Chapter Text
Endlessly the train rolls forward, the metallic clatter of tracks moving ceaselessly underneath the carriage, cleaving a way through the green landscape as it moves further into the countryside.
The compartment is quiet, thankfully no one in here but him. Faded fabric covering each seat, tired with use and worn thin in patches. Simon’s gaze fixes on the frayed threads of the carpet, unseeing as he jolts backwards and forwards, the patina of the lighter held fast in his fist occasionally catching the late light of the afternoon. Every once in a while he flicks it open, sparks the flint so a flame warms the calloused pad of his knuckle.
Simon isn’t really here. His mind still wanders the churned fields of Flanders, air heavy with the scent of death and decay, cloying mud knee deep and as treacherous as the bullets soaring across the top. His men lost to the turgid ground in no mans land, craters so big corpses float upon them like lily pads across a pond in the summer time, blood blooming over the surface of stagnant rain water.
In a perverse way he misses it, his reality for what feels like a lifetime, years of waiting for the order to march to certain death and facing it stiff backed every time. The camaraderie, that suffocating need for closeness with other humans in the wild upheaval of warfare. A tangible sense of belonging, before the conflict ended and they all were expected to get on with their lives as if nothing had happened. Like gore didn’t coat the seams of his gaiters, as if foul ruin wasn’t now laced under his eyelids each time he closes them to sleep.
In reality he supposes it’s not the trenches he pines for, but his friends. A family born from a determination to stay alive, one Simon felt a sense of belonging in that was as foreign as the soil beneath his boots. He didn’t leave the soft comforts of home for Europe like the others did, just a grim terrace in Manchester’s industrial district and a family torn apart by his monster of a father. Simon would rather have faced the enemy ten times over, then remain in that shell of a place much longer. Far from the cradle of his life, it felt like a burden. A thing to be escaped from and never glanced back at.
Still, John came through as he endlessly did on the front. Found the lads work, including Simon. He’s always been good at that, has connections in high places built from years of service before any of them joined up. John always managed to find them tinned fruit at Christmas time, fresh socks when the ones they were wearing became welded yarn to skin from the damp. Tinned stew heated on a gas burner while they each sat shoulder to shoulder, a small slice of heaven in the midst of purest hell. He couldn’t shield them from the suicidal orders from above though, or the fear that beat like a drum in their ears on a particularly risky mission into hostile territory.
The best of the best, Taskforce 141. All three of them had tea and medals after the war, but no homes for their service or gainful employment. Abandoned by the country they sacrificed it all for, relegated to a chapter in the history books, the brave Tommys that staked it out for four years in the greatest conflict. It makes Simon sick, the whole lot of it. Cheering and ribbons, pats on the back, the thank yous for your service. They have no idea what he’s seen, who he’s lost in the process.
The train rumbles on. A fresh start John said. Simon holds the reference written for him in the breast pocket of his smartest suit, the words on the page looked odd, praise for him to deliver to his new employer. Simon isn’t used to such things, tales of exceptional gallantry in the field, mentions in dispatches. More for something to do than because he wants one, he places a cigarette on his thin lips. The lighter in his palm flares, the air filled with greyish plumes of smoke. Simon’s head nods back into the headrest, the smell of nicotine exhaled from the fabric in a puff of dust.
His collar feels too tight, his tie knotted close against his neck. One large finger runs underneath the starched surface, loosening the constricting pressure. He can’t wait to be out in the open country, where unbuttoned shirts and good impressions don’t matter. Only himself and the grouse to contend with, foxes the one enemy to be shot at and thankfully they can’t return fire. Simon can wear open collars without fanfare while he’s stalking the land, he has the freedom to keep entirely to himself along with a small cottage of his own to boot.
He’s thankful for John’s support. This isn’t Simon’s first position as gamekeeper, but he hasn’t worked the fields since before the war and possibly is grossly under qualified for an estate of the size he’s heading to. It’s more than he could have hoped for, a role with lodgings where he gets endless peace and quiet. He craves it, a simple life away from the thrum of crowds or expectations of others. Freedom in the main, he just needs to keep his politest manner on for today, then get his head down into bringing the game up to scratch.
It’s not lost on him, the privilege he’ll be living on the outskirts of. Money he’s never seen before and grandeur Simon will never understand. The country outside is already changing, evolving into wild hills scattered with gorse, while the birds fight the slipstream of the steam engine. He’s heading further south now, closer to the coastline. It’s freeing in a way, to know he’ll be able to sleep in a bed to call his own tonight, after years spent catching rest wherever he can land it. If it wasn’t for John he’d probably be in a doorway somewhere, or still serving. Neither of those options seem particularly appealing when compared with a space of his choosing.
Simon pats the letter in his jacket again, reassuring himself it’s still there. Another toke spent on the cigarette before it’s put out under his boot. His big hands fold into his lap while the vibrations of the rails lull him into a doze. Maybe he’ll find a dog or two to help him keep the estate secured. Happily his mind leaves the torment of trench warfare for a while, imagining a jaunty spaniel at his side, bronze coloured and keen to explore.
•──⋅☾ ☽⋅──•
“For goodness sake stop feeding him. He’s had quite enough.”
You eye your mother, sat carefully on the low settee in the drawing room. She always looks so elegant, hair neatly coiled up with the latest fashion in mind. Her ankles are crossed lightly while she reads her ladies journal, the delicate saucer of tea on a side table sending a fine vapour cascading onto the polished mahogany wood.
The dog at your feet paws you, requesting the second piece of scone clutched tightly in your hand. He belongs to your father, a fat yellow Labrador named Apollo, with wide molten black eyes that water with anxiety over the food held hostage from him. Surreptitiously you snaffle him the remaining crumbs of sponge, tickling under his chin while he drools. A secret, yours and his.
“Don’t slouch. Honestly, why we spent money on finishing school for you to sit like a washerwoman I will never know.”
A roll of your orbs is barely suppressed, irritating as it is having her needle you, a falling out would be most uncomfortable. She would sulk for the rest of the day, dinner would be depressing and your father would only chew your ear off about it. Instead you busy yourself with smoothing the fabric of your dress, checking for flecks of saliva from Apollo the dog and removing any excess crumbs. Your own tea is abandoned half drunk somewhere nearby, cold with milk curdling within the amber fluid.
Dully, you get up to stretch your legs. The routine of your home life is slowly eating away at you, the energy expended on pointless tasks is tedious in the extreme. How many times can you stroll through the library, or paint the landscape around the manor without yawning at the predictability of it all. Each day you rise and complete a carousel of the same things. Dress for dinner smartly and take coffee with your mother in the parlour before lying awake in your bed for hours.
Longingly you consider sneaking back upstairs to finish the romance novel hidden beneath the loose floorboard near the wardrobe. A friend lent it to you on her last visit and steamy as it is, you don’t imagine your mother would be thrilled to catch it in your hands. It’s like poetry though, rugged lovers and ladies from far distant worlds who come together in a time of need, fusing their bodies with such tenderness it makes your heart pound hard in your throat.
How you long for change. Anything other than learning boring etiquette, feeding into the idea that women are only fit for marriage and childbirth. You had hoped the war might change things, volunteering at the local hospital gave you purpose. Seeing veterans clawing their way to recovery opened your eyes to a greater sense of self. They had changed their fates, taken the hand dealt to them and reshaped it into a future worth existing for. Why should you not have that very same power?
“The Baron will be visiting us in a few short weeks. Why don’t you go and practice your piano ready to entertain him?” The voice of your mother rings loudly through your thoughts. “Or brush up on your languages. I imagine his English is good, however it won’t hurt to impress him.”
Silently you pull a face at the window. Another one of your mother’s attempts to set you up with a wealthy husband. It’s no secret the estate needs money desperately, your sister married well enough to an American businessman, but the loss of your brother during the Somme left your father heirless. Keen to avoid selling the estate after his death, the patriarch of your family wants nothing more than your life and livelihood to be bartered away for security.
What a small price to pay. An unhappy marriage in return for land and title. In fairness, you don’t know that the Baron will be awful. However your mother’s other matches have proved boorish in the extreme. Your dear brother would be rolling in his grave at the thought, wherever he now rests. You always got on best with him, a trail of memories left hanging in his wake, vacated by the departure of his spirit from earth. You’d sobbed every tear you had to cry when that telegram was delivered and your mother still wears black everyday.
You asked the gardener to plant poppies for him under your window, hoping in some sentimental way you’d stay connected to him. It was futile though, you’re alone with the weight of expectation crushingly heavy to bear.
The estate looks cold. Dank, wet lawns sweeping up to the window while each late bloomed flower withers. A sad time of year, the last adieu of summer as the larks fly overhead, searching for seeds or worms to feast on in the damp soil. The sash panes of the glass are letting in a draft, but reluctant to leave the sanctuary of distraction you remain shivering there still.
A figure is making it’s way up the long, gravelled driveway, too far away to make out currently, but adding interest to the landscape all the same. You watch it draw closer still, trudging forwards with broad shoulders set firmly. It’s a man by all accounts, tall and wide, clad in a dark brown suit and heavy boots. A plain looking bag swings in his hand, the material tough and dour just like his countenance.
As he reaches the house, he slows to a stop, gaze cataloguing each crumbling facet as if he’s looking for a threat. The low peak of a cap perched on his head makes it impossible to truly acknowledge his features, but for a moment you feel his eyes on your window. You stare back, unsure if he can see you or just an opaque reflection. Without any reaction, he continues his grim march until he moves out of sight entirely, leaving you curiously peering at the place he’s vanished from.
“Are we to have a visitor today?”
Your mother snorts softly.
“Hardly a visitor worth naming darling. The new gamekeeper has arrived I imagine. Let your father deal with it.”
A gamekeeper, that explains the thick haversack he was carrying. A bell rings somewhere upstairs, likely one of the maids letting your father know there’s a person to see him. Flagrant boredom gets the better of you, making an excuse up on the spot you leave your mother sniffing over the greyscale pages on her lap and depart to investigate.
Cautiously you pad into the hallway, skirting the large oak staircase so you remain hidden in the shadows. Peeking around a pillar, you watch the man now waiting to be called up to your fathers study. Heavy tracks of mud lie behind his steps, shoes that have obviously walked all the way from the tiny station in the village, through the sodden fields and up to the house without much care for cleanliness.
His features are scarred, skin pale and face guarded with a stern expression that makes you glad he can’t see your concealed position. A thin white line dissects his tight mouth, while several slashes mark his cheeks. The curve of his nose suggests a break or two in times gone by, offset by high cheekbones and thick blonde lashes. His gaze is impenetrable, eyes darker than charcoal and reserved with tension. He looks entirely mean, storm clouds fit to burst might as well be circling him in a halo of poorly concealed indifference to his surroundings.
The planes of his body are heavily set, someone used to hard physical labour and exercise. His arms strain at the coarse fabric of his jacket, material barely concealing lines of muscle and fat. One hand rests in a pocket, the other toying with something shiny. He’s nervous perhaps, definitely not used to his current location, or maybe your brain is just desperately craving stimulation and filling in the cracks around his mysterious arrival. It does soften him though, the repeating motions of his fingers, a habit built up via life’s pressures. Loosening the lid on a tightly sealed jar just a little, so you get insight into the emotions locked within.
A floorboard creaks loudly as you shift and the man looks up at once. Dark, rich eyes meet your own and you feel the embarrassment of it immediately stir. Stomach flipping and chest tightening, you cringe slightly.
“S’rude to stare.” His deep, rasping voice makes you jump. “…My lady.”
You can’t tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic with that additional statement tacked on to his words, the tone so dry it feels almost grating. No one has ever spoken to you so directly, clearly he isn’t concerned about being blunt.
Warily you observe him from a distance, but step out from your hiding spot. He is right, it is rude to peer at someone unashamedly and you’ve been caught in the act.
“I apologise.” Uncharacteristically shy suddenly, you struggle to meet that weighted, black gaze, toying with the details of your dress. “Mr…?”
“Riley. My lady.” He pauses, taking in your form, pupils narrowing slightly. Riley’s head tilts, his tongue running across the surface of his teeth briefly.
“Nice to meet you Mr Riley. Apologies again, I’ll leave you to your business with my father.”
“Ya father? Not the Mrs of the house then?” A blonde brow almost disappears under his cap, but you barely notice it, more flustered by his unabashed question than the idea he thinks your father has taken a young bride. A knot in your gut forms, some unfamiliar feeling that you’re missing an inflection in his words.
“Just a daughter, I’m afraid.” You reply softly.
He seems entirely disinterested in you and feeling thoroughly awkward, you make to sidle back into the drawing room, desperately trying not to trip over your own feet or the hem of your gown.
“Not married then yet?” With the same aura of deadpan calmness, his eyes are back on your face as you turn with a gentle movement of fabric at your calves. “S’pect tha’s on the cards tho innit… my lady.”
The statement is dripping with low sarcasm and you feel your stare widening at it. Internally you’re so shocked by his sheer nerve, that you’re sure your face must show it.
With a grinding of gears you rearrange your expression to one of pleasant cordiality. It’s actually painful, but you do so with the practice of someone used to barbs across a dinner party.
“I don’t imagine that’s any of your concern, Mr Riley.”
His lip quirks like something’s amused him. Things change subtly when that happens, long forgotten humour lightens all of his dour features.
“Quite right.” Mr Riley grunts in response, finally looking away from you and around the lofty entry hall. “You enjoy your tea yeah, hope the days exploits aren’t too tiresome.”
You gawp at him, utterly taken aback and lost for anything to reply with. He doesn’t say another word and silently your fury reaches new heights. It’s not lost on you that society expects someone of your age to at least be engaged, but to have a total stranger call that out so boldly is a new level of torment. The retort dies on your tongue though, an unwillingness to give him any acknowledgment overpowers it.
Shutting your mouth with a pop, you stalk back towards the drawing room, just as Mr Riley gets called upstairs by a footman.
“Why do you look so scandalised?” Your mother sighs, finally putting the journal down and allowing a maid to pour her a fresh cup of tea with the air of someone enduring a great trial. Evidently none of the new fashions were to her liking and she’s in a sour mood because of that.
“No reason.”
You keep your response careful, keen to avoid further questions. You’re so irked by him, that you barely find it within yourself to complain when your mother insists you remain with her for the rest of the afternoon.
Why should the bluntness of such a man disturb you.
After all, that’s all he is, a man. One evidently of poor disposition and without manners.