Chapter Text
July 18th 1851
“Another of those incidents,” said one of Shomron’s acquaintances, one of the Worthingtons, if Charles remembered correctly. It was with some bemusement and curiosity that Charles looked up from the silver tray of hors d’oeuvres to the aging gentleman seated beside him.
“Incidents?”
Worthington bobbed his graying head as he reached for one of the cucumber sandwiches. The table had been laden with food, but after several hours of guests grazing there remained only scattered cheese slices, some overripe fruit and, of course, the fresh sandwiches very recently brought out.
“You’ve not heard, Sir Charles?” he asked before comprehension coated his round features and he went on to say, “Pardon me, I do forget your residence in the country, but it has been talk here in London over the months.” Worthington leaned in closer and let his gaze wander over to the other guests, each of them rising from the dark wood table and leaving to join the ladies in Charles’ parlor --creating far more din than one might expect for six people. Charles’ interest was naturally piqued that Worthington felt he must concern himself with being overheard.
“Assaults in the streets of Cheapside, nothing so unusual amongst that lot mind you, but some of these men claim that a man, tall as a horse, drained them of their vital fluids.”
Charles smiled, unmindful of the severity in Worthington’s tone, and the face he made must have betrayed him further still for Worthington blustered, “I shared those same sentiments, but scarcely three nights ago an Irish sailor was found, pale as the linen he wore, and weaving the same tale as the locals.”
“I heard the man had consumed more than his share of drink.”
Charles perked at the unmistakable low rumble of vowels and affected consonants that he’d found so appealing only days ago, and it was to his delight that he turned to find their owner dressed in the same overcoat, --which had hopefully gone unsullied today-- in the rounded archway connecting his dining room to the hall.
“Mr. Lehnsherr, you decided to come,” he enthused, unable to quell his grin, though he would admit to not giving the task much effort. He had spent much of the afternoon reminding himself the man had no reason to make an appearance, and more likely than not wouldn’t bother to do so.
Lehnsherr inclined his head and said, “I do apologize for the hour.”
“You needn’t bother, I am glad to see you at all. Please join us,” said Charles, waving Lehnsherr’s concern aside and motioning for him to step into the room. It was then that Charles remembered Worthington with a mild degree of embarrassment for the oversight.
“Mr. Worthington, this is Mr. Lehnsherr,” he said in an attempt to recover. The two shook hands perfunctorily, and Charles noticed the gloves were absent and that Lehnsherr’s hands were quite lovely. Large, but slender for their size giving an impression of both strength and deftness at once.
“Mr. Worthington and I were discussing the incidents in Cheapside, though if what you’ve heard is true then that rather solves the mystery, doesn’t it? If the residents are telling stories it can scarcely be so bewildering that after a few too many glasses a sailor might find himself imagining a similar encounter. Though, I do wonder how such stories start.”
“Hm, yes,” said Worthington, “the origin is probably equally droll, but it is an entertaining story nonetheless.”
He seemed ruffled that his tale had been cut short and thoroughly rebuffed, so Charles was hardly surprised when the older gentleman departed for the parlor at his wife’s beckoning. He was surprised when Lehnsherr took the seat and hung his coat over the elaborately carved back of the chair.
“So, have you heard anything else about these ‘incidents’?” asked Charles, masking his astonishment and biting into the food. His eyes remained on Lehnsherr, and Lehnsherr’s were similarly on him - but where Charles’ brimmed with earnestness Lehnsherr’s reflected only disinterest.
“The man was inebriated, what else is there to know?”
Charles hummed thoughtfully, and polished off the sandwich; relishing in the familiar taste of cucumber and butter for a moment before acceding. “I suppose there tends to be a degree of embellishment to such happenings. I am glad to hear a succinct opinion on the matter, it is a rare find, my friend.”
Lehnsherr’s gaze felt heavier upon him, and the same contemplative expression that he had worn in the Grecian gallery adorned his strong features now. Charles adjusted his high collar.
“Might I inquire something, Mr. Lehnsherr?”
“If you like.”
“Pardon me for reciting rumor, but, you came over from France, correct?”
“That is true,” said Lehnsherr, “though I suppose you mean to ask why I am not French.”
Charles’ smile faded into one of contriteness and he feigned interest in the scarce fare left behind. Perhaps he was not as indirect in his inquiry as he had deemed himself to be.
“You would suppose correctly. I do hope I have not created an offense,” said Charles, and he resolved to be more frank in his dealings with Lehnsherr for he did admire the trait in the older gentleman.
“I had not thought you concerned with offending me, considering our previous conversation.”
Charles would have worried had Lehnsherr’s grin been an ounce less sly, and his tone couched in anything other than amusement.
“Ah, but you paid me slight first, do not lay the blame at my feet for an offense you provoked.”
Charles quickly realized that any attempt to contain his own gladness would prove in vain for his lips pulled into a matching grin of their own accord and only widened when Lehnsherr began to laugh.
“Perhaps I owe you an answer then,” said Lehnsherr as his laughter quieted, “before I lived in France, I lived in Bavaria.”
“I think I require further candor before I forgive your slight.” It was with some satisfaction that Charles noted his assertion seemed to have both surprised and impressed Lehnsherr, if the subtly raised brows were an indication. Charles continued, “How did you come to own the iron plant?”
Lehnsherr answered quickly, giving Charles the distinct impression he was reciting it by rote, “With difficulty. I owned a small facility in France and was eventually able to sell it for enough to purchase the one here.”
“If it was with such difficulty that you acquired the factory, why then did you part with it?”
“Because steel is the metal of choice these days.”
The response made sense, Charles supposed. Truthfully he knew very little of industry, but Bessemer and his steel was a subject that came about often. Something of his consideration must have shown on his face, for Lehnsherr went on to ask, in an accusatory tone: “Does that not satisfy you?”
“Does it bother you to be asked?” was his rejoinder.
“My personal affairs are that: personal. A man’s business should be his own.”
A chance to discuss philosophy was a chance Charles rarely passed on, and he had a strong feeling that Lehnsherr would be a new sort of opponent. One that would state his opinion open and plainly, rather than try to ingratiate himself by agreeing whenever Charles suggested something to the contrary.
“Are we not all accountable to one another? Society is what allows for civilization, by making a man answerable to his actions.”
“And who decides what is just, Sir Charles? If we cannot answer to ourselves, what makes another more fitting? ”
The rebuttal was quick, and more impassioned than Charles had heard from Lehnsherr previously. The man’s eyes glittered a pale green edging very near to blue, and it was nothing short of captivating, even in the capricious candlelight.
“It is not a single person, but society as a whole decides that what best suits it. Man has learned to count on his fellows in order to survive, and learned that certain behaviors must be culled to ensure group survival and as a result we have the laws with which we use to govern.”
“You believe all laws to be just?”
Charles licked his lips before he spoke again, conceding, “…No. I do, however, believe there once may have been cause and that as circumstances change and progress the law may not reflect such changes immediately.”
He knew what he was skirting around, but was unsure if Lehnsherr meant the same. He dearly hoped they might be speaking to the same injustice, which was precisely the reason he was rendered so unsure. He feared that he was perhaps levying too much of his own belief onto Lehnsherr’s simple question. It was a tricky business to discuss the issue when even the implication could lead to an inquiry. Charles felt it ridiculous that an act that hurt no one, by any stretch of the imagination, could be considered so heinous a crime that death was deserved.
“If society cannot adapt to changes, why should it rule us?” asked Lehnsherr, drawing Charles from his musings. Again, the question was vague and allowed for little extrapolation.
“It can change,” insisted Charles, “it only takes time and… proof that the law is obsolete.”
“Which cannot happen because in proving a law obsolete, you would first have to break it.”
That sent a shiver through him, along with a series of lewd thoughts in which he imagined himself telling Lehnsherr they could break as many laws as he liked, wherever he liked. He licked his lips and tried to corral his thoughts into some semblance of order, for he was truly enjoying the philosophical exercise. It was just his misfortune that Lehnsherr happened to be both very attractive, very intelligent and entirely too interesting.
“And what do you suggest? Abolish law and subscribe to anarchism, isolated from all company?”
“Perhaps not all,” murmured Lehnsherr, quiet enough that had Charles not been so attuned to him the comment would have passed unnoticed. Charles could not prevent a flutter of excitement in his chest, but he did manage to stave off the proposal on his tongue that they leave for his estate, secluded as it was, and try a fortnight or two of anarchy.
“Anarchy is not the answer and isolation impossible. My only proposal is that people leave the things that do not concern them alone. Do you not grow tired of it? Of these gatherings in which you do nothing but speak ill of those not present?”
The vitriol that dripped from Lehnsherr’s voice had Charles sitting straighter in his chair.
“Why did you come then, if you find it so distasteful?” he asked.
The muscles in Lehnsherr’s jaw bunched and his lips thinned, leaving Charles to wait while he seemed to mull over the answer. Though now Charles curiosity ran more genuine than defensive.
“To prove a point.”
Charles knitted his brow and parted his mouth to speak well before he had fully formed the words in his mind. He cast about for them a moment longer, and then ventured, “That being in the company of others is not suffering?”
Lehnsherr gave the barest twitch of lips, a slight upward pull to the right that allowed a hint of white teeth. Charles determined it was a yes.
“Then, suffice to say the point remains unproven for as it stands you have shown little but disdain.”
His assertion prompted another laugh, not as hearty as the first, but still very comely on Lehnsherr’s defined features.
“And as you were the one to claim that suffering another’s company was an apt description, I do wonder how it came to pass that you play host to such gatherings.”
“Because it is not without its joys. I, for one, have had a most scintillating conversation.”
“Is that so?”
Charles could not resist the urge to tease, and affected the most serious of tones. “Indeed. I’ve very recently learned the Mr. Collins has finally switched tobaccos after much deliberation.”
“I see, and how long did that conversation last?”
Charles let the charade drop, his expression pinching into one of exaggerated distress. “A great deal longer than should have been possible.”
“I’d no idea, Sir Charles. You have my sympathies.” Lehnsherr responded, eliciting a laugh from Charles. And their conversation carried on, much like that. Winding and wending from this subject to that as the candle wax melted and dripped into the basin. The other guests retired, and still their exchange did not waver.
Charles could not ever recall being so singularly engaged, and something in the way Lehnsherr began to gesticulate as he spoke told Charles the older gentlemen felt the same.
---
Sir Charles invited him to more dinner parties and gatherings in the following weeks and Erik found himself attending each, allowing the other man to stick to his side as a burr. Not that he could, in any way, claim the hours spent together were unpleasant ones. It could have been any number of reasons, perhaps that after years spent on his own he craved stimulation, or perhaps it was that Sir Charles was in the possession of a sharp wit and a communicable good-humor.
Erik knew himself to be taken with the baronet when he began to find Sir Charles’ youthful arrogance more endearing than appalling. He could not say precisely when it occurred, but he certainly could not deny the intimacy that had sprouted between them as they whiled away the days with talk on every conceivable subject, at times finding themselves in perfect accordance and at others entirely divergent.
Erik had even called on Sir Charles, and any chastisement he wished to upbraid himself with fell away when confronted by Sir Charles’ absolute delight. The brightness in his soft eyes and warmth in his easy smile pulled at Erik in ways he hadn’t felt in over half a century. And it was no small part of him that enjoyed how effortlessly he could monopolize Sir Charles’ time, and how quickly he gained familiarity with his friend’s sitting-room and his ivory chess set.
Therefore, it was with dread that he woke early on the morning of August the twelfth to met with Sir Charles -- and Miss Darkholme, though he was not so similarly attached to her, pleasant as she was -- only to say his farewell and watch their train leave the station.
A blandness settled over him, persisting into the following day and the one after that, and then the next, and he was only stirred to agitation when there came a harsh knock on the wooden door several hours before he was due to wake.
He contemplated ignoring the insistent rap, but his ears caught the sound of his mail slot opening and the rustle of paper sliding through and his curiosity was pricked. With a great dearth of poise and grace he drew himself out of bed, cursing the mid-morning hours as he padded through the halls to the foyer. There he found a singular letter on the floor which he stooped to retrieve.
It was not a large missive, but the envelop was thicker than most parchment. Erik looked over the script, noting there was a vague familiarity about the shape of the lettering but he found it an exercise in futility to determine the sender from the calligraphy alone. He turned it over as he made for his study, breaking the grey seal carefully.
Dear Mr. Lehnsherr, the letter began.
I have written to assure you that I arrived back at Oxford without incident and to ask if you have, by any chance, read the latest of Richard Cobden? I would be rather fascinated to hear your thoughts, though I do believe I might guess at them.
Pawn to H-3.
Best Regards,
Charles Xavier
Erik smiled to himself, and quickly went in search of his chessboard. He brought it back into his study, finding a place for it in the corner of his large desk. He slid the white pawn forward, and then made his own move before settling in his seat to write his thoughts on Cobden.
The smile did not waver.
April 2nd, 1852
Charles could not have been more pleased to see Lehnsherr again, even if it was half-past six. He felt he could forgo supping a while longer as he ushered the man in and lead the way to his sitting-room. The servants bustled about to re-light the room, and quietly slipped out to attend to other matters around the house. Charles had only arrived that afternoon, he’d no doubt that his staff would be occupied for the remainder of the evening.
Lehnsherr seated himself in the armchair nearest the hearth. The same one, Charles noticed, he had seen fit to commandeer during his previous visits. Charles could hardly say he minded, in fact, he rather liked that they had a customary seating arrangement and he contently sat in the chair adjacent to Lehnsherr.
“Miss Kinross informed me in her letters that these attacks in Cheapside are still on-going. Do you still think it the ramblings of drunkards?” he asked. Kinross was a sensible woman, not prone to the histrionics that some were predisposed, and he trusted her word. He still wished to hear Lehnsherr’s opinion, for of all the topics they had exhausted in the months between the man had not once brought up the issue.
“Ah, in her letters,” muttered Lehnsherr, and something akin to unhappy confusion crossed his features before his mouth and brow shifted in quiet disappointment. Charles tried to ponder the meaning of that reaction, hope unfurling itself, but then Lehnsherr went on to provide an answer to his original question.
“If not inebriated persons, then ones caught up in the excitement. I have yet to hear of evidence that lends support to their claims.”
Charles hummed thoughtfully, and for a brief time silence lapsed over them. The hearth crackled, the flames contained therein flickered in a fast-paced dance. It had been warm enough in the afternoon, and it was not terribly cold presently, but the illumination was worth the expense of kindling.
“What was that penny dreadful? Varney the Vampire?” asked Charles, and out of the corner of his eye he sighted Lehnsherr’s incredulity; as plain on his face as any of his strong features.
“Do you think it the work of Varney, then?”
Charles let out a chuckle. “Not so much Varney, but, why couldn’t it be a vampire? Science is always on the verge of new discoveries, and if you trace back through history the allusions to vampires and vampire-like beings is rather prevalent.”
He would admit to being a tad swept up by the strange reports, and in the months back at Oxford he had scoured his ancestral library for whatever lore was to be found. “The Greeks have Vrykolakas, and the Romanians make mention of a being that drains blood. I very much doubt the supernatural elements, but perhaps there is some truth in them yet.”
“Hm.”
And everything in Lehnsherr’s bearing suggested he had no wish to continue the discussion so Charles let the matter drop. He could discuss it with his other callers tomorrow.
“Would you be interested in joining me for dinner? Raven went out with the McCoys and I’ve not eaten yet.”
“It would be my pleasure,” answered Lehnsherr. His ill-humor vanished as quickly as it had fallen on him.
July 24th, 1852
A knock upon the door, considerably louder than the patter of rain, surprised Charles as his eyes swept from his cluttered desk to his butler rising to answer it. A quick glance to his watch informed him that the hour was even later than he had surmised, edging very near to midnight which would explain why the flame of his lantern had waned to a faint flickering one. Voices could be heard, faintly, first Halward’s thin and raspy tones and then a wondrous and familiar accent.
Charles wasted no time; launching himself from his seat and snatching his lantern, unmindful of his state: rolled up sleeves and hair beyond mussed from where he’d pushed it off his brow only for it invade his line of sight again as he hunched over his papers.
He reached the foyer in time to catch a portion of his butler’s polite refusal.
“—late, Master Charles--,”
“It’s quite all right,” interjected Charles, his eyes fixated on a drenched Lehnsherr even as he requested a towel from his butler, who was swift to depart and light the sconces as he disappeared further into the house.
“Do come in.” Charles said when no such move had been made. Though at least the extended gable prevented further assault from the rain.
Lehnsherr dipped his head and stepped over the threshold with a squelch of wet boots. He seemed to take in the sight of Charles, but if he were to give comment Charles was prepared to meet it with a quip about the man’s own unkempt state: his clothes several shades darker than their make and drops of water rolling off him and onto the polished floorboards and with days worth of stubble around his mouth and chin. Lehnsherr made no comment, however, and curiosity was quick to get the better of Charles.
“I know your feelings on privacy…” was attempted at the same time as a clumsy thanks was issued for granting asylum from the downpour. Though the question of what devil had possessed Lehnsherr to be out so late remained.
“Perhaps a change of clothes is called for, sir?” asked Halward, towel in hand.
“If you would be so kind,” said Lehnsherr as he accepted the offered towel and did his best to dry himself.
Charles bobbed his head, and he allowed his embarrassment to color his words, hopeful that it might impress upon Halward his apologies, “Allow me? I’ve kept you quite long enough.”
Halward lost the tenseness in his posture and his eyes closed briefly. “As you wish, Sir Charles,” he said, tinted with a sense that this had been long overdue, before taking his leave.
With that matter settled, Charles beckoned Lehnsherr with a soft touch just below the shoulder; as swift to drop as it had been to come; Charles fervently hoped it was not found unwelcome. He led Mr. Lehnsherr down the narrow hallways – one of several flaws Charles was particularly cognizant of in city homes - passed the parlor and the study, up the staircase and at last reaching the guest bedrooms.
He gave Mr. Lehnsherr the more Spartan room, assuming it would be more to his taste than the florid patterning of the other rooms. Raven had been the one to decorate them and Charles would admit that her ability to transform a room was truly a gift. No two rooms looked alike, but there was still a cohesion that Charles could neither pin down nor deny. Perhaps it was something in the color pallet, or perhaps it was in the shape and arrangement of the furnishings.
“I shall return shortly,” said Charles and he turned back to the door, leaving the guest bedrooms behind to retrieve the necessary articles of clothing.
The longer he pondered the more consumed with the mystery of what reason had Lehnsherr out at such an hour Charles became, until he realized his speculations were of the same ilk that he had decried. He put the concern out of mind as he gathered the final article – dark trousers – and with haste returned to his unannounced guest, nudging the heavy door open with his shoulder.
“I cannot promise the best fit, but I assure you it will preserve your modesty,” Charles said, taking several steps into the room and placing the attire atop the bedding.
“You have my gratitude,” said Lehnsherr and Charles hurried from the room. He lingered in the hall and listened to sounds wet fabric shucked off and the rustle of dry ones replacing them.
Lehnsherr entered the hall, and Charles felt a smile form. To say the clothes were ill-fitted would be to say that McCoy was reserved. The trousers were, perhaps, the worst offense; the hem too short and wider in places than need be. Though the rain-slicked hair did little to help Lehnsherr’s image, what with the way some pieces lay flat and others pointed and curved in peculiar directions.
“I see you chose your words carefully, for this does not preserve my dignity .”
The laugh produced by Charles was similarly undignified, though it was cut short when a thunderclap rattled through the house filling it with the delicate clinking of glass and the dull thumps of wooden furnishings.
“That sounds dreadful, has it been so all night?” His question was more than tinged with incredulity, for Charles knew he was prone to absorption when it came to his studies but he was far from completely unawares.
Lehnsherr shook his head once, to Charles’ great relief, and an unspoken understanding was reached. Such inclement weather was not suitable for travel, least of all on foot.
“Would you care for a game of chess?”
Lehnsherr’s grin was answer enough, and Charles led the way to his drawing-room. He crossed the expanse - setting mounted sconces alight as he passed them - to settle in the cushioned chair, the cream colored padding sinking under his weight while Lehnsherr took the matching seat across the perpetually set chess table. The pieces had been jostled by the thunder, but after a moment of Charles righting them the game was underway.
Charles made the first move, deviating from his usual strategy and boldly moving the pawn in front of his knight two forward.
“If I win this game, will you tell me what had you out at this hour?”
Lehnsherr’s eyes flicked from him to the board and he moved his knight, already poised to capture the pawn should Charles leave it. He leaned back into the chair, his long legs spread apart on either side of the small rounded table.
“Unlikely.”
True to form his friend refrained from claiming the pawn, in place sliding one of his own forward.
“Then I see your feelings on privacy are unchanged.” Charles punctuated his words with the heavy placement of his knight, the ivory clacking against polished marble. He could not help that when his eyes ventured upwards they lingered, perhaps inappropriately.
Lehnsherr pushed another pawn forward.
“I maintain a man’s business is his own until he decides otherwise.”
The pursing of his lips was an unconscious movement as Charles considered the finality of Lehnsherr’s statement. He could not deny the idea its merits, he knew his own proclivities could benefit from such a philosophy, but he could not abide it as a generality. He pondered over his words carefully while his gaze shifted to the pieces scattered about the board. He moved his bishop.
“I find that in certain circumstances I am inclined to agree, but I do not believe in the total abandonment of public involvement. Should there be an act of violent nature, or one of larceny, how can you say it is not the business of the people to find and prosecute the criminal?”
“And if no one is paid lasting injury, or lacking in properties? What then, Sir Charles? What business is it to the people how men occupy themselves in their homes? Men such as you or I, are we constrained to tell everything even if we cause no harm to another?”
At once his sight alighted on Lehnsherr, and he felt himself swallow though he hoped it went undetected. A hollow hope considering the numerous lit fixtures and that Lehnsherr’s focus rested solely upon him, the lines of his torso parallel to his own and Charles keenly aware that should he move his leg he could very easily brush against Lehnsherr’s and convincingly claim it as accidental in nature.
His mind turned over the myriad of possibilities that Lehnsherr might have to pay him a visit so late in the evening and his heart grew taut; seizing in his breast. Could it be that the temptations that plagued him were shared?
“...I suppose such a thing could be left a secret, if, as you say, there was no permanent injury and nothing taken that wasn’t freely given.” And Charles was pleased the delivery was even, and low enough as to be a whisper without precisely being one.
Lehnsherr startled. “You agree with me?”
“Is it so hard to believe our interests might... intersect? What two men do with one another is their business.” Charles knew the danger that lie in declaring his interest openly, but he thought he might find that Lehnsherr returned the interest, so he pressed his leg to the inside of Lehnsherr’s and let his smile grow sly.
Horror distorted Lehnsherr’s features and there was absolute stillness before he spoke. “I... I must go,” said he, springing from the armchair and crossing the room before Charles could remove himself from his own seat.
Charles hastened after the man only to catch glimpse of the front entrance closing, rattling from the force with which Lehnsherr had slammed it. He pulled on latch with desperation and found no trace of Lehnsherr’s figure in the fogged downpour.
“Mr. Lehnsherr!” shouted Charles, “Mr. Lehnsherr!” His voice lost to sheets of rain hitting pavement and rooftops.
He waited for some minutes in the dark, until the moisture in the air collected on his skin and settled into his bones in spite of the overhead covering. Cold and disparaged he returned inside, with every affliction associated with the agues on him. Pallid and trembling he moved through the halls, easily mistaken for some phantasmagorical creature.
It was not rejection that pained him, though he was not entirely free of that brand of agony, but that he might find his total ruin. His life forfeit to the courts, and if they were magnanimous enough to spare his life his societal standing would ensure he knew none of the comforts he had heretofore been accustomed and reliant upon. Shame and distress set upon him, bearing down on his chest and compressing it.
And by the Heavens-- Raven!
He cursed his rashness, how feckless he had been! If he fell, Raven would tumble after, for she had no standing but that which he gave her. He had ruined them both, his heart lodged in his throat and he leaned against the wall heavily.
He tilted his head back, let out one shuddering breath and then another until he settled himself. He was not ruined. Lehnsherr had not threatened him, nor made promise to turn him over to the officials of Scotland Yard, and even if he should, the Xavier name held more weight. His proposition had blessedly been spoken and not written. There existed no evidence of his indiscretion.
His only loss was that of a dear friend, and so he let that ache carve its place in his heart.