Ah, the Regencyverse...
Jan. 13th, 2004 02:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
breakfastofchampionsHow I love to write about these characters.
Earnest is technically a minor character, but I have grown fond of him, which makes him a major player in my own sad little mind.
Cyril could smell blood in the air. The entire room stank of it, blood and sweat, both emanating from the still form in the bed. Slowly, Cyril walked towards the bed, imagining himself approaching a coffin. His lips were set in a frown. He had always hated funerals. He stopped a pace or so from the bed, looking down at his new houseguest.
Earnest St. Clair. He was the stepson of Cyril's youngest brother, Leigh. Cyril had seen the boy before, of course. Usually fleetingly, at those few family gatherings he bothered to attend. Then there had been that one uncomfortable occasion when Earnest had tried to seduce him. He remembered the petty meanness and the hunger he had seen in the boy's eyes that day. Ordinarily, Cyril was ready enough to be seduced, but there had been something distasteful, grasping, and manipulative about the way Earnest had attempted to seduce him. It had set Cyril's skin crawling. He had spoken to Earnest very shortly in return, a few words of firm reprimand, and that had been the only conversation they had ever had. Cyril had certainly never expected to have the boy stay with him, especially not for an indefinite amount of time, as was currently the case.
If Cyril had not been told who his guest was, he wouldn't have recognized him, despite their previous acquaintance. Earnest's face was more black and blue and purple and red than it was flesh-colored now, swollen and covered with welts and bruises. His nose had been broken-- the physicians had reset it, but it was still so dark in color as to be almost black. He also, Cyril knew, having listened to an extensive catalog of the boy's injuries, had broken ribs, two broken arms, a leg broken in more than one place, and hands that had been smashed to pieces, as he had surely put them up in front of his face to protect himself from the onslaught which had brought him here, to Cyril's guest room.
Cyril had, previously, disliked his brother Leigh. He would never, however, have thought the man capable of attempting to murder his own stepson-- with a fireplace poker, of all the crude weapons. It was an act beyond Cyril's comprehension. To know, further, that the sole reason for this attempted murder was that Leigh had discovered his son's sexual proclivities-- He could not help but take it personally. Leigh knew very well what sort of person his elder brother Cyril preferred in his bed. That he would take an iron poker to the child he had raised for the same offense . . . Cyril found himself wondering whether Leigh had thought of him while smashing his stepson to pieces.
It was a miracle the boy-- no, not a boy, truly, for the boys of the younger generation had somehow grown into men while Cyril was not looking-- had survived. Cyril wondered if it was to be a short-lived miracle. There was no way of telling what injuries were still slowly bleeding Earnest's life away inside him. He stood staring at Earnest in the quiet room, his nose full of the scent of Earnest's blood, and he could no longer feel that vaguely disgusted feeling this young man had once inspired in him. He felt only . . . what was it? Pity? Sympathy? A kind of compassion, surely. And with it, a dull ache of sorrow.
As Cyril watched, Earnest's eyelids slid open, although they could not open all the way, a narrow squint through two black eyes. Cyril remembered those eyes. They were grey in color, and when he had seen them last, they had been coldly covetous and oddly dead of feeling. Cyril would have expected to find them even deader now, but no. That dead flatness had somehow been broken by the poker, as surely as the young man's arms had been: cracked open, split wide. Cyril watched the eyes' expression carefully. At first he saw only hurt and confusion, then it seemed the young man managed to focus on Cyril standing above him. Cyril next saw a flash of fear, which quickly subsided into something else. The young man lay watching him, completely motionless save for his eyes, and Cyril wondered at what he saw. Was it truly recognition, as it seemed to be? And what emotion was it that followed hard upon the heels of the ostensible recognition? Did Earnest know who Cyril was? Did he know where he was? Cyril couldn't say for certain. The boy had been all but drugged out of his mind with laudanum. Even if he thought he recognized someone, it was quite possible that he was mistaken in his identification.
"It is good of you to take him."
Cyril turned with a start to find his brother Theodore standing in the doorway behind him. He flashed him a smile. "Is it? I'm beginning to think it might be kinder to let him die."
"Cyril," said Theodore sternly, his tone alone indicating that he thought this was a ridiculous statement on Cyril's part, with no need for him to speak another word on the matter.
"I'll be surprised if he lives. I doubt he'll ever return to any semblance of his former self. Is it kindness to keep him like this? I wonder sometimes, at the cruelty of mercy."
Theodore shook his head. For Teddy, the right path had always been an easy matter. He looked at every situation in the simplest possible way. Here, he saw someone who was hurt, and the hurt, he knew, must be tended to until they were well again. That was the end of it, where Teddy was concerned. Cyril had never been able to see the allure of such easy answers, but he bowed his head in acquiescence. He could not turn Earnest out while the young man yet lived, however barely. Even if the rest of Earnest's family had been willing-- entirely too willing, in Cyril's opinion-- to toss him in the street and let him bleed to death, Cyril did not have recourse to that easy answer either. "Yes, you're right, of course."
"I would have taken him myself," said Teddy, "but we're too crowded as it is. You can spare the room."
"Yes, I have the room," Cyril agreed, turning back towards Earnest with a faint, barely perceptible sigh. The window beside Earnest's bed had been opened to let in the fresh air, although Cyril doubted the air of London had any great curative properties.
"I am perfectly willing to pay for whatever medical treatment is needed," Teddy offered.
Cyril waved a hand, as if the offer were a gnat to be brushed aside. "Nonsense. I'll take care of him. You have a multitude of charges to concern yourself with as it is. I, on the other hand, have none."
"It is good of you," said Teddy again.
"Yes, good of me." Earnest, Cyril saw, was still watching him.
Teddy followed Cyril's gaze. "Ah, he's opened his eyes. That's a welcome sign. He hasn't done that before."
"Hasn't he?"
"Not that I've seen."
"He keeps looking right at me," Cyril said thoughtfully. "He won't look away."
"He knows you."
"Does he?" Cyril remained unconvinced, folding his arms over his chest. "Perhaps he's mistaken me for someone else."
Teddy shrugged. He had never been one to surmise. If he did not know a thing, he would wait until the thing made itself known. In this too, Cyril was unlike his brother. "I should be getting home now," said Teddy slowly. "Unless there is anything else you need of me?"
"Oh no. We'll be fine, Earnest and I."
"I knew, Cyril," Teddy said slowly, "that if I asked this of you, you would do it. You were the only one." There was a quiet pride in his voice.
"Of course," Cyril replied quickly. "What else could I do?" He felt embarrassment, an emotion he was unaccustomed to, and it made his voice sharp. For Teddy to paint him as a great philanthropist, a generous man, would be mistaken. He was nothing of the kind. He was simply a man who had had no choice in the matter.
"Yes, of course," Teddy said calmly, taking no offense at Cyril's tone.
When Teddy had gone, only Cyril and Earnest remained. Clearly, it was a struggle for Earnest to keep his eyes open, as they were covered with a bright film of tears and constantly fluttering open and closed, yet Earnest kept his eyes open. He kept them fixed upon Cyril.
"I might as well tell you, you'll be staying here," Cyril said at last, the first words he'd spoken to Earnest since Teddy and the doctors had brought him in. He did not know whether Earnest understood him or not, whether the young man's mind had managed to withstand his stepfather's attack, but he spoke all the same. "I will be looking after you from now on. Or at least until you are well enough to look after yourself." If such a day ever comes.
When Earnest continued to watch him, Cyril suddenly felt sure that he was trying to communicate something. What, Cyril didn't know. The young man made no attempt to speak, only looked. Mute yet intent. Cyril did not know what made him decide that Earnest was attempting to tell him something rather than merely staring blindly out of a laudanum-induced stupor. Perhaps it was foolishness. Perhaps it was hope. Regardless, he wanted to try something. His own gaze locked meaningfully with Earnest's own. "You're welcome," he said.
At once, and with obvious relief, Earnest closed his eyes.
Earnest is technically a minor character, but I have grown fond of him, which makes him a major player in my own sad little mind.
Cyril could smell blood in the air. The entire room stank of it, blood and sweat, both emanating from the still form in the bed. Slowly, Cyril walked towards the bed, imagining himself approaching a coffin. His lips were set in a frown. He had always hated funerals. He stopped a pace or so from the bed, looking down at his new houseguest.
Earnest St. Clair. He was the stepson of Cyril's youngest brother, Leigh. Cyril had seen the boy before, of course. Usually fleetingly, at those few family gatherings he bothered to attend. Then there had been that one uncomfortable occasion when Earnest had tried to seduce him. He remembered the petty meanness and the hunger he had seen in the boy's eyes that day. Ordinarily, Cyril was ready enough to be seduced, but there had been something distasteful, grasping, and manipulative about the way Earnest had attempted to seduce him. It had set Cyril's skin crawling. He had spoken to Earnest very shortly in return, a few words of firm reprimand, and that had been the only conversation they had ever had. Cyril had certainly never expected to have the boy stay with him, especially not for an indefinite amount of time, as was currently the case.
If Cyril had not been told who his guest was, he wouldn't have recognized him, despite their previous acquaintance. Earnest's face was more black and blue and purple and red than it was flesh-colored now, swollen and covered with welts and bruises. His nose had been broken-- the physicians had reset it, but it was still so dark in color as to be almost black. He also, Cyril knew, having listened to an extensive catalog of the boy's injuries, had broken ribs, two broken arms, a leg broken in more than one place, and hands that had been smashed to pieces, as he had surely put them up in front of his face to protect himself from the onslaught which had brought him here, to Cyril's guest room.
Cyril had, previously, disliked his brother Leigh. He would never, however, have thought the man capable of attempting to murder his own stepson-- with a fireplace poker, of all the crude weapons. It was an act beyond Cyril's comprehension. To know, further, that the sole reason for this attempted murder was that Leigh had discovered his son's sexual proclivities-- He could not help but take it personally. Leigh knew very well what sort of person his elder brother Cyril preferred in his bed. That he would take an iron poker to the child he had raised for the same offense . . . Cyril found himself wondering whether Leigh had thought of him while smashing his stepson to pieces.
It was a miracle the boy-- no, not a boy, truly, for the boys of the younger generation had somehow grown into men while Cyril was not looking-- had survived. Cyril wondered if it was to be a short-lived miracle. There was no way of telling what injuries were still slowly bleeding Earnest's life away inside him. He stood staring at Earnest in the quiet room, his nose full of the scent of Earnest's blood, and he could no longer feel that vaguely disgusted feeling this young man had once inspired in him. He felt only . . . what was it? Pity? Sympathy? A kind of compassion, surely. And with it, a dull ache of sorrow.
As Cyril watched, Earnest's eyelids slid open, although they could not open all the way, a narrow squint through two black eyes. Cyril remembered those eyes. They were grey in color, and when he had seen them last, they had been coldly covetous and oddly dead of feeling. Cyril would have expected to find them even deader now, but no. That dead flatness had somehow been broken by the poker, as surely as the young man's arms had been: cracked open, split wide. Cyril watched the eyes' expression carefully. At first he saw only hurt and confusion, then it seemed the young man managed to focus on Cyril standing above him. Cyril next saw a flash of fear, which quickly subsided into something else. The young man lay watching him, completely motionless save for his eyes, and Cyril wondered at what he saw. Was it truly recognition, as it seemed to be? And what emotion was it that followed hard upon the heels of the ostensible recognition? Did Earnest know who Cyril was? Did he know where he was? Cyril couldn't say for certain. The boy had been all but drugged out of his mind with laudanum. Even if he thought he recognized someone, it was quite possible that he was mistaken in his identification.
"It is good of you to take him."
Cyril turned with a start to find his brother Theodore standing in the doorway behind him. He flashed him a smile. "Is it? I'm beginning to think it might be kinder to let him die."
"Cyril," said Theodore sternly, his tone alone indicating that he thought this was a ridiculous statement on Cyril's part, with no need for him to speak another word on the matter.
"I'll be surprised if he lives. I doubt he'll ever return to any semblance of his former self. Is it kindness to keep him like this? I wonder sometimes, at the cruelty of mercy."
Theodore shook his head. For Teddy, the right path had always been an easy matter. He looked at every situation in the simplest possible way. Here, he saw someone who was hurt, and the hurt, he knew, must be tended to until they were well again. That was the end of it, where Teddy was concerned. Cyril had never been able to see the allure of such easy answers, but he bowed his head in acquiescence. He could not turn Earnest out while the young man yet lived, however barely. Even if the rest of Earnest's family had been willing-- entirely too willing, in Cyril's opinion-- to toss him in the street and let him bleed to death, Cyril did not have recourse to that easy answer either. "Yes, you're right, of course."
"I would have taken him myself," said Teddy, "but we're too crowded as it is. You can spare the room."
"Yes, I have the room," Cyril agreed, turning back towards Earnest with a faint, barely perceptible sigh. The window beside Earnest's bed had been opened to let in the fresh air, although Cyril doubted the air of London had any great curative properties.
"I am perfectly willing to pay for whatever medical treatment is needed," Teddy offered.
Cyril waved a hand, as if the offer were a gnat to be brushed aside. "Nonsense. I'll take care of him. You have a multitude of charges to concern yourself with as it is. I, on the other hand, have none."
"It is good of you," said Teddy again.
"Yes, good of me." Earnest, Cyril saw, was still watching him.
Teddy followed Cyril's gaze. "Ah, he's opened his eyes. That's a welcome sign. He hasn't done that before."
"Hasn't he?"
"Not that I've seen."
"He keeps looking right at me," Cyril said thoughtfully. "He won't look away."
"He knows you."
"Does he?" Cyril remained unconvinced, folding his arms over his chest. "Perhaps he's mistaken me for someone else."
Teddy shrugged. He had never been one to surmise. If he did not know a thing, he would wait until the thing made itself known. In this too, Cyril was unlike his brother. "I should be getting home now," said Teddy slowly. "Unless there is anything else you need of me?"
"Oh no. We'll be fine, Earnest and I."
"I knew, Cyril," Teddy said slowly, "that if I asked this of you, you would do it. You were the only one." There was a quiet pride in his voice.
"Of course," Cyril replied quickly. "What else could I do?" He felt embarrassment, an emotion he was unaccustomed to, and it made his voice sharp. For Teddy to paint him as a great philanthropist, a generous man, would be mistaken. He was nothing of the kind. He was simply a man who had had no choice in the matter.
"Yes, of course," Teddy said calmly, taking no offense at Cyril's tone.
When Teddy had gone, only Cyril and Earnest remained. Clearly, it was a struggle for Earnest to keep his eyes open, as they were covered with a bright film of tears and constantly fluttering open and closed, yet Earnest kept his eyes open. He kept them fixed upon Cyril.
"I might as well tell you, you'll be staying here," Cyril said at last, the first words he'd spoken to Earnest since Teddy and the doctors had brought him in. He did not know whether Earnest understood him or not, whether the young man's mind had managed to withstand his stepfather's attack, but he spoke all the same. "I will be looking after you from now on. Or at least until you are well enough to look after yourself." If such a day ever comes.
When Earnest continued to watch him, Cyril suddenly felt sure that he was trying to communicate something. What, Cyril didn't know. The young man made no attempt to speak, only looked. Mute yet intent. Cyril did not know what made him decide that Earnest was attempting to tell him something rather than merely staring blindly out of a laudanum-induced stupor. Perhaps it was foolishness. Perhaps it was hope. Regardless, he wanted to try something. His own gaze locked meaningfully with Earnest's own. "You're welcome," he said.
At once, and with obvious relief, Earnest closed his eyes.
