Chapter Text
“Hard times flowing
and my eyes couldn’t see stars shining,
my heart couldn’t feel
the beauty of the rising sun.
And I’m lost like a bottle
that floats in the sea for ever.
Will somebody pick up my hope?
Will somebody try?
Will I realize?”
Elisa, “Broken”
Simon
I look up and swallow, my fingers going automatically for my curls.
Pitch Manor.
The imposing building is the biggest fucking house I’ve ever seen. How do rich people even manage to keep track of how many rooms they have? What do they use them for? Gareth told me that it’s just Mr Grimm and his family living here; they have a few little ones, but I doubt they need all this space…
“This way, Mr Snow,” the butler says. He’s treating me like vermin, his lips curled downwards and his eyes glaring at my clothes. I’m wearing the best ones I’ve got and they still look like rags compared to his.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe I should leave.
But I need this job. The war is over and Ebb is gone (so many people have died…I’ve lost count). I don’t have a home, again, and I can’t work at the colliery anymore, because my leg is too bad and my lungs are broken.
So I follow the butler into the house, staring with my mouth wide open at the luxurious rooms and high ceilings. Just the chandelier is probably worth more than me.
We stop in front of a room with a thick door and the butler knocks.
“Come in,” says a deep voice from inside and I feel my hands shaking, so I clench my hat and start fiddling with it.
I try not to limp as I go in; I don’t want to give them the wrong impression that I can’t do this job.
The man sitting behind the desk looks terrifying; his hair is completely white, with a stark widow’s peak. He has high cheekbones and a cold expression on his face.
“Mr Snow, I believe,” he says in crisp posh tones. I don’t really like the way my name sounds in his mouth, but I nod anyway.
“I believe Lord Mage recommended you personally,” he says, but does not wait for an answer before continuing, “do you have a reference letter from him?”
“Yes, S-sir,” bloody stammer!
I fumble with my pocket and get the letter out, then hand it to him, when I hear the butler grumble behind me. He hurriedly comes to my side and offers a silver tray for my letter. I put it on, trying not to touch the bloody thing (I wouldn’t want to stain it with my hands) and then he hands it to his master.
Mr Grimm opens the envelope and reads through the letter quickly.
“You’ve worked at Watford Manor for five years before the war,” he reads, “what were you doing before that?”
“I was working at the colliery, Sir,” I say, trying to stay calm and avoid stuttering, “but I got injured in the war, a bullet in my leg and one through my chest, and the doctor said I have to be outside. I can’t be a collier no more.”
He nods and folds the letter back, then puts it on the tray and the butler hands it to me. Such a useless faff…
“Lord Mage was very complimentary and wrote that he wished he could have taken you back after the war. It’s a shame he was already employing someone else as a gamekeeper,” he says and his eyes meet mine. They’re brown, quite dark, they suddenly remind me of the mud in the trenches and I swallow loudly, looking away.
Don’t go there. Not now.
My fingers start shaking again, cold sweat making them slippery. I wish I could stick them in my pockets as I usually do, but I don’t want him to think that I’m rude. I hide my hands behind my back, letting each finger tap against my thumb, one at a time, on and on, until I’m calm enough to start breathing normally again. In and out. In and out.
“Well, you should start here at Pitch Manor on Monday morning at 7,” I let out a breath I didn’t even realise I was holding, “don’t be late or I will give the job to someone else.”
“I will be on time, Sir,” I say, “thank you.”
“My son Basilton will actually be the one managing the estate. My wife and I are moving to France at the end of the week.”
It makes no difference to me. I just hope he’s not a twat.
“Thank you, Sir.”
The butler escorts me out and then leaves me at the doorway with instructions for Monday morning.
I turn to leave and a little girl runs into me, making me trip and fall over into the gravel. I still manage to catch her just before she tumbles to the ground and she lands on my chest instead. I get up, wincing at the sudden pain in my left leg, then check if she’s fine.
“You all right, little one?” I ask and she stares back at me with big dark eyes. Her red dress is all dirty, covered in mud and with grass stains all over it. There are leaves and a small twig in her hair. She looks a mess, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright, like she was having the time of her life, tumbling around and playing.
“I’m not little,” she says, her tone superior and her nose up in the air.
I chuckle and kneel down to brush her knees gently; they’re all dusty, but there’s no blood on them.
“Here you go, duck, just a bit of dirt,” I tell her.
“Mordelia!” a tall and lanky young man runs towards us and as soon as he sees me, he shouts, “get your dirty hands off my little sister, you brute!”
“Oi, no need to shout! I was just trying to help her,” I reply angrily.
When he gets closer, I realise two things:
- That I’m probably in deep shit, because his posh and expensive clothes only mean one thing. He must be Mr Grimm’s son and my future employer.
- How incredibly good-looking he is. His dark hair is falling in soft waves around his beautiful face. He has delicate, almost pouty lips and his grey eyes remind me of winter storms, of the sky when the sea is choppy and the wind is so strong that it blows your bad thoughts away.
Fuck.
Baz
He’s just staring at me with his mouth wide open, still kneeling down in front of Mordelia. He probably thought she was one of the servants’ offspring, considering how dirty and wild she looks. Her dress is completely ruined; my step-mother will not be impressed.
I catch my breath and walk closer to them and that’s when I realise how absolutely breath-taking he is. Freckles and moles scattered on his golden skin, stunning blue eyes (I wonder how such a boring shade of blue can look so marvellous), bronze curls that bounce on his head as soon as he gets up.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I snap at him, “do you realise that you were touching Mordelia Grimm?”
“I-I…I am s-sorry,” he stutters sheepishly.
“I ran into him and made him trip,” Mordelia says, looking vaguely guilty.
“Oh…” I say, losing my eloquence. I look at him again and find my eyes roaming over his body, his sleeves rolled up at the elbows, showing strong freckled arms, his broad shoulders and impressive Adam’s apple.
“I’m Simon Snow,” he says, holding his hand out to me. And I’m paralysed, because no one has ever been this direct with me. His clothes suggest that he’s a servant, possibly one of the new ones (we’ve lost so many during the war), but I don’t remember him and I’m sure I would remember someone so stunning.
Mordelia looks at him, then at me and raises her eyebrow.
I grab his hand and shake it briefly and it’s so warm that I wish I could just grab more of him, run my hands over his skin, pull him closer.
“Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” I say in a voice that doesn’t even sound like mine.
When I let go, I look at my fingers and realise that there’s a bit of blood on them. I gasp and Mordelia starts fretting, grabbing my hand and looking pale and scared.
“Baz, what happened?” she asks, “how did you get cut? We must take you inside to Vera and call the doctor.”
“Oh, sorry, it’s me!” says Snow, tilting his arm and showing a cut just under his wrist, “I probably cut myself when I fell over.”
I exhale in relief and then stare at him as he raises his arm and licks away the blood, his pink tongue darting out and swiping across his skin indecently, his eyes still locked with mine. I swallow loudly, unable to avert my gaze.
Simon
He’s looking at me funny. And he freaked out about a little droplet of blood (his sister was panicking); how posh are they? Did he not fight in the war? He looks about the same age as me.
“I’m going to be the new gamekeeper,” I tell him, because no one is saying anything and the silence is making me uncomfortable.
His eyes open wide and he continues staring at me, until we hear a female voice calling from the distance. We turn and two young ladies appear, walking towards us.
“Miss Mordelia, look at your dress!” says one of the girls; she’s wearing glasses and her skin is the colour of caramel. Her clothes don’t look particularly expensive, but she’s still neat and clean. She looks furious, “you haven’t finished your Greek lesson, we need to go back and complete it, before you have your lunch.”
“But Miss Penny, Greek is boooring,” the little girl complains, rolling her eyes.
“I can’t really blame you, Mordelia,” says the other lady. She looks like a creature from a fairy tale, her long blonde hair like silk and her soft brown eyes land on Sir Basilton and don’t seem to want to move. Her hand goes for his arm and he flinches (seriously, what’s wrong with him?) and then moves away. She looks upset, but she hides it quickly.
“Lady Wellbelove, I think it is time for you to go home,” he says without even looking at her, his eyes still locked with mine, “I believe your carriage is awaiting.”
“Will you accompany me, then?” she asks, sounding hopeful and he looks annoyed, but agrees.
“Snow,” he says to me, his voice deep and his tone superior, and I nod.
Baz
I can’t stand her.
I can’t stand her coquettish mannerism, her constant efforts to touch me, her smiles and flirtatious comments. I know I’m supposed to court her (that’s what Father expects), but I just can’t wait for my parents to move to France to find an excuse to break things off.
I just want to be on my own. It’s bad enough that Mordelia is staying until the beginning of autumn (four more months, God help me) and Miss Penelope with her, because she still needs her lessons.
I just want some peace and quiet.
I will never have the life that I want, but at least I could be on my own and suffer in peace.
Now that I found out that I have the most handsome gamekeeper, I can just stare at him and masturbate whilst thinking of his breath-taking eyes and glorious arms.
I wonder what it feels like to kiss someone like him (or just to kiss someone).
I guess I will never find out.
Simon
Shep’s letter arrives on Saturday, but I only get it on Monday morning, as I’m leaving the inn where I was staying.
He’s back in Omaha and has found a job, but he still hasn’t managed to find his mother. It’s incredible how many people you lose because of a bloody war, both the ones who die and those who end up somewhere else. I will reply when I settle down in my new home; he will be happy to find out that I got Gareth’s old job. I think Gareth would be happy too.
I pack my bag and leave, walking my way to Pitch Manor. It’s early, but the late spring sun is already up. My bag’s light over my shoulder, I don’t have much, just a few clothes and a handful of pictures. I don’t have any of Ebb, nor my parents or my friends.
I carry the rest of my baggage in my broken heart.
Baz
I’m having breakfast, when the butler comes in to bring a letter from my aunt.
“Is the new gamekeeper arriving this morning?” I ask before he leaves, feigning a lack of interest in the man who I haven’t stopped thinking about for the past few days.
“Yes, he should be here by seven,” Nigel replies, “I am going to instruct him on his job and get him settled in the cottage, sir Basilton.”
“I will do it,” I say, surprising even myself with my unusual decision. Nigel stares at me and doesn’t seem to know what to reply.
“Very well, Sir Basilton,” he says after a minute. He probably thinks I’m crazy, but I’m not missing out on an opportunity to talk to Snow.
He’s been on my mind since the day I first met him. Stuck there, driving me insane with the memory of his curls, his blue eyes and his terrible manners. I bet he smells amazing, like a real man (and not fake, like stupid cologne or flowery perfumes, like all the people surrounding me).
It’s a lovely sunny day and I put a velvet jacket on, over my shirt. It’s a light periwinkle blue, and I chose it because it reminded me of his eyes. When I get out, he’s already there, waiting with a small bag over his shoulder.
He seems surprised to see me, looks around to check if anyone else is coming to greet him, then his back stiffens and his hand scratches the back of his neck as I walk to him.
“Morning, Sir,” he says, his eyes avoiding mine for a minute and then finally meeting my gaze, as if they gave up.
“Good morning, Snow,” I answer, “is that all you’ve got?”
His mouth curls down and his furrowed brows make me realise too late that I’ve probably offended him.
“I don’t own much, Sir Basilton,” he shrugs, “I never have.”
I’m left speechless by his candid confession and I wish I could take my comment back, because it has already soured this bright Monday morning, but then his expression changes and he smiles at me and my heart seems to melt. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than his smiling face.
“All I need is this broken body of mine and this stubborn head,” he says knocking it with his knuckles.
“Why broken?” I ask, without thinking, as I gesture to follow me to the woods. He walks a few feet away from me and looks around, his fingers brushing against the thick bark of an oak, then running through the tall grass, protecting his eyes from the sunlight that filters through the leaves above.
“I got wounded in the war,” he finally answers.
I don’t normally talk to servants, but I want to ask him a million questions, find out what his story is, what brought him to me, and how I get to keep him. He’s a man of few words, but I want to pry them all out of him.
“Where did you fight?” I ask, slowing down my pace, trying to get this conversation to last for as long as I can.
“France first, then they moved us to Belgium.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t seem bothered by my questions. His face is serene as we walk down the path, checking his surroundings.
“Where did you get injured?”
“Passchendaele,” he answers and his voice drops when he says that name, his mouth tight.
I’ve heard about it, read that name in the papers. Of course, for me that’s all the war was, words on paper. A few photos. People leaving and not coming back or returning and not being the same. My aunt Fiona lost her fiancé. Rhys got a bullet through his spine and is now crippled, forced to use a chair.
“Our old gamekeeper died in the war,” I say, “I think it was over there.”
He’s walking slightly ahead of me and he suddenly stops, then stares at me with those bottomless blue eyes. His eyebrows quiver, furrow and then a shadow seems to slide across his face.
“He did,” he simply says and then starts walking again.
We reach the small dark stone cottage and I realise it’s in a terrible state. I thought Father had ordered to get it fixed before the new gamekeeper’s arrival.
He looks around and finally his smile returns, as he puts the bag down in front of the door and walks around the small building.
“I’m quite sure my father asked for it to be fixed before your arrival,” I call out when he disappears behind the corner, “I will find out what happened and make sure you get some help.”
“No need to,” he says, “I can get it sorted.”
He gestures at the front door and asks, “may I?”
I find the keys in my pocket and hand them to him, making sure that our fingers touch, craving to feel the heat of his skin against mine again. His fingertips are rough and I wonder what it would feel like to have them making their way down my body, marking me, making me his.
I shudder, slapping myself mentally, because what the hell am I thinking about? Fantasising about my gamekeeper. How desperate am I?
I follow him inside and the small cottage is dark. It’s just one big room, with a fireplace, a bed and a table. There’s a small chest of drawers in the corner and some pots and pans hanging from the wall. It’s so bare that I feel mortified at the thought of him living here, but he turns and smiles at me.
“It’s lovely,” he says and I grimace, because this is the furthest away from ‘lovely’ I have ever experienced in my life.
“I will ask Vera to bring you some food and fresh linen. Let her know if you need anything else,” I say, turning to go, but then I remember something, “do you want the dog?”
“Dog?” he asks, tilting his head, looking hopeful.
“Our old gamekeeper had a dog. It’s a Springer Spaniel,” I explain, “it lost its marbles when Gareth went to war, but then his old father came to replace him and the dog got attached to him. When he died last month, we didn’t know what to do with the animal anymore, it’s heartbroken.”
“Buckle…” Snow whispers and I stop and stare at him.
How on earth does he know the dog’s name?
“Wait, how do you know?” I ask, intrigued by the way his eyes leave mine and start wondering around the room, his fingers going for his curls again, while he bites on his bottom lip.
He shrugs.
Silence.
I suddenly lose my temper, because this man is bloody infuriating. Can he not answer a simple question? How difficult is it?
I straighten my back and ask him again; in the most authoritative tone I can muster.
“How do you know the dog’s name, Snow?” my tone is glacial.
He clenches his jaw and glares at me.
“I knew Gareth,” he replies and then his mouth seals shut.
Simon
I knew him
I fought with him.
I ate, and I sat, and I cried and I laughed with him. Day after day, night after endless night in the trenches. He told me about Pitch Manor, about his little house in the woods, his dog, about days in the sun and the birds singing in the trees.
Until the day the Germans started sending grenades and one caught him.
He died in my arms. I held him until the light went out of his green eyes. I held him for what felt like days, until his body was cold and stiff. I kept the rats away from him. I let the rain wash his face clean. Until Shep found me.
It’s always Shep finding me. Saving me.
“Oh, brother,” he whispered to me, “I’m so sorry.”
He gently took him, moved my frozen hands, took care of him. Of me.
“Do you want the dog or not?” Sir Basilton asks, pulling me out of my memories.
“Yes,” I answer.
I want Buckle. Gareth would have liked me to look after his dog and I’ve always wanted a pet.
I hate being alone.
Baz
He’s gone mute again and I don’t think I’ll get him to reveal anything else about himself.
I quickly explain what will be expected of him and he listens without looking me in the eyes.
“I will come back this afternoon to show you around,” I tell him, my hand on the door, “get settled and have some food. I will send Vera straight away.”
He nods and mutters a thank you.
Frankly, this man has no manners.
And yet…
Yet, all I want is to crack that hard shell that he’s built around himself, to find out what he’s hiding.
Simon
A loud bark and then a soft knock on the door make me jump.
I open the door and a tiny woman with silver hair is waiting with a basket in her hand, a gentle smile on her face.
“Mr Snow?” she asks, while the dog runs around excitedly and barks his greeting to me.
“Please, call me Simon,” I tell her, kneeling down and offering my hand to Buckle, who sniffs it and then proceeds to lick it and bury his face in my arms, making me laugh.
“If that’s not love at first sight,” says the lady, looking amused, “I’m Vera and this is Buckle.”
Vera gives me fresh linen that smells like lavender and is so soft that I can’t stop touching it (I’ve never owned anything so nice and I’m afraid of ruining it). She gives me bread, cheese, some jam and a bottle of wine.
“There’s a small plot of land behind the cottage, where I’ve been growing fruit and vegetables,” she says, “it’s yours. Please take anything you want.”
“Thank you,” I say, overwhelmed by her kindness.
“It used to be Gareth’s. I kept it for him, hoping he would come back, then it felt wrong to let it all go to rot,” she shakes her head, tears pooling in her eyes.
“He told me about you,” I confess and her eyes open wide.
“You knew him?” she asks and I nod.
“He always spoke very kindly of you. Said you were like a second mother to him.”
Vera’s hand grabs mine and she lets out a loud sob, covering her face with her wrinkled hand.
“Bless him,” she whispers, “and bless you, my boy.”
Baz
By the time I get back to the woods the sun has disappeared under a blanket of grey clouds and the cold wind makes me shiver in my light jacket.
Snow is working on the cottage, fixing the window and hammering on a piece of wood. He seems to be doing a good job and he’s unaware of my arrival, softly singing a song that I don’t know, slightly out of tune.
“Snow,” I call him and he turns and smiles a genuine smile at me.
His eyes shine and his pink lips reveal white teeth, a sprinkling of freckles on his nose. Three moles on his right cheek, two below his left ear, one over his left eye.
That’s when the realisation hits me.
I want to know what his skin and his lips feel like.
I realise with a shudder that I want him.
I want my gamekeeper.