married to a man he could not stand, no matter how much he tried to pretend it was not so. And Sarah… well, he had begun to fear he had never had Sarah to begin with.

“I wrote to you!” There was conviction now, for he knew that to be true, he had written to her before he had done anything else. The letter barely had to travel to reach her, should have been there that very afternoon. “I wrote everything to you.” He remembered that too, every word that had spilled out of him, as if his hand and that page had a mind of their own, speaking before he could think, sometimes speaking in ways he knew he shouldn’t.

“I told you of my uncle – of his deterioration. Of my fear and my feelings. I asked you to write to me, Nay, I begged it of you. I bared myself to you and I received nothing…” His voice held no anger now, instead it was insecurity shining through, the insecurity he had felt for the past month, and the insecurity he felt now that perhaps – in his own ridiculous way – he had messed this all up.

He had never been good at holding back, at concealing the emotions that overcame him. When he wished to flirt, he flirted, when he was frustrated, he rebelled, and when he grieved… well, perhaps then he did everything in his power to sabotage himself.

“I wrote to you ma maîtresse cruelle. You were the only one I wrote to.”

-

It was, she thought, muzzy with the heat and each successive protest, exactly like a scene from the novels, something from a bit before the Happily Ever Afters. Except the novels all made it sound wonderful and romantic when the gentleman claimed he had done something just for you, or only to you, when in reality, it was all very confusing and overwhelming and ...oh! So this was why the heroines all fainted at this juncture; maybe they simply wished for additional time to untangle all the feelings and words.

But Sarah was a stout sort, not prone to such things, and self-aware enough to know that her acting ability would not be up for feigning such a performance. 

She spotted a decorative plinth of some sort, half-hidden in the roses, and sat instead. 

There had been a letter. 

There had been a letter with, as he said, everything. 

(She puzzled a moment over his claim to have bared himself; blushed, and hastily refocused on her irritation and confusion.) 

She should say something. 

“That is hardly fair,” she said presently, heart still thump-thumping madly, loudly enough that she was certain he could hear it, “To hold me responsible for a letter I never received, and to call me cruel, oh!”

Cruel! Her! When she had been the one left waiting, hopeful glance each morning when Mr. Butler arrived with the silver salver of mail and invitations, or sitting perched just so on the edge of the settee next to Cousin the Countess in the pale blue receiving room, resisting the urge to crane her neck as if she could predict who would come calling next. 

“And I could hardly write to you on my own; not when the post has gone awry before, and where that Lady Whistledown has taken my cousin and myself to task already for having, having inappropriately corresponded with others, oh!”

There was a hole in her reticule; there was an empty pit of disappointment that she covered up, but still occasionally poked at, much like one would pick at a still-healing wound, as if to remind oneself it was still there. 

“What was I to have done, but assume you had lost interest, or no longer wished an acquaintance? You would not be the first, you see; there were other gentlemen before you who offered to keep me company at dances, but now I see I was simply an object of entertainment or pity, and I should expect nothing more.”

Looked up, her emotions in a knot squeezed around her, stifling; keeping her from asking what she wanted to ask. 

To be completely honest, Peter knew next to nothing of this Sidney Wyatt, but the calculated reaction from Sarah lead him to believe the gentleman had quite a reputation. Peter smiled, “Certainly not. He is of no concern to me.” He lied, sincerely hoping his friend was not being tricked or taken advantage of. A fighter, he did not consider himself, but he would be for Miss St. John.

“Pray, do not trouble yourself. You are not responsible for anyone’s safety but your own. Please do not hold yourself accountable for the follies of others.” Peter hoped his pleas did not sound like reprimands, but it was true - she worried about others too much. Not only of their safety, but their happiness. The noise from her reticule hardly gave him any peace of mind. Sarah was certainly a wonderful girl, but the allusions she made often worried Peter. He hadn’t known anyone to be as concerned about their business in this way, “If it becomes too heavy, just say the word.”

Peter’s eyebrows rose. “When did this occur? How long before you noticed?“ He didn’t quite know why he was so appalled by the fact. The selfish side of him wondered if he needed to keep his own notes under lock and key. Not that he had anything incriminating. Just his letters from Enel and his mama. “Would you like help finding them?” Peter asked. “I know the season is almost up, but I’m sure we could manage something if we worked together.”

-

He was so concerned, so earnest in his sudden questioning that she felt a momentary pang of guilt; who was she to interrupt his enjoyment of this, the last event of the Season, with her mundane worries?

“Oh, I should not have said anything, I did not mean to worry you, or to ask for any assistance. Only that I am conscious of what a picture I must paint, lugging around what I have left with me at all times, and wished to explain.”

The reticule and its contents clinked much less when hugged in her arms; she did, however, attract the attention of another well-heeled couple passing them in the opposite direction on the path, the lady’s eyebrows raising before whispering a giggled comment to her escort. 

Sarah coloured again; turned back to her own companion. 

“As for finding the missing notebooks, oh! I do not know if that is possible anymore; I own I did not notice until we were packing up the townhouse to return to Effingham, you know, in Surrey? And there was ever so much upheaval with the luggage, and then my lady’s maid, Hetty, left, and...”

Hetty. Hetty would have known where her notebooks were, would have been able to get at them.

“Oh!”

She stopped in the middle of the path. 

“Do you, do you think my maid...? But oh! That doesn’t make the least bit of sense, when she could have taken it at any time.”

Suspicion was soon overtaken by a wash of guilt. She looked down again, contrite. “No, surely it was simply... I cannot imagine my scribblings being of worth to anyone; I can hardly get a word in edgewise with my own cousin, you see, and I don’t think anyone else would be much interested to hear, to hear my private thoughts.”

Another couple came up from behind, the gentleman murmuring something before the lady exclaimed, elaborately flowered bonnet quivering, “Yes, that is what the footman said, they are seating for the Luncheon now...”

Her attention turned to follow the pair, who were walking as fast as they could without making it obvious they were rushing, then back up (and up, and oh, how tall he was!). “Oh! We should follow, should we not? It would be awful indeed to arrive so early, and still be seated late, and delay things, oh!”

There were many emotions he had felt around Miss St. John before, nervousness, amusement, confidence, embarrassment, some combination of all of them swirling through him all at once. Never before, however, had he felt so confused. What on earth was she on about? Fiancé? Whistledown? Miss MacDonald? It was as if he were listening on a conversation that had nothing to do with him. 

“I can honestly say, Miss St. John, I have no idea what you are talking of.” He had begun rubbing the skin between his eyes, a habit he had not revived in years, yet could not seem to stop since he had left London.

“Of course I have been seeking a fiancé. Is that not the whole point of the season? To find a partner? You seem to have been rather successful in that regard yourself. So many enamoured gentlemen that you cannot even keep up correspondence with them all!” He was being cruel, he knew that, one other man, a man who obviously meant much more to her than he ever had was hardly scandalous, or even worth noting, but he was too hurt to care. 

“As for this Miss MacDonald you speak of, I have known plenty of MacDonald’s in my life – you have managed to select perhaps the most common Scottish name - but I have no idea who you are referring to.”

Now she was talking of engagements, of a wedding, and he was truly at a loss for words. All he could do was stare at her, mouth agape, as he tried to make sense of what she was saying. Perhaps worst of all was that one word - we - when should we be wishing you joy. Were they a we already then - a pairing so inevitable they spoke as one. 

In the short time they had known each other he had never known Sarah to be cruel. Far from it, she seemed to have no ability to deliberately hurt others.

So why now did she seem to be going out of her way to hurt him? Seeming to boast how quickly she had torn away all of his hopes of what could be possible between them. How she had done so at a time when he had needed her most, if not as… well whatever she had been to him, at least as a friend.

Could she do all that whilst appearing too innocent and unaware? Was she truly that good an actress?

Tony let out a bitter laugh. “If this is some ploy to absolve your own guilt, then I regret to inform you that it will be unsuccessful. How you think I could have found time to find a fiancé, with everything that has happened this past month I do not know. My affections are not so fickle, even if they have been misplaced. I can only apologies that you appear to have thought my feelings so shallow.”

He had thought he was done, had turned on his heel to walk away from her before he created a scene at the Queen’s luncheon, but something compelled him to turn back towards her, his voice shaking as he spoke again – “Did you think that because I am not as well educated as your Doctor I could not be hurt? That you could throw me aside without even the slightest explanation? You may not have owed me much, Miss St. John, but I feel I deserved more than that.”

-

She was doing the Right Thing, she told herself, forcing herself to stay put rather than duck out as she was tempted to, the Christian Thing, even, to wish him and his Miss Face-Who-Launched-A-Thousand-Searches McLaren well. 

That resolve faltered as he spoke; crumbled entirely to dust as he spoke of guilt and fickleness and then, and then...

“How dare you!” she cried out, unable to hold it back any further, “To say such things, and to me, knowing what you know of me! If there had been any correspondence received, do you not think I would have responded, I, who returned a stranger’s mail to his solicitor? Oh! To think I held such hope, that perhaps here was a gentleman, who though incomprehensible at times, had always appeared to have a good heart!”

Her sudden outburst had startled a flock of songbirds from their sanctuary in the nearby rose bush; they scattered upwards, sending stray petals floating languidly in the air, pink darkened to angry red in the dappled shade. 

“And then for him to disappear without a word, without a single direction given as to his whereabouts, and for weeks in silence; oh, how great an offence have I dealt you, that I have not gone combing all of London and England besides for you!”

Her face was as pale as her grip must now be, shaking from the utter injustice of it all, from every little snipe and cut that this Season had dealt her, from her cousins’ patronising charity to Lady Formerly-Fitzroy’s cruel caprice to, to... oh! She had no words for whatever this was.

But the storm had passed; she attempted to recover, breathing hard and shaking from the force of it. 

“You did not even say good-bye,” she said presently, voice still wobbly. “But go on then; do as all the fine gentlemen of London have done, and turn and walk away.” 

She would not cry. She would not, oh!