Chapter Text
It’s a scorching afternoon in August, and outside the sun is beating unforgivingly on the heads of anyone unlucky enough to be on the docks. Workers hide in the shade thrown out by the ships roped up there, scuttling back and forth through the patches of harsh sunlight with burnt foreheads and grubby hands. The sea is crystal clear, glittering like a thousand tiny diamonds, but no one has the leisure to enjoy it.
Inside the tavern it’s a different story. The windows are small and somewhat grimy, faces illuminated in odd grayish shades as they bend over mugs of ale and complicated games of cards and dice. Here in the darkness leisure prevails, and to talk of work is to be considered a boor.
Near the back of the room, halfway between an unlit fire and a slender young man playing a fiddle for the entertainment of the tavern’s patrons, two gentlemen sit together at a dusty wooden table. Their coats of blue and gold - not to mention the large cocked hats lying on the table in front of them - denote them as naval officers of high rank.
They sit back in their chairs, gleaming boots crossed over one another as they talk lazily of their most recent sea mission. One of these men is the captain of a ship docked at the harbor, and whenever he mentions it his voice takes on loving tones that his companion cannot help but mock.
“You’d think she was your child, the way you speak of her,” he says, dark eyes sparkling. “Or your lover - your wife!” He laughs gently. “Are you married to your boat, Captain Hargrove?”
“The only wife I’ll ever have,” Hargrove replies, mouth twitching. He’s a tall and broad young man, twenty years old, with curling hair cropped close to his head and blue eyes that remind his companion of the glittering sea outside.
His fellow leans forward to pick up his mug of beer, raising it to his lips. He’s the first mate on the same ship, and truthfully loves her almost as much as his captain. “You’ll be back on the Mercedes soon enough,” he says. “I wouldn’t wish to keep you from your lady love—”
Hargrove leans out a foot and kicks at his first mate’s chair, making him spill his beer and curse. “Enough of that, Harrington,” he says. He shudders bodily. “I’ve had enough of ladies and their love, as I think you know.”
Harrington laughs, his face lighting up. They’ve been friends for many years, he and his captain - since they were children, in fact. Both come from proud and well-respected families, and both have only served to bolster the reputation of their houses through their naval accomplishments.
Their friendship is the envy of their compatriots, many of whom sit elsewhere in the tavern, occasionally glancing over to them. It’s well-known that no one can come between Captain Hargrove and First Mate Harrington, and those that try regret it.
“I still can’t believe it,” Harrington says now, still laughing as Hargrove shoots him a glare. “To be propositioned by Lady Wheeler - she’s old enough to be your mother!”
“You’ll never let me forget it, I see,” Hargrove says with a groan. “She seemed highly offended at my refusal, too, as though I was the one delivering an insult! And she left me a token, as if I might change my mind.”
Harrington chokes down another laugh, finishing his ale and setting the cup down on the table. “What was the token?” he asks.
Hargrove digs in a pocket, producing a small golden hairpin, set with a red gemstone. “She pulled it out of her hair to give it to me,” he says with disgust. “I’m almost certain the ruby is mere glass. She wouldn’t take it back, so now I am left with it. What am I to do with this?”
“Give it to me,” Harrington says, and chuckles when his captain instantly complies. “I will keep it for you, and when the time is right you can return it to her.”
“I will keep you to that,” Hargrove says, sipping the last of his drink as his companion tucks the pin into his pocket. “I want nothing to do with it, or with her.”
Harrington smiles. “Your star is on the rise, my friend,” he says philosophically. “A sea captain at twenty, and your father the governor of Marseille - she won’t be the last woman to set her cap for you.” He laughs again. “Be grateful it was the mother and not the daughter, or you might find yourself sidestepping a genuine proposal.”
“Surely if I’m to marry, I ought to be the one proposing,” Hargrove says with a complaining tone.
His first mate shakes his head. “All marriages in this city are brought about by its mothers,” he says. “You ought to know that.”
“I haven’t got a mother to bring about any marriage,” Hargrove says. He shrugs his shoulders. “A good thing, too, or I’d have to find some excuse to get out of it. You know I’ll never marry.”
Harrington tilts his head to one side, a curious expression in his brown eyes. “I know,” he says. A smile plays on his lips, and he lowers his voice a little to add: “I’m very glad to hear it.”
“Good,” Hargrove says decisively. He picks up his hat, getting to his feet. “Will you walk home with me? We sail tomorrow, and I’ve still got bags to pack. I could use your help.”
“I’m your humble servant,” Harrington says mockingly, but he stands obligingly, following Hargrove between the tables to the door, tossing a penny to the fiddler as he goes.
Eyes follow them out, some admiring and some envious. Harrington is the son of the richest man in Marseille, and only his daring exploits at sea prevent his detractors from claiming he bought his position in the navy. As it is, however, he’s won too many battles and brought home too many trophies for such an assertion to hold weight. The only man in the naval forces with more honorable deeds to his name is Captain Hargrove.
The sun still burns down outside, and both men instinctively replace their cocked hats on their heads. It’s too hot for the coats they wear, but these they are unable to remove, for decency’s sake.
As they walk briskly side by side, Harrington’s arm slips down, his hand almost brushing that of his companion. Their fingers touch, so subtly that no one but them could possibly be aware of it.
Both men pause for a moment as they pass one particular ship, the most magnificent in all Marseille: the Mercedes. She rises elegantly out of the water, boards gleaming in the sunlight and majestic sails rippling slightly in the scant breeze that rocks the docked boats. The captain instinctively touches his hat as if in deference to his lady. Mercedes stands proudly among the other, less beautiful ships.
She’s crawling with shiphands, loading her up with all she needs for her next expedition. Hargrove watches with a critical eye as men wheel supplies across her creaking deck, ready to shout his disapproval should any of them so much as leave a scratch on her. The workers are careful, however, and no such chastisement is necessary. Indeed, there are other men polishing and scrubbing every inch of her bulk, and after a moment Hargrove and Harrington move on.
Hargrove’s town house is close to the water’s edge, and it doesn’t take too long for them to reach it. He pushes open the iron gate, striding up to the front door with Harrington close behind him. A well-trained servant opens the door without either man needing to break stride.
“Thank you, Mondego,” Hargrove says dismissively, removing his hat and coat and handing them to the domestic. Harrington follows suit, leaving the man laden. “Tell the servants we’re not to be disturbed, won’t you?”
“Certainly, sir,” Mondego says, utterly unruffled by the instruction. He slips away with their outerwear, leaving the pair alone in the small but opulent hall.
It’s an attractive room, with high ceilings and large windows hung with tasseled curtains. An ornate walnut table, polished to a high shine and housing an ostentatious golden clock and two matching candlesticks, sits beneath an enormous mirror on one wall, and a beautifully embroidered rug lies underfoot. Several paintings decorate the opposite wall, and doors lead off to similarly decorated rooms on either side. At the back of the hall is a large set of stairs, narrow but still attractively styled.
Harrington doesn’t spare a glance for the decor. His own home is furnished just as richly, and besides, he’s been here many times before. He flashes a quick dazzling smile towards his captain, and the two of them go over to the stairs without discussion.
At first they walk up in well-bred fashion, but a mischievous look from the captain turns it into a game, and soon they’re sprinting up the stairs, jostling each other in the effort to win the race.
They tumble into the master bedroom at the top of the stairs together, both breathless and laughing. Harrington slides a hand through his hair in an attempt to tidy it, panting laboriously as Hargrove closes the door behind them both. There’s a moment of quiet, in which they only look at one another, and then they’re both stepping forward, closing the gap between them.
“Steve,” Hargrove breathes, his arms encircling Harrington’s waist.
Harrington moves into the embrace, resting his forehead against Hargrove’s. “Billy,” he replies softly, and for a few minutes they stand there together, all pretense at formality removed.
Then Steve tilts his head, and his mouth meets Billy’s in a passionate kiss. They kiss feverishly, arms tightening around each other as the embrace intensifies. Steve’s fingers pluck at the pristine white cravat tied around Billy’s neck, untying the smooth knot and tossing the article aside.
Billy’s throat now exposed, Steve bends his head to press a line of untidy kisses along it, shuddering at each fresh gasp he elicits from his lover. He unbuttons Billy’s waistcoat, sending it in the direction of his cravat, and tugs the white billowing shirt out of his breeches. As he works, Billy is not idle; he kicks off his boots, and his hands find the waistband of Steve’s breeches, deftly unfastening them.
They move towards the bed as one, removing items of clothing as they go. Steve runs both hands across the delightfully curving planes of Billy’s chest, enjoying the warm muscular feel of his body. Billy is the larger of the pair, sturdily built and strong, and he pulls Steve in tight against himself as they lay themselves down on the bed, losing themselves in the pleasure of one another’s company.
Skin presses to skin, hands touching and mouths moving against each other. Steve’s fingers rake through Billy’s short curls, and Billy tips his head back, eyes fluttering closed and back arched as he moans under Steve’s touch. For a while it’s as though they’re no longer in Billy’s house, here by the waterfront in the city. They’re somewhere else entirely, in a place where they only belong to each other, and as they slide into one another’s touch it seems that nothing can pull them back to the reality of the moment.
It’s an hour or more before they once again return to the room. Both are naked, covered only by a thin sheet that pools around their waists as they lie side by side in the bed. Steve’s head rests on Billy’s shoulder, and both of them are sweaty and still catching their breath.
“I believe you have outdone yourself,” Billy says with a mischievous glance at Steve.
Steve laughs breathlessly. “A compliment I shall treasure,” he says.
For a few minutes they lie together without speaking. Billy unconsciously twirls a little piece of hair around one finger as he gazes meditatively up towards the white canopies that shroud the bed, canopies that remind him inescapably of the sails of his beloved Mercedes. He wonders hazily if the same thought has occurred to Steve. When he turns his head to ask, however, he finds his companion tracing idle patterns on his chest, brows furrowed as though in deep thought.
“What are you thinking about, looking so serious?” Billy asks.
Steve glances up at him, fingers stilling. His mouth flickers into a smile. “Remembering the past,” he says. His smile widens. “Remembering a foolish boy who fell out of a tree and nearly killed himself.”
“I hope you remember the other foolish boy who put him up to it,” Billy says with a laugh. Then his face grows serious. “Besides, were it not for that accident—”
Steve bends to kiss a stretch of his chest. “I know,” he murmurs. “I was thinking of that too.”
The incident occurred nearly five years ago now, somewhere between their birthdays so that Steve was just sixteen and Billy a little less than that. They had always been close friends, playing together as young children, but as their teenage years progressed their feelings began to change. Neither one could be brave enough to speak of it, however, and for far too long the knowledge stretched unspoken between them.
It mattered more at some times than at others. When their families began to speak of marriage, of suitable young women either one could be united with, then the uncomfortable feelings grew. But when it was just the two of them together, playing and talking just as they always had, it seemed less important. After all, each silently reasoned - without knowing the other felt the same - their unnatural desires mattered little when there was such friendship to be had.
But then came the day of the tree, a tree that stood on the hill that rises from the port to the Basilique Notre-Dame de la Garde. In their youth they spent many hours climbing the craggy limestone outcropping, scrambling up and down the trees that grew there and once attempting the walls of the basilica, a feat that earned them both a whipping as well as skinned knees.
The tree was enormous, its branches hanging out over the edge of the rocks, and even as boys they knew it would be dangerous to attempt to climb it. That did nothing to prevent Billy from starting up it, of course, with Steve’s encouragement from below.
He had reached almost to the topmost branch when a gust of wind surprised him and he fell, slipping through the leaves and hitting the ground with a grotesque thud that Steve would remember for the rest of his days.
Now they can laugh about it, but Steve still remembers the sickening fear that overtook him when Billy had fallen. He lay still under the tree, head tilted to one side and his eyes closed, and Steve was suddenly sure that he was dead. He ran to his friend’s side, aware only of his heart pounding in his chest, and his hands cradled Billy’s face.
“Billy,” he said. Later Billy would laugh at the desperation in his voice - but in the moment, it was all Steve could do not to burst into tears. “Billy, my love, Billy—”
That was when Billy opened his eyes, and from that moment they have been what they are now: friends, lovers, soulmates, connected in every possible manner.
They laugh now at the memory, so long ago that the fear and shock of the accident has faded into obscurity. Steve turns his head to look thoughtfully at Billy, who still twirls that small piece of hair around his finger, just behind his left ear.
“You only do that when you’re thinking of something serious,” he says. “What were you thinking about, before I distracted you with the past?”
Billy grimaces and releases his hair. “The future,” he says. Then, as though to remind them both: “We sail tomorrow.”
Steve reaches clumsily for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I know,” he says.
It’s a bittersweet recollection. They sail on another glorious mission for their city, pitting themselves this time against a warlord who has been terrorizing Marseille for far too long. The prospect of riches and fame lies before them, as well as many weeks spent together with their crew on the ship they both love.
They’ve spent half their lives aboard the Mercedes. Both were trained at her helm, and she was the obvious choice for Billy’s captaincy, awarded to him two years ago. Nowhere feels like home the way her cabins do, and nowhere can they be quite so free and independent as they can when they’re out on the water, surrounded by nothing but the ocean, with all their closest friends and confidants around them.
But they can’t have this closeness, this love. A ship is too confined a space to keep such a secret, and while their crew is loyal to them, this would be too much to expect them to forgive. Once they rise from this bed, they’ll cease to be Billy and Steve, lovers and soulmates - they’ll once again become Captain Hargrove and First Mate Harrington, best of friends but no more than that.
It’s a life they’ve chosen, a life they enjoy. But, as Billy murmurs quietly into Steve’s hair— “I wish we could have both.”
“We’re luckier than most,” Steve replies, although silently he’s in agreement. He turns his head, laying a kiss on Billy’s shoulder.
“I love you,” Billy says, and his voice is suddenly fierce. “I’ll never marry, you hear me? Never, not if I can’t marry you.”
Steve pushes himself onto an elbow, kissing Billy’s vehement mouth. “I love you,” he says. “I love you, I love you.”
“In my mind, I’m married to you,” Billy tells him. “I couldn’t feel more strongly for you than if we were married.”
“Then marry me,” Steve says. He squeezes Billy’s hand again, suddenly overcome by emotion. “Let’s say it, just for ourselves. I don’t know what god or spirit watches us from the heavens, but what has been joined together, let no man put asunder. I’m joined to you, Billy. I love you, and that can never be cast aside, no matter what obstacles may be put in our way.”
For a moment, Billy only looks at him. When he speaks, his voice trembles. “You’re very serious today, my love,” he says gently.
“As serious as you,” Steve says. “You said it yourself - we sail tomorrow. We’ll be away for weeks, perhaps months, and I won’t be able to touch you. At least if we’re married, I’ll know you’re my husband.”
“We can’t legally marry,” Billy says cautiously.
Steve shrugs. “It’s as you said,” he says. “In my mind, I’m married to you. I want to say the words. I want to be joined with you, as man and… man and man, I suppose. And whether or not anyone else ever knows it, ever recognizes it, we’ll always know.”
Billy presses in close to him. “Yes,” he says softly. “We’ll know. We’ll know how deep our love for one another runs, and we’ll know it to be stronger than anything else in the world.” He pauses, frowning, and then rolls away from Steve, opening a small drawer in the table beside the bed.
He turns back. “Here,” he says. He’s holding a length of string. “For a ring. I’ll put one on your finger, and you’ll put one on mine. I have a knife—”
They sit up in bed, huddled together as Billy cuts the string into two pieces. With shaking hands, he binds one around Steve’s third finger, weaving it with a sailor’s knot so that it won’t fall away.
Steve gazes down at it reverently. It’s not much of a ring, perhaps, and yet it seems to him as precious and full of meaning as any piece of gold or jewels.
He looks up to meet Billy’s eyes. “It will never leave my finger,” he promises. It’s a vow as solemn as one made in a church before God. “I’ill always wear it, for the rest of my life.”
Billy kisses him briefly, before extending his own hand for Steve to wrap the remaining string around the appropriate finger. “I love you,” he says quietly, and impulsively bends to kiss the ring Steve has just given him. “I’ll never marry another,” he says. “This will be the only ring I ever wear.”
“I take thee to be my husband,” Steve says. “To have and to hold, to love and to cherish from this day forward…” He stops, flushing and smiling. “I don’t remember all the words,” he confesses.
“In sickness and in health,” Billy says. “For richer, for poorer—”
“For better or for worse,” Steve goes on, nodding. “To honor—”
Billy smiles. “And obey,” he says. “Until death do us part—”
“All the days of my life,” Steve finishes, and Billy nods, gazing down at the ring of twine adorning his finger.
Notes:
I hope the language is okay! You do get used to it, or at least I did, while I was writing it <3
Chapter 2: deux (1815)
Notes:
Thank you all for being lovely - I hope you enjoy this one too! <3
Chapter Text
It’s three weeks of sailing before the ship is sighted. They’re not far from the Corsican coast, having put in there to replenish their water supplies not two days ago, and every man aboard is heartily sick of traversing the same stretches of ocean time and time again.
The man they’re hunting was once a lord of Marseille, as respected and noble as either the Hargrove or the Harrington families. His name is Hopper, and seventeen years ago he owned a flourishing merchant shipping company operating out of the port. He had a reputation as a fair and honest trader who treated his employees well and paid them better, and he was so successful that he soon had a monopoly over Marseille import trade.
So it should have remained, and perhaps would have done, but for an attack on a fleet of his ships as they returned to the city laden with all the wealth Hopper possessed. He lost most of what he had that day, and as he scrambled to pick up the pieces of his once-prosperous company, reports began filtering in that he had in fact subsidized his legitimate business with funds gained through piracy, and that the attack on his fleet had been retribution from a rival pirate clan with whom he had previously had nefarious dealings.
Hopper was too clever a man to wait for the gendarmes to come for him. He took the last remaining ship he had and fled, and the city of Marseille has been troubled by piracy orchestrated under his name ever since.
Previous expeditions to hunt him down have been attempted, but he seems to have a knack for knowing when to retreat, as well as some private hiding place that no one has yet been able to discover. Rumors abound that he has amassed a vast fortune in some secret location, and even that he has discovered the fabled Hawkins treasure of long ago - a treasure that would be the greatest conquest in living history, should some brave hero succeed in delivering it to Marseille.
Captain Hargrove is determined to be that hero, to make his father and his city proud.
The plan to capture the pirate is Hargrove’s own invention. Every attempt to discover his secret base of operations has failed, and more, Hopper seems always to know when a naval ship is tracking him, and hides away until it passes on. The captain’s plan differs because he is making no effort to find the pirate cove where Hopper and his crew are hiding.
“My father has his doubts,” he says as he stands at the helm of the Mercedes with Harrington, one hand caressing the smooth wooden curves of her wheel. He shades his eyes with the other hand, gazing out across the expanse of glittering blue. “But I’m certain this is the correct course.”
It’s not the first time he’s expressed this thought to his first mate, but just as every other time, Harrington responds soothingly. “It is the correct course,” he says. “Your father will see that when we succeed.”
Hargrove bites his lip. Governor Hargrove is a wise and celebrated leader, but he is not known to tolerate failure lightly. “It seems to me…” his son begins, and then pauses, turning to glance at his companion. “I know I’ve said this before,” he says apologetically.
“Tell me again,” Harrington replies encouragingly.
Hargrove nods, reassured. “It seems to me that the pirate is an intelligent and shrewd strategist,” he says. “My father doesn’t like to hear me pay compliments to such a blackguard, but while I understand his feelings, I think it does no good to underestimate the man’s talents.”
“I agree,” Harrington says.
“He always knows when an expedition is underway to discover him,” the captain goes on. “Some say he has spies within our numbers, but there is not a man among this crew that I wouldn’t trust with my life. I think it more likely that he recognizes the pattern when our ships are sent out on such a mission. They explore the same areas, and are equipped in similar ways.”
Harrington nods, though by now Hargrove is so immersed in his musings that he hardly needs the encouragement.
“That’s why, when we set off, I asked for different sails and a smaller crew,” Hargrove says. “We haven’t followed the usual tracks. We’ve put in at different ports. We could easily be a delegation sent to negotiate finer points of trade after the congress.”
“Hopper may still have his suspicions,” Harrington observes.
Hargrove nods his head. “If he’s as clever as I believe him to be, he’ll suspect any ship that leaves Marseille as a matter of form,” he says. “Our mission is to lull him into a false sense of security. We will not pursue his usual haunts. We’ll make ourselves appear benign to his eyes.” He pauses, adjusting the wheel slightly. “He must leave his hiding place eventually,” he says. “It’s been months since his ship has been sighted. His crew must surely be in need of supplies and water.”
“You did well to choose your moment of departure as you did,” Harrington says. “Any longer and you might have missed him.”
“I hope I’ve chosen well overall,” Hargrove says, mouth twisting. “My father—”
“Your father will see the wisdom in your plan,” his first mate interrupts. He pauses, choosing his words carefully, for while he has never held great esteem for the governor beyond the general respect his office commands, he’s well aware of the high regard his friend holds for his father. “Your father has too many concerns and demands in his position to see any one of them in detail. You have been studying the pirate’s movements for years. He will see your success and take pride in it.”
Hargrove sighs, the sound weary beyond his years. “I hope you’re right,” he says. He shakes his head. “I can’t explain it - when I left, it seemed almost as though my father wished me not to go.”
Harrington makes a swift, aborted motion towards him, almost as if to take his hand. Then he steps back, a brief and oddly melancholy smile on his face. “He’s your father,” he says. “He must worry for you when you’re away.”
“It’s unusual for him to show such concern,” Hargrove says.
Harrington doesn’t speak, though privately he can’t help but agree. He’s known the governor as long as he’s known the captain - which is to say, most of his life. The man is, in Harrington’s opinion, as unlike his son as it’s possible to be. Cold where Hargrove is passionate, austere where Hargrove is engaging, he undertakes his duties with a clinical coolness that seems the antithesis to Captain Hargrove’s warm sincerity.
Still, Harrington can’t deny that however much he may dislike the governor’s frosty and exacting personality, Marseille has enjoyed prosperity and peace in the twenty years he’s had the office. He held fast through the War of the Sixth Coalition and the Hundred Days, and under his watchful and meticulous eye industry has flourished in the city in spite of France’s military losses.
No, Harrington has little complaint regarding the execution of Governor Hargrove’s office. But as a father to the young captain, it’s Harrington’s opinion - one of the few opinions he hasn’t shared with his friend - that the governor has known failure.
Ever since Hargrove was a child, he’s longed for his father’s approval. His mother died when he was very young, so there’s been no other parent to grant him such approbation. To Harrington’s mind, Hargrove has been a son that any father could be proud of, yet such recognition he has rarely received from the governor. He’s slow to praise, quick to find fault, and seems always to look at his son with a critical eye.
Should Hargrove be successful on this, his most ambitious mission yet, his father cannot fail to be proud of his accomplishments. But given his track record, Harrington can’t help but wonder if the governor will still find some way to disappoint his son’s hopes.
As his thoughts drift along this familiar line, there’s a sudden commotion from the watchmen on post at the crow’s nest. Harrington turns sharply to see them pointing off to the north, towards the island of Elba in the distance.
“Sir!” The breathless young man jogging across the deck towards them is one of their youngest crew members at just sixteen. He looks somewhat red in the face, but still he pauses for a respectful salute and waits to be invited to speak.
“Private Wheeler,” Hargrove says sharply. “What’s your report?”
The private straightens his back. “Sails sighted coming around the island, captain,” he says smartly.
“We’ll set a course,” Hargrove says at once, turning away from the young officer.
Wheeler is the son of the lady who, mere weeks ago, insulted Hargrove’s dignity by propositioning him in spite of her advancing years and their disparate social positions. Indeed, she’s the kind of woman who often finds backs turned to her, due to her greedy social climbing and parasitic leeching on anyone who might advance the position of herself or either of her two children.
Still, it’s not Wheeler’s fault that his mother has so alienated herself from his captain. “Good work, private,” Harrington says, and the boy sags a little in relief.
Hargrove glances over at them with a little sigh. “Yes, yes, very well done,” he says impatiently. Harrington hides a smile. There’s no one else for whom the young captain would correct himself.
His eyes wander momentarily to the twist of twine on his left hand, the twin of the one adorning Billy’s finger. Both have bolstered the string with tiny neat stitching, done in the solitude of their cabins when nobody is there to see them. Billy’s thread has a little red in it, while Steve’s is white to match the twine. Neither ring has caught the attention of any of their crew. After all, how often does anyone look at a man’s left hand?
Harrington shakes his head, removing the errant thoughts from his mind. Now is not the time to think of their exchange of rings and vows, however much he enjoys the recollection.
The ship has caught the wind, and they sail at full speed towards the island. Sure enough, dead ahead is another ship, and it’s one Harrington recognizes. Indeed, they all know it, all of them trained to recognize it on sight, with its imposing dark stern and billowing tawny sails.
“The Astraea,” Hargrove breathes.
There are shouts coming from Astraea’s decks: they’ve been seen. It’s clear at once that the captain’s ruse has been successful; the pirates are running across the ship, unprepared for the fight Hargrove is bringing down on their unworthy heads.
“Ready the cannons!” the captain bellows, and a battalion of perfectly trained officers moves to obey him.
Harrington straightens up, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. It’s not his first naval battle, and he’s sure it won’t be his last - but still he feels a flicker of anxiety. He glances at Hargrove. It’s not himself he fears for.
They’ve done this before. They’re at their prime, the best in all Marseille. Allowing himself one brief brush past his captain’s arm, Harrington steps forward. He’s ready.
“Sir!” It’s the Wheeler boy again, still breathless and as wide-eyed as a child. “Sir! They’ve raised the white flag!”
“What?” Captain Hargrove holds out an impatient hand for a telescope - but the private is speaking the truth. A white flag, hastily hauled, flaps in the wind at the mast of the oncoming ship.
Hargrove looks back at Harrington, his face mystified. “It’s the right ship,” he says. “I’d swear my life on it.”
“Perhaps it’s a trap,” Harrington suggests.
“Even pirates have a code of honor,” Hargrove says doubtfully. He raises his voice. “Keep the cannons ready! We take the ship, whether by surrender or by force!”
Harrington takes the ship’s wheel as Hargrove departs, barking out orders. He keeps his eyes trained on the bright white flag as it flutters in the breeze. It looks as though it’s never been used before, still with creases where it’s been stowed away. Hopper has never been known to issue a surrender before.
He can’t help but suspect some kind of trick, and yet as Mercedes comes up beside Astraea, no cannons begin firing. Indeed, the crew onboard the pirate ship look - albeit from a distance - resigned to their fate. They don’t even appear to be armed.
“What’s happening?” Harrington murmurs to himself.
He’s not expecting a response, but unexpectedly Private Wheeler speaks beside him. He says hesitantly: “It looks to be a skeleton crew, sir.”
The boy is right. There aren’t nearly enough people on the Astraea for it to be fully manned, although Hopper is known to have a large crew. Of course, there could be more of them below decks, but it seems unlikely in the face of a hostile ship. What would be the use in hiding? Anyone onboard will soon be found, and dealt with all the more harshly for their attempt at deception.
“This can’t be one of his usual runs,” Harrington comments. He’d rather it was Hargrove beside him, but young Wheeler will have to do as an audience to his thoughts.
“Sir,” Wheeler breathes. He raises a shaking hand, pointing towards the enemy ship. “Sir, a woman!”
Harrington leans over the wheel, squinting towards Astraea as they slide up beside her. He can see a large imposing man standing with his hands on his own ship’s wheel, a man who can only be Hopper himself. He’s tall and bearded, a wide-brimmed cocked hat on his domed head and big meaty hands clutching the spokes of the wheel. Harrington has heard him described before, a lone figure at the helm of his ship.
But he’s not alone today. Standing beside him, just as Wheeler said, is a woman.
She looks young, too young to be a crewmate or a lover taken along for the ride. She’s perhaps fourteen or fifteen, no older than the private at Harrington’s side. She wears a white dress with a black corset, and there’s a cocked hat to match her captain’s adorning her head. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and to Harrington’s eye she looks afraid.
A child. What business has Hopper with a child at his side?
“Stand by and prepare to be boarded!” Hargrove’s command booms across to the other ship, and to Harrington’s surprise, Hopper only nods. He releases the wheel and steps towards the girl, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder.
It’s over in a matter of minutes. Not a man among the pirates resists as Hargrove’s forces take over the Astraea, shackling them together and bringing them back onboard the Mercedes. Hargrove involves himself at the start, but it’s clear he’s not needed, and he comes back to the helm to stand with Harrington and watch as his crew takes down the greatest pirate in Marseille without so much as a whimper.
“I don’t like this,” he says distractedly to Harrington. He’s dismissed the boy, so they’re alone at the wheel. “I’ve had the men search the ship, but there’s nothing there. Do you think she’s loaded with gunpowder?”
“He’d blow himself to pieces as well as us,” Harrington points out.
Hargrove shakes his head. “Why would he surrender without a fight? It makes no sense!”
“The girl,” Harrington says. “It must be to do with the girl. Perhaps he’s protecting her. Have them bring her with him when you question him - you’ll get more answers that way, I’m sure.”
Hargrove nods decisively. “I’ll bring them up here,” he says. “I don’t like interrogating pirates down in a grubby cabin. Give me the clear light of day so that I can look in his eyes and know when he’s lying!” He raises his voice once more. “Bring them here! The captain and his concubine!”
That elicits a response - Hopper raises his head with fury in his eyes and an exclamation on his lips, and Hargrove laughs to himself. “That’s stirred up a hornet’s nest!”
“She must be his daughter,” Harrington says.
“Some bastard child, no doubt, but one he’s fond of all the same,” Hargrove agrees. He shakes his head again. “But why has he brought her on his boat? I’d not take anyone I loved into danger.”
Harrington looks at him sideways. “No?”
Hargrove flushes, and touches the hidden ring on his finger. “Not pirating,” he amends, and Harrington’s mouth flickers into a smile.
The pair of prisoners are hauled up to face Captain Hargrove and his first mate at the helm of Mercedes, and Harrington is afforded his first real look at both of them. The pirate captain is as tall as any man he’s ever seen, a veritable giant with a red sunburnt face and small intelligent eyes. His hands look large enough to choke a man to death in a moment, and Harrington spares a moment to be relieved that they’re chained together in front of him.
They haven’t chained the girl. As he’d thought, she’s a mere child, no more than fifteen, and though she’s attempting to seem unconcerned he can see her trembling before them. She’s thin, a little too thin to be healthy, and Harrington is shocked to see that her head is shorn beneath the overlarge hat she wears.
“James Hopper,” Hargrove says. His chest is puffed, his voice at its most imperious and cool. “I did not expect to receive your surrender when I set my course.”
The pirate glowers at him from under enormous bushy brows. “No,” he says, his voice deep and graveled. “I’ll wager you didn’t.”
“Care to explain yourself?” Hargrove asks. He gestures towards the skinny girl before Hopper can answer. “Or perhaps I should ask your daughter. I presume she’s your daughter,” he adds, one eyebrow lifted.
Hopper’s teeth grind audibly. “She’s innocent,” he says, voice low with fury. “She has nothing to do with any of this.”
“She’s been caught aboard a pirate ship,” Hargrove points out. “Hardly innocent, even if she is a child.” He turns to the girl. “What should I call you?” he asks her.
The girl takes a breath, face pale. “My name is Jane Hopper,” she says. She glances fearfully at the large man beside her. “Please, don’t hurt my father,” she says. “He’s here on… on my account. He’s done nothing.”
There’s movement from one of the men guarding her: Private Wheeler looks uncomfortable. He’s young, perhaps only a little older than she is, and he’s yet to see the punishments meted out to men accused of piracy. Little wonder he blanches at the thought of a lady treated ill.
“Your father has terrorized Marseille for seventeen years,” Hargrove says conversationally. “How many shipments has our city lost, how much wealth, how much industry, thanks to his intervention? I dare not even begin to calculate the lives wasted on his behalf.”
“Jane knows nothing of any of this,” Hopper says, voice rising. “She’s been caught in this through no fault of her own.”
Hargrove nods thoughtfully, and Harrington sees his hand lift halfway to his ear and then hastily back again. When he’s pensive he often unconsciously twists his hair around his fingers, but it wouldn’t do at this moment.
“If she’s innocent, why was she on your ship?” Harrington asks. “What’s her story? I never heard of the great pirate Hopper traveling with a child before.” He speaks derisively, giving the captain a moment to consider his thoughts.
Hopper opens his mouth as if to retaliate, and then his gaze drops. He sighs. “You may as well know all of it,” he says. “My daughter is fifteen, born to a woman I knew briefly from Elba. I have visited when I could, though I did not wish to bring her into this life of mine.” He glances swiftly at the girl; her eyes are downcast unhappily.
“I haven’t been able to visit for some time,” the pirate goes on. “While Bonaparte was exiled on the island, no ships could approach without scrutiny, and so I had no word of my daughter for almost a year. To my shame, I did not know that her mother had died, and that her mother’s relatives were mistreating her.”
“They never liked me,” Jane says unexpectedly, her voice steady in spite of her obvious fear. “They despised me for being a bastard and a pirate’s daughter, though I have always been proud of it.” There’s an oddly satisfied note to her voice.
Hopper shakes his head irritably, the chains around his wrists clanking together. “More fool you, child,” he says, a sentiment with which Harrington cannot help but agree. He looks up at Hargrove with clear eyes. “As soon as I heard of my daughter’s circumstances, I brought my ship here to fetch her to my side. I brought only a small number of my crew, and none of my weapons or treasures. You will find none of that here. My only object has been to rescue my innocent child from mistreatment.”
Hargrove lifts his chin. “And this, I suppose, I must believe without evidence.”
“I have no reason to lie,” Hopper says. “I knew as soon as I saw your ship that I could not flee. I surrendered to you rather than put my daughter in harm’s way. That’s the truth, whether you believe it or not. There’s no treasure to be found on my ship, and not a man in my crew will give away our secrets.” He smiles a twisted smile. “All this work you’ve done, and your only plunder is an old pirate and his innocent child.”
Chapter 3: trois (1815)
Notes:
It's very strange having a regular posting schedule again, moreso because IT'S THE WRONG DAY. I have spent YEARS posting on a Tuesday, this is WEIRD. Oh well, enjoy your swashbuckling Thursday!
Chapter Text
“I don’t like this,” Hargrove says. He’s pacing in his cabin, one hand at his head with a twist of hair twirled around his finger. The room isn’t large, and three or four strides brings him to the edge of it. He turns and marches in the opposite direction.
Harrington sits at the little table against the wall, opposite the captain’s bunk. He watches Hargrove striding past. “Hopper gave his account sincerely,” he says. “Do you think there’s more to the story?”
Hargrove shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know! It seemed to me that he spoke truthfully - but whoever heard of an honest pirate? A pirate who would surrender rather than fight? It doesn’t match the stories we’ve heard of him before.”
“Even the most fearsome of men may be vulnerable where their children are concerned,” Harrington says slowly.
Hargrove shakes his head, twisting his finger all the more tightly into the close-cropped curls behind his left ear. “There was something in his face, his look,” he says. He pauses in his pacing, trying to parse out his own thoughts. “He looked at me as though I was a child - a child meddling in business beyond his comprehension. There’s something here I haven’t understood.”
Harrington accepts this with a nod. He’s never been one to question his captain’s intuition. “Have him brought to you, and question him further,” he suggests. He adds with some discomfort: “I think he’d tell you anything, if he thought his daughter was at risk.”
“There’s no honor in threatening a young girl,” Hargrove says. He sighs, touching the ring of twine on his left hand. “Perhaps it won’t come to that. Will you have him fetched here? I don’t want every ear aboard hearing what he has to say.”
“Of course,” Harrington says, already making for the door. “I’ll tell the men that you’re not to be disturbed.”
Hargrove nods, and falls into the chair his first mate has vacated with another weighty sigh. “The girl is safe, isn’t she?” he asks.
Harrington pauses with one hand on the door handle. He lets out a short laugh. “She’s under the care of Private Wheeler,” he says. “I think the boy may be a little taken with her.”
“He’s a child,” Hargrove says derisively. Then, biting his lip: “You’ll stay, when I question the pirate?”
“Of course,” Harrington says again. He lowers his voice a fraction. “I won’t leave you, Captain.”
For a moment they only look at one another, something like relief stretching between them. Then Harrington smiles and ducks out of the room. Hargrove is left sitting at his table, one hand still touching his hair. He feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, or more accurately, the weight of all his father’s expectations.
This should be his moment of victory. He’s captured the pirate Hopper and his infamous ship Astraea, along with at least some of his crew. But instead of triumph, he feels only unease. Something is wrong with the picture, though as yet he cannot understand what it is.
It’s some minutes before Harrington returns, guiding Hopper beside him still in chains. The man has been divested of his jaunty hat and bright coat, but there’s still an aura of command about him in spite of his lack of formal clothing. He stands tall and proud, as though unaware of the shackles binding him.
“James Hopper,” Hargrove says as Harrington shuts the door of the cabin behind them. He gestures towards an empty chair. “Please, sit down.”
Warily, the pirate obeys. His eyes flicker between his two captors, but he doesn’t speak.
“You have told me the story of your daughter,” Hargrove begins. He pauses. “I hope you’ve told me the truth.”
“I have,” Hopper says, his voice a low growl.
Hargrove nods slowly. “I think there’s more you haven’t told me,” he says. When he looks at the big man before him, he feels it more strongly than ever. “I can see it in your eyes,” he says.
For a long moment, Hopper leans back in his chair and regards the captain, as though coming to some decision of his own. Something in his eyes softens. He says, “You’re William Hargrove, aren’t you? The governor’s son.”
“Yes,” Hargrove says. “I am.”
The ghost of a smile plays on Hopper’s lips. “We’ve met before, you and I, though you won’t remember it,” he says. When Hargrove startles, his smile grows. “You were just a child,” he explains. “Your father and I met on business matters more than once.”
“When you had a legitimate business,” Harrington says.
Hopper flinches, as though he’d forgotten there was anyone else in the room. “Yes,” he says. He looks back at Hargrove. “I know what you’ve been told about me,” he says. “They say I funded my company with piracy, and took it up as a profession once my legal business failed. Now I’m known as the terror of Marseille, responsible for every attack this side of France.”
Hargrove lifts an eyebrow. “Do you deny the charges of piracy?”
Another flickering smile darts across the large bristled face. “I’m a pirate, it’s true,” Hopper acknowledges a little ruefully. Then his face grows serious. “I’ve been forced into it. Before my company failed and my shipments were sunk, I never broke a law in my life.”
“Even if that’s true, it means nothing,” Hargrove says dismissively. “It’s unfortunate that you lost your livelihood, but you were hardly forced into piracy. Losses do occur in business.”
“This was no ordinary loss!” Hopper’s voice rises unexpectedly, and Hargrove holds himself still. He refuses to flinch before this man’s temper. “My ships were sunk deliberately, by people jealous of my success. They paved the way for their own, substandard imports, and created for themselves a useful scapegoat for their own swindles.”
Harrington gasps, and he’s not the only one. Hargrove leans forward in his seat. “Explain yourself,” he commands.
Hopper glances again between the two of them. “You’re young, both of you,” he says. “That’s the only reason I’ll tell you this. Anyone a generation older would know it already. There’s corruption in Marseille, Captain Hargrove. Your father the governor, or someone very close to him in office, is involved in a plot to fund disreputable shipping companies, insuring their goods for appropriate sums against piracy. When the goods fail to arrive in Marseille, the city blames pirates - blames me! - and is therefore paid the insurance.”
He pauses, seemingly aware of the depth of his accusation. “But I am not to blame,” he says. “I have not attacked these ships. I have never attacked a merchant ship entering the Bay of Marseille. The goods are secretly moved to a secondary location and sold on, allowing those in charge to pocket both the insurance monies and the funds from the sales.”
There’s a long, long silence.
Hargrove says, his voice trembling: “You have no proof of this.”
“I have my word,” Hopper says. “It may not mean much to you, but to me it is worth all the evidence in the world. And I have more than that. I have the location where the imported goods are taken.” He smiles a rather unpleasant smile. “That is where my own piracy comes into play, I will confess. Since these goods have already been stolen, I see no reason to allow a corrupt government to profit still further from their theft.”
“So you steal them,” Harrington says forcefully. “The word of a thief against the sanctity of the Marseille government!” But his words do not quite ring true, at least to Hargrove’s ears.
Hopper shrugs his large shoulders. “I don’t deny that I’m a pirate,” he says. “My legitimate business was deliberately destroyed because I was outstripping the other inferior shipping companies, and nobody would have thought to attempt this scheme with my ships. I would never have allowed it. Those behind this plot knew I would stop at nothing to expose it, so they put the blame on my head instead.”
He pauses and leans forward, earnest eyes meeting Hargrove’s. “I had no choice but to turn to piracy,” he says. “Under threat of imprisonment for a crime I hadn’t committed, there was no legal recourse open to me. But I have never attacked or defrauded an innocent. I have only ever taken that which was already stolen.”
Captain Hargrove blinks against the sincerity in his voice, horrified to find that there are tears in his eyes. He says unsteadily: “You have no proof that my father is involved in this plot.”
“True,” Hopper says thoughtfully. “His involvement seems likely to me because of his position - but it’s certainly possible that he, too, has been deceived by others.”
“Yes,” Hargrove says eagerly. “My father is an honorable man. He would never be party to such a scheme - if, indeed, such a scheme exists.”
Hopper regards him pensively. “You believe me,” he says. “I can see it in your face. You wish you could dismiss me - but you believe what I’ve told you.”
Hargrove doesn’t answer him at once, his hand finding that curl of hair behind his ear once more. He’s sensible enough to recognize the truth in the old pirate’s words. He does believe in the fantastic tale, in spite of everything in him crying out to reject it. There’s a sincerity in Hopper’s eyes that he’s unable to ignore.
At last, he spreads his hands. “Whether I believe you or not, there’s nothing I can do for you,” he says. “I am one man, and you admit to breaking the law, whether or not you think you were justified. You must return to Marseille with me and face justice for what you’ve done. I will lay everything you’ve said before my father, and he will investigate the truth in your claims.”
“And if you’re wrong, and your father is party to the plot I’ve described?” Hopper asks challengingly.
“My father is an honorable man,” Hargrove insists. “Besides, what would you have me do? Release you? My crew knows we’ve taken your ship. I’d be hanged the moment I reached port if I let you go.”
Hopper’s face twists. “Your father would intercede for you, if he’s as honorable as you say,” he says, but his tone is doubtful.
“He’s the governor, not the king,” Hargrove says. “Even for me, there’s only so much he can do - and without you there to tell your tale, I’m just a child spinning fairy stories. I must trust in my father, or what sort of son - what sort of citizen - am I?” He stands suddenly. “But I will speak for you,” he proclaims. “I do believe you, and I will put your story forward to my father. Whatever I can do for you, I will.”
The pirate nods his large head. “And with that I will have to be satisfied,” he says gravely. “Thank you, Captain Hargrove, for listening to me. There are not many who would.”
“This captain is not like any other,” Harrington says loyally. Hargrove flushes, touching his ring momentarily.
Hopper acknowledges the point with a nod. Then his voice changes, becoming more frantic. “My daughter,” he says. “She is the most important thing to me in the world. If not for her I would have left Marseille years ago. Will you promise to keep her safe, if I cannot?”
“I will do what I can,” Hargrove says.
“Please,” Hopper says, all commanding pride abandoned. “She is innocent in all of this. Her safety, her protection, is more important to me than any of the rest of it. I’ll gladly face the hangman for her sake. I must have your word.”
Hargrove stands up tall. “You have it,” he says formally. “I will do everything in my power to ensure the safety of your daughter, and should I be rendered incapable, I charge my first mate to uphold my word as though it were his own. Will you do it, Harrington?”
“I will,” Harrington says solemnly. “I will see her protected.”
Hopper closes his eyes in something like relief. “Thank you,” he says. “You are both gentlemen.”
He’s sent back to his cell after that; Hargrove can’t be seen to be allied with him, all the more so if he’s to present an impartial version of his tale. After Harrington has left, he sits for a long time in his cabin, worrying at the string stitched around his finger and thinking over everything the pirate has told him.
It’s a mere three days of sailing to return to Marseille, and they pass too quickly. The captain is restless, pensive, unable to settle to any of his usual duties. His crew notices his abstraction, although they’re too well-trained to comment on it.
Only Harrington allows himself to say, when they’re an hour out of port: “You’re not yourself, Captain.”
“I confess that my thoughts are troubled,” Hargrove says, which is more than he would admit to any other. He stands at the wheel of the ship, the wind rippling in the sails above him as he gazes out across the sea. “I’ve been turning the pirate’s story over in my mind since he told it.”
“It’s the same for me,” Harrington says. He stands close, close enough that the knuckles of one hand might brush his captain’s fingers briefly without anyone the wiser. “It’s an astonishing tale, and one that speaks to a corruption in our city that I wish I did not have to believe in.”
Hargrove nods. “He still suspects my father,” he says. “I know he does.”
Harrington pauses, and then inquires delicately: “Do you have suspicions in that direction?”
“Of my father?” Hargrove exclaims, shocked. He’s aware that Harrington has never particularly warmed to the governor, but he wouldn’t have expected this. “Do you?”
“I have no reason to think so,” Harrington says quickly. “Under your father’s rule, Marseille has always prospered. I only think…” He halts, choosing his words with care. “If he is not party to the scheme, then he has been deceived,” he says at last. “Your father… your father does not seem like the sort of man easily deceived.”
Hargrove moves his hand angrily away from Harrington’s. “So he must be guilty because he has been unfortunate in his advisors and friends,” he says bitterly. “By that measure you may as well place suspicion on my head as well. If my father is guilty, then by association I should be too.”
“Captain,” Harrington says gently, and when that elicits no response: “Billy. I do not blame you or your father. I mean only to suggest that whatever plot is behind this corruption, it runs deep. You must move carefully.”
The captain looks away, irritated by his first mate’s caution. “You have never liked my father,” he says in a hard voice. “It suits you to blame him for this.”
“I only ever disliked him for his attitude towards you,” Harrington objects. “And I don’t blame him. We have no proof of anyone’s guilt yet. We don’t even have proof that Hopper is telling the truth, though I must admit I do believe his story.” He touches Hargrove’s hand gently. “Please don’t be angry with me,” he says. “I am with you, always.”
Hargrove sighs, mollified. “I will be careful,” he says. “What else can I do? I must see justice done. My father must listen to me. I’m sure he will.”
“You know I will support you,” Harrington says.
“I won’t involve you unless I must,” Hargrove replies. “Speak to no one of this, Harrington. We have no idea who could be behind it.”
It’s not long before Mercedes is docked at port, flags flying in victory at her success. Captain Hargrove supervises the unloading of his precious ship, enduring the praise and celebration that surrounds him as Hopper is escorted none too gently to the city gaol. No one looks at him closely enough to realize that he isn’t as carefree as he ought to be, after such a success. No one but Harrington.
The gendarmes aren’t expecting a young lady, and for a while no one quite knows what to do with the girl Jane. She cannot be a prisoner at her tender age, and yet she can’t be released without a guardian either. Hargrove, mindful of the promise he gave to the pirate, argues her case until it’s agreed that she’ll be given over to the guardianship of a reputable family until her fate is decided.
“My mother will look after her,” Private Wheeler says at once, when this news is delivered to the girl. He’s been on watch outside her cabin since she was brought on board. “She is a respectable widow, and I know she will agree. I can speak for her in this case.”
Hargrove has no doubt that Lady Wheeler will undertake any action that might ingratiate her with the governor’s office. His mouth twists in distaste - but he can think of no better guardian for Hopper’s child. “You will accompany her to your mother’s house,” he tells the private. “Her protection is of the highest importance to me, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Wheeler says earnestly. “I swear to you, she will come to no harm.”
“You seem very solicitous over her,” Hargrove says suspiciously. “Don’t go falling in love with the girl, private. She’s the bastard daughter of a pirate. Nothing will come of it.”
Wheeler blushes. “Of course not, sir,” he says unconvincingly. Hargrove shakes his head a little, but sends the girl with him all the same.
“I must see my father, and sort through this murky business,” he says to Harrington, when all the commotion has died down and they have a quiet moment together. They’re alone by the docks, tucked in a quiet corner away from the hustle and bustle of the shiphands. The sun is setting, and Hargrove enjoys the feel of the sea breeze on his face. “In truth, I wish I didn’t have to unpick this scheme.”
“I know it’s a trouble you didn’t ask for,” Harrington says, and he’s daring enough to lay a brief hand on his captain’s arm. “It’s an ugly undertaking.”
Hargrove shakes his head, unaccountably troubled. “It’s as though there’s a shadow hanging over my head,” he says unhappily. “I feel a foreboding I can’t explain, as though I were opening a door I would wish to leave closed.”
“You’re doing the right thing, if that’s any comfort,” Harrington offers.
“It is a comfort,” Hargrove says with a smile. “Your reassurance will always comfort me. I’m grateful for it.”
Harrington’s eyes are warm. “You will always have it,” he says. He glances swiftly from side to side, and adds quietly: “All the days of my life.”
“Until death do us part,” Hargrove agrees softly. He touches the curl of hair behind his left ear. “I wish I could understand this unease! I still feel as though there is something in all this I have not understood, as though I’m missing some part of the tale.”
“Speak to your father,” Harrington says. “Perhaps that will set your mind at rest - to lay the story before a greater authority, one with the power to do something about it.”
Hargrove nods firmly. “I will,” he says. He looks at Harrington. “Remember your promise. I may be caught up in this for some time, so it will be your charge to keep the girl safe. If I believe anything, it’s that she’s innocent of any part in this plot. You must protect her while I cannot.”
“I gave Hopper my word, and I give it to you too,” Harrington says. “The girl will come to no harm. I swear it.”
“Thank you,” Hargrove says. He makes as though to go - and then something makes him hesitate. He looks quickly back to his first mate. “Until death do us part, my love,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Harrington touches his ring, his eyes steady and sincere. “All the days of my life,” he replies.
Hargrove nods, and slips away.
Chapter 4: quatre (1815)
Notes:
Oops, nearly forgot to post! I know this is a very niche sort of fic, so, for those people following along and leaving me lovely comments, THANK YOU. You're all superstars <3
Chapter Text
Hargrove's heart is thumping as he ascends the stairs that lead to his father’s office. It’s a trepidation that to a certain extent he’s used to feeling; whenever he presents himself to the governor there is always some anxiety. His father has high standards, and he’s not shy to express when they have not been met.
This is different, however. This is not some boyish desire to please his father. He comes now to the governor of Marseille with a story of corruption, and in the pit of his stomach there’s a barely acknowledged terror that his father will not believe him.
The young captain steels himself as he comes to the enormous pair of ornate gilded doors that lead into the governor’s inner sanctum. A red-liveried servant stands to attention outside, and Hargrove gives the man his name. The servant nods and disappears into the room, leaving Hargrove waiting outside.
It’s a wait of perhaps only ten minutes, but it seems interminable. The captain paces the marble hall, hands folded behind his back in an effort to stop them from trembling. He thinks of Hopper, of the earnest expression in his eyes as he made his claims. He thinks of the girl Jane, who he swore to protect. He thinks of Harrington, and it’s that thought that strengthens his resolve.
Harrington believes in him. Harrington believes he’s doing the right thing. He’ll live up to the man Harrington believes him to be or die trying.
At length, the doors open again, and the servant beckons him over. “The governor will see you now,” he says self-importantly.
“Thank you,” Hargrove says, and he walks through into his father’s office.
It’s a small room by noble standards, but beautiful nonetheless. The ceiling is high and vaulted, and the room is flooded with orange and pink light from the sunset let in through the vast windows opposite the door. Hargrove’s footsteps echo on the marble floor as he steps inside. Immediately in front of him, illuminated by the colored shafts of dying sunlight, is a large ornate table, and sitting at the table is his father.
Governor Neil Hargrove is not an imposing man. He has none of Hopper’s height or broadness of shoulder. He’s small, slight, balding a little and sporting a sparse mustache on his thin face. The black robes of office he wears hang loosely on his slender frame, giving the impression that he’s disappearing among them.
Nevertheless, when he looks up and meets his son’s eyes, there’s a piercing power in his gaze that makes the captain shrink a little.
“Father,” Hargrove says formally, coming to a halt in front of him.
The governor acknowledges the greeting with a sharp nod. “I hear you’ve achieved much success on your mission,” he says. His voice is dry and precise.
“I have achieved what I set out to do,” Hargrove says carefully. “Father, I bring a matter of much importance before you.”
For a moment, the governor says nothing, his head tilted as if in thought. Then he glances at the servant. “Leave us,” he says. The man nods and withdraws, closing the heavy doors behind him.
Captain Hargrove waits. His father bends his head to the papers in front of him, picking up a slender silver pen and dipping it in an open pot of ink. He writes for a moment or two, finishing with a curling signature. Then he lays down the pen and replaces the cap on his inkpot.
At last, he leans back in his chair, steepling his fingertips together. “It must be of importance indeed, to trouble me so late in the evening,” he says.
“I would not have done so if the circumstances did not require immediate attention,” Hargrove says.
His father nods. “Very well,” he says. “Tell me of this matter.”
Hargrove takes a breath, arranging his thoughts carefully. His father despises excesses of emotion; he will want the story told factually and precisely, without exaggeration or sentiment. He himself did not hear Hopper speak as Billy did. It will be hard to recreate the certainty that the tale left in the captain and his first mate.
“I captured the pirate Hopper and his crew through no great skill of my own,” Hargrove says, though it pains him to admit it. “Although the plan I had devised to trick him into believing the Mercedes harmless was successful, he surrendered at our approach without a fight. He had only the smallest crew aboard, and none were armed.”
The governor’s chin lifts, his eyes narrowing. Clearly a thought has formed, but he does not express it.
Hargrove goes on. “The reason for this became clear soon enough. The pirate had on board a young girl, his daughter, and he surrendered in order to assure her safety.”
“I had heard that a woman was on board the Astraea,” Governor Hargrove muses. Hargrove waits for further questions, but after a moment his father shakes his head. “Go on,” he says.
“He told her story to me readily,” Hargrove says. “She grew up on Elba, the bastard daughter of a woman he knew there years ago. But for her, he said, he would have left Marseille long ago.”
The governor’s lips thin. “A pity, then, that she was conceived,” he says tightly.
Hargrove nods, relieved in spite of himself to hear the comment. Surely his father wouldn’t say such a thing if he had any knowledge of a conspiracy? He says, “He was unable to visit her in the years of Bonaparte’s exile on the island, and so had no word when her mother died. She was taken into the care of her mother’s relatives, who mistreated her.” He pauses. “I don’t know the method by which this mistreatment took place, but she looked too thin for comfort to my eyes, and her head was shorn.”
“To mistreat a lady is the height of dishonor,” his father says sententiously.
“I am glad to hear you say so, for I have sworn an oath to protect the girl,” the captain says. “Her father was anxious above all to ensure her safety, and swears she’s innocent of any crime. Our ship interrupted him in his quest to remove her from the grasp of her mother’s relatives, hence his surrender.”
His father tips his head back a little. “You swore an oath to a pirate captain?” he asks, incredulity creeping into his voice.
“For the sake of an innocent girl, I did,” Hargrove says.
Another long pause. The governor nods at last. “Go on,” he says.
“I have no rational explanation for it, but I found myself dissatisfied with the pirate’s tale,” Hargrove says, resuming the story. “I felt he kept something back, and I determined myself to discover the truth.”
“Of course he kept something back,” Governor Hargrove says acidly. “He’s a blackguard and a villain. Lying is second nature to pirate scum like him.”
Hargrove bites his lip. His father has always been disposed to think harshly of pirates; small wonder, since they’ve plagued Marseille for so long. It will be difficult to make him see things another way, but still an attempt must be made.
“I questioned him in private,” the captain says. “He had a fantastic tale to tell, one which I could hardly believe - but in spite of all reason, I find that I do believe it, and I knew I must bring it before you for investigation.”
Briefly, he relays the story Hopper told him, though he omits the pirate’s personal accusations against the governor’s office. He’ll never believe such slander of his father, and it will do no good to imply that Hopper has his suspicions. His father listens without speaking, hands pressed together and a tiny frown on his lined face, and when Hargrove stops talking he sits in silence for a long time.
He says at last: “This is a serious claim indeed.”
“Yes, sir,” Hargrove replies. “I can hardly believe it myself, but I think it warrants immediate investigation.”
The governor nods slowly. “It has occurred to you, I suppose, that the pirate is lying to save his own skin?”
“I thought of it, father,” Hargrove says. He pauses, corralling his thoughts. “I can’t deny that it’s a possibility. All I can say is that my instincts tell me the pirate is sincere. There was truth in his face. That means little, I know, but to my mind there is enough cause for doubt that his claims must be investigated.”
“If what you say is true, the corruption must run deep indeed,” Governor Hargrove says, looking troubled. “I can hardly believe it - I can think of none of my advisors and ministers who I would accuse of such a thing.” He takes a breath, shaking his head. “This has shaken me, Captain. I will admit that it has shaken me deeply.”
Hargrove takes a step forward. “You have my support, father,” he says passionately. “Trust me with this inquiry, and together we will uncover the truth.”
His father’s face flickers with a rare smile. “I have no doubt about that,” he says. Then he frowns. “But this could be a dangerous road. Even now, a conspirator may have seen you come to my office. Has it not occurred to you that you might be in danger?”
The captain’s mouth falls open, for truthfully the thought had not crossed his mind. “I—”
“You say you interrogated the pirate in private,” the governor interrupts. “Have you spoken of this to any other? Have you shared his story among your crew?”
“No, father,” Hargrove says, a little shocked. “I would not be so lax.” He thinks a little guiltily of Harrington - but he can’t tell his father that Harrington was there when he spoke to Hopper. He did not invite his first mate to attend the interview as a crewmember, but as a friend and confidante, and he cannot risk the scrutiny of revealing this truth.
Besides, it matters little. Hargrove trusts Harrington with his life. To share Harrington into a secret is as good as keeping it to himself.
“So, no one knows of this matter besides us and the pirate,” the governor muses. He nods firmly. “We must keep it that way. You will spend the night in my chambers, with my most trusted guards outside the door, while I think on this matter.”
Hargrove looks at him, startled. “You cannot think I am in so much danger, father?”
“I am unwilling to take any risks with your life,” his father replies, uncharacteristically sentimental. “I will call a guard now to accompany you. If this story is true… We cannot know the lengths to which the guilty parties might go in order to protect their secrets.”
Once the decision is made, the governor moves quickly. He summons a pair of guards, and the young captain soon finds himself walking between them down the long corridor towards the rooms his father sleeps in when work keeps him away from home overnight. He feels somewhat dazed by the serious turn events have taken. Though he always understood the grave nature of the scheme Hopper outlined to him, he never thought to fear for his own life.
“Here, sir,” one of the guards says, opening the door to his father’s chambers. “Food will be brought to you, and hot water to wash.”
“Thank you,” Hargrove says, and steps inside.
The guard reaches for the door. “We will be outside, should you need us,” he says, one hand on the handle. “We are instructed by the governor not to allow you to leave, for your own safety.”
“I understand,” the captain replies.
His father’s rooms are spacious and pleasantly decorated, and Hargrove is glad of the opportunity to sit on a comfortable chair and rest his fatigued body as he has not done since setting off on his voyage. His thumb skims past the string wound around his finger, and he thinks of Harrington.
His first mate should not be in danger. No one would guess that he was party to Hopper’s revelations as well as the captain. But still, Hargrove cannot help but worry for him.
The door opens after a short period, and a woman comes inside bearing a tray of fruits and fish and bread. She looks to be about thirty, plump and red-haired and still pretty, at least to Hargrove’s inexpert eye. She lays the tray on a nearby table, looking up at Hargrove with a small smile - and then startles and jumps away from him.
“Oh!” she exclaims. She pulls her shawl around herself, curtsying a little awkwardly. “Oh, sir, I did not realize - I thought it would - I thought you were—”
Hargrove frowns at her, realizing as he does that her dress is made from filmy white chiffon, cut too low at the neck and exposing too much of her petticoats at the ankle, and she’s not wearing as much beneath it as she ought. He says, too shocked to be circumspect: “Did you come here with seduction in mind, my lady?”
“No!” she says, her voice a little screech. “At least - I thought the governor—”
“You came here to seduce my father?” says Hargrove incredulously. He snorts at her. “What a thought! As though he could be so taken in! What’s your name, my lady?”
She bites her lip, tucking a strand of curling red hair behind her ear. “Susan Mayfield, sir.”
“Miss Mayfield,” he repeats. He shakes his head a little. “And you thought to tempt my father, the governor of Marseille, into a liaison?”
The woman presses her lips together, looking confused. She folds her hands contritely in front of her. “Oh, but sir,” she says. She ducks her head. “The governor and I - the governor and I are to be married.”
Hargrove stares at her, wondering if she’s taken leave of her senses. “My father has made you an offer of marriage?” he exclaims.
She flushes. “No - but - I thought—”
“You thought that if you seduced him, he would be too honorable to refuse your hand,” Hargrove finishes for her, and sees in the reddening of her cheeks that he’s guessed correctly. He shakes his head again. His father would never bed a woman outside of marriage, and since the death of his wife, he’s sworn to be married only to his work.
“I have no protector, sir,” Miss Mayfield says unhappily. “I need a husband. My parents are dead, and I have no money of my own.”
Hargrove nods sympathetically. “The governor must seem like a good prospect,” he says. “But my father will never marry you or anyone. He is faithful to the memory of his late wife, my mother. You would do better to find a more suitable respectable gentleman at which to set your cap.”
She stands miserably in front of him, head bowed. “I don’t know any respectable gentlemen, sir,” she says quietly.
Before this evening, the captain would have laughed at such a statement. He would have said that Marseille was full of respectable gentlemen, could have listed names for the woman. But now… now it seems there’s no one he can truly trust. None save one.
He laughs a little grimly. “I only know one, and that’s Steve Harrington,” he says frankly. He laughs again. “But he’s as unlikely to marry as the governor.”
For a moment, Miss Mayfield says nothing, her hands resting on her stomach and her head lowered. Then she takes a breath, and says politely: “I’ll fetch the hot water for your bath, sir.”
She disappears from the room. When she returns, she’s far more appropriately attired, and they don’t speak of what passed before.
Hargrove bathes and eats, but sleep evades him. The night feels long and restless, and more than once he opens the door to his father’s chambers a crack, reassuring himself with the sight of the guards in the corridor outside, strong and sturdy. He’s not usually given to flights of fancy, but he feels as though danger is all around, in every flickering shadow cast by the lantern on his table and in every little sound outside.
He longs to be home in his own bed with Steve beside him, and touches his ring often. Once or twice he thinks of asking the guards to fetch Harrington to him, or at least to ascertain that he’s safe, but he can think of no reason to do so that won’t arouse suspicion. He can only remind himself, time and time again, that no one has any reason to target his first mate.
Perhaps his father is mistaken about the danger they might be in. He certainly hadn’t felt this level of apprehension before their conversation - but now he can’t convince himself to dismiss his fears. He feels danger acutely, as though it’s in the room with him, and he lies awake for hours in the dark.
He sleeps at last as the dawn is rising outside the window, and wakes later than he should to find a circle of blue-coated guards around his bed. Hargrove sits up at once, holding his sheets to his chest.
“What’s happened?” he asks urgently. The men in the room seem very serious, and he realizes with a start that they’re not guards. They’re gendarmes. “Good God, what’s happened?”
“Dress yourself, sir,” says one of the gendarmes, holding out Hargrove’s shirt. “You’re to come along with us.”
Hargrove dresses swiftly, his heart beating far too quickly. Has something happened to his father? He shakes his head, suddenly furious with himself. He followed the governor’s instructions without thought, shutting himself away to protect himself without concerning himself with his father’s safety. How could he be so foolish?
He asks the gendarmes again for information, but they either know nothing or will tell him nothing. Once he’s dressed, they lead him out of the room at a punishing pace, along the corridor and down the back stairs. There’s a black carriage waiting on the cobbled street outside, and one of the men gestures for him to get into it.
“My father—” Hargrove begins.
“If you would, sir,” the leader of the men says uncompromisingly, and Hargrove agitatedly climbs into the carriage.
He’s amazed and relieved to find the governor sitting there already, his black robes hiding him from immediate sight. Dark pouches under his eyes indicate that he’s slept even less than his son, and he’s holding his dark silver-topped cane tightly as if for support.
“Father,” Hargrove says with relief. “I thought something had happened to you.” He looks about the carriage. “Where are we going?”
Governor Hargrove smiles a thin-lipped smile. “Oh, my son,” he says, his voice very slow, and then stops speaking. Hargrove waits, heart beating. He can’t understand the expression on his father’s face - something cold and knowing, as though he has information his son does not.
“Father?” Hargrove says hesitantly.
His father tips his head thoughtfully to one side. He displays none of the urgency or confusion the captain feels. He says in a conversational tone: “Shall I tell you the most dangerous sort of man, Captain?”
Hargrove stares at him. “What?”
“The most dangerous sort of man,” the governor repeats. He smiles unexpectedly. “Think of it as a lesson, from father to son.”
“I don’t understand,” the captain says. He can hear his heartbeat, loud in the small quiet space. Some instinct tells him that danger is about, though he cannot identify it.
“The most dangerous sort of man,” his father says for the third time, “is the honest man.”
Hargrove opens his mouth and then closes it again, bewildered. “The honest man?”
“The honest man does not bend in the wind, blowing this way and that according to circumstance,” Governor Hargrove says, his voice taking on the tone of a lecture. “He cannot be bribed. He cannot be threatened. He must always do what he thinks is right.” He pauses. “You would consider yourself an honest man, would you not?”
“Of course,” Hargrove says. “Father, I don’t—”
His father holds up a hand, and Hargrove falls into silence. “My father taught me this lesson, and now I pass it onto you,” he says. He leans forward a little, hands gripped around the end of his cane. “An honest man cannot be given a second chance. An honest man cannot be given a first chance. If an honest man crosses your path - you must deal with him at once, so decisively that he has no chance at all. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The captain’s eyes are wide with confusion. “Father,” he says. He stops. In spite of his earlier fears, there must be some reason his father has chosen this moment to impart this lesson. “Is it not… is it not a virtue to be an honest man? Is it not what every man should strive towards?”
The governor raises his eyebrows. “Most men strive to give the appearance of honesty,” he says. “But in the end, they will always be governed by self-interest. That’s why an honest man is dangerous. An honest man must be crushed before he can do any damage.”
He pauses, the silence strangely weighty. “That, my son,” he says slowly, “is why I crushed James Hopper.”
There’s another silence. Hargrove can’t speak, his face drained of all color. “You—” he manages, but can say no more.
“Yes,” his father says simply. “Hopper is an honest man, and an honest man, as I’ve told you, can be given no chances. He had to be destroyed.”
“The plot,” Hargrove croaks. A sickness is spreading into the pit of his belly. “The corruption.”
The governor looks thoughtful. “I prefer to think of it as self-interest,” he says. “I’ve been fortunate these last seventeen years - though I made the mistake of giving Hopper time to escape, it worked out in my favor in the end. He made an excellent scapegoat. And now, see! You’ve delivered him back to me, him and his daughter.”
Hargrove’s heart is plummeting through his stomach. “I don’t understand,” he says. “I thought—”
“You were a fool,” his father says harshly. “I don’t suffer fools lightly, as I think you know. A powerful man acts quickly, without hesitation. I don’t intend to make the mistake I made with Hopper a second time. You’ll have no opportunity to escape.”
The captain stares at him. “Escape?”
“A fool,” the governor repeats scathingly. “Don’t you understand? I knew Hopper to be an honest man seventeen years ago, and I acted accordingly. Now I’m faced with another honest man, and again, I shall act. That you are my son cannot be allowed to matter. There is nothing, nothing, so dangerous as an honest man.” He speaks fervently, almost fanatically, and there’s a light in his eyes the captain doesn’t recognize.
“I don’t understand,” Hargrove says weakly.
His father shakes his head, and then lifts his cane to rap on the door. It opens from the outside, and the governor gets to his feet. The captain can only watch him, horrified, as he moves to the door and gets out of the vehicle.
He looks back inside, something like pity in his expression. “You stand charged with conspiracy and piracy,” he says. “Conspiring with the pirate Hopper to defraud honest merchants from Marseille - I am ashamed to have been so deceived in your character.” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “I am ashamed to have called you my son. Did you think my position as governor would protect you from the consequences of your villainy?”
It takes Hargrove too long to understand that he’s speaking now for the benefit of the gendarmes surrounding the carriage. Tears are beginning to build in his eyes. “Father—” he begins desperately.
“Take him away,” Governor Hargrove says coldly. “Take him to the Chateau d’If.”
Chapter 5: cinq (1815)
Notes:
The intro is over AND NOW IT BEGINS XD
Chapter Text
The sun judges him, beats down mercilessly on his head and finds him wanting. Hargrove blinks dazedly with his face upturned towards the sky, unable to formulate a cohesive thought. His heartbeat seems very loud, blood rushing in his ears. He’s aware of the stern guards accompanying him speaking to one another - and sometimes to him - but he can’t understand what they’re saying.
He sits on a boat, a small and simple skiff rowed by stone-faced gendarmes with himself at the center of them. His wrists are bound together with rope. Every now and again he looks down at them, stares at the bindings. It seems impossible that he’s here.
His father… his father has betrayed him. His father has betrayed Marseille. Even now, his mind rebels against the thought - there must be some other explanation, some reason behind all this, because his father is the governor, his father cannot do this…
But he’s here on a boat under the wide blue sky and scorching sunlight, sailing determinedly towards Chateau d’If, and his father is doing this. Has done it.
The Chateau d’If. As a child, Hargrove had nightmares about the place, and though he’s come to understand the role the prison plays in safeguarding Marseille from attack, he’s never been easy about it. A fortress standing alone on a tiny island perhaps a mile from the mainland, it stands tall and forbidding, a warning signal to anyone who seeks to harm the city.
Never in his wildest imaginings did the captain ever consider that he might be one of the prisoners relegated to its dark and frightening depths.
It’s late afternoon by now; it was later even than he thought when the gendarmes came to wake him in his father’s chambers, almost midday. Once his interview with his father was over, he was driven to the port and transferred into the boat in which he now sits, the sun gleaming on the water as though life is carrying on as normal. But how can it? How can it, when he’s here?
His father betrayed him. The thought returns, insistently revolving around his mind, and Hargrove feels tears prick his eyes. He can still hardly believe it - that his father, the esteemed governor of Marseille, could be involved in such a plot - and moreover, could be willing to sacrifice his own son to protect it - it cannot be. Surely, it cannot be.
But it is, because he is here.
He gazes out despairingly at the castle in the sea, rising out of the water like a great squat beast. The Chateau d’If is drawn closer with every stroke of the oars, the boat moving too quickly to bring Hargrove to his place of imprisonment. The ropes cut into his wrists, and he realizes that his hands are shaking. He’s always been afraid of this place.
His eye catches the loop of twine around his finger, and it calms him a little. Thinking of Harrington, his Harrington, is enough to give him a small modicum of comfort, though there’s more than a little pain twisted into the thought. Is Harrington safe? Has the governor discovered that Harrington was there when Hopper told his tale of corruption and fraud? Will Harrington know to stay silent, when news of the captain’s arrest reaches him?
Stay silent on that matter, at least. Hargrove has no doubt that as soon as Harrington knows where he’s gone, he’ll be campaigning for his captain’s release. That at least is a comfort, to know that Harrington will rescue him eventually. He swallows, blinking away his tears, and resumes his watch on the silent sea.
The boat has almost reached the island by now, sailing smoothly into the darker patch of water left by the castle’s shadow. Hargrove shivers instinctively as the fortress looms above him, a mountain of sandy rock, walls spanning fifty feet or more. How long will it be before he’s able to sail away from this place again?
“Come along,” one of the gendarmes says roughly, and Hargrove gets blindly to his feet. They support his elbows as he steps off the boat and onto the dock, his wrists chafing against the rope binding them when he automatically attempts to use his hands to steady himself.
He walks slowly between them up the great shallow steps that lead up from the dock towards the walls wrapping around the island’s borders. There’s only one entrance to Chateau d’If, through an archway set in the thick exterior walls and protected by an iron gate, and Hargrove’s feet stumble on the ground beneath him as he’s marched up to it.
There’s only one guard on duty, but he supposes such a naturally well-fortified place needs few men to protect it. The gate is opened, and Hargrove is led through it and into the Chateau d’If.
The island isn’t large - perhaps three hectares all told, surrounded by the high and enclosing walls, and with the castle built at the near end to the dock. It’s smaller than it looks from the mainland, a squarish block less than a hundred feet in width and length, with rounded towers at three of the four corners, one of which is taller and larger than the other two. Hargrove halts instinctively as he stares up at the building, although he’s swiftly hurried along again.
“In here,” one of the men holding his elbow says, pointing him towards a long low building to his left, and Hargrove turns his steps in that direction.
A plaque on the door reads: Warden’s Office. Hargrove’s spirits rise a fraction. Perhaps if he can speak to the warden - can make someone in charge understand his innocence - this horrible dream might soon be over.
He draws himself up straight as one of his guards knocks on the door. He still looks every inch the captain - clean breeches, an officer’s coat and gleaming black boots, lacking only his cocked hat. Surely, surely, the warden here must be a reasonable man, an officer of the law. He will not want an innocent captive here within these walls.
The door opens, and Hargrove follows his captors inside, looking swiftly about him to the left and right. The warden’s office is as unlike his father’s workspace as it is possible to be. No gleaming marble here, no ornate and beautiful furniture to decorate the interior of the space. Everything is made from roughly hewn wood, and the windows are small and grimy, illuminating the room only dimly.
A desk has been placed at the back of the office, and behind it, shuffling some papers together, is a slender pale-faced man, who looks up as Hargrove enters. His hair is snow-white, though he can’t be older than forty, and there’s something competent and intelligent about his face.
His blue eyes flicker across Hargrove’s face; he motions towards a chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, please,” he says.
Hargrove sits as commanded. He’s reassured by the politeness in the warden’s tone, by the small smile on his white face. “Thank you, sir,” he says cordially.
“My name is Brenner,” the man says. He gestures to the gendarmes. “Cut his ties, if you would.”
The man leans forward, a knife in his hand; a moment later, Hargrove’s hands have been released from their bindings. His spirits lift a little further. Brenner gestures again, and the gendarmes file out of the room. Only the Chateau d’If guard who opened the door remains.
“Monsieur Brenner,” the captain says, leaning forwards a little in his chair. One of Brenner’s white eyebrows lifts questioningly. Hargrove presses on. “I’m sure you must have heard this many times before, but I must tell you: I am innocent of the crimes which brought me here.”
Brenner smiles a little indulgently. “Yes, yes, I know,” he says.
“No, sir,” Hargrove says helplessly. “I know every prisoner must claim his innocence, but I swear to you, in my case it’s the truth. I have been betrayed - I can explain the whole scheme to you, and I’ll swear that once you’ve heard it, you’ll believe my story. I’m innocent, sir. I have done nothing.”
“I know,” Brenner says, and his blue eyes twinkle a little.
Hargrove shakes his head desperately. “No, sir, please—”
But Brenner holds up a hand. “Now, now,” he says. “Hargrove, isn’t it?”
“Captain Hargrove,” Hargrove says a little faintly, as though his title matters at this moment.
Brenner chuckles softly. “I think you’ve lost your captaincy, Hargrove,” he says. “You lost that title the moment you stepped through the gates here on the island. Listen to me, Hargrove - when I say I know, I mean I know. I know you are innocent.”
Hargrove stares at him. “What?”
“Of course I know,” Brenner goes on lightly. “Why else would you be here? There are a thousand prisons in France where a guilty man can be left to rot. This is the Chateau d’If. Every man who comes to the Chateau d’If is innocent. This is where they send the ones they’re ashamed of.”
“But—” Hargrove croaks.
Brenner smiles again, and Hargrove realizes in a sickening rush that the man is enjoying this. “I hear you were accused of piracy and corruption,” he says. “Accused by the governor - and how amazing, that you should share his name!” He shakes his head, mock-serious. “A very sad business, when a man must send away his only son.”
“My father betrayed me!” Hargrove says, though his voice is not as strong as he would like. It shakes as he speaks, rough with unshed tears.
“Dear, dear, did he?” Brenner asks, eyes gleaming with amusement. “But you were seen, were you not? Seen in league with a pirate - seen by…” he glances down at the papers on his desk “…ah, yes. Lady Wheeler, I believe.” He looks at Hargrove. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Hargrove’s mouth falls open, but he can’t speak. Lady Wheeler? Lady Wheeler, who not a month ago made a play for him, is now in league with his father?
“I see you did not know that part,” Brenner says. “Well, we must not spend all the rest of the day in conversation.” He gets to his feet. “My man and I will see you to your new home, Hargrove.” He smiles, wide and dangerous. “We must welcome you properly, after all.”
The captain - no, not the captain, he can no longer lay claim to such a title - sits numbly in his chair before the warden, and must be jostled to his feet by the guard. He can barely move, unable to concentrate enough to put one foot in front of the other, stumbling like a man in a dream as he’s led back out of Brenner’s office.
The gendarmes have gone. Brenner and the guard accompany Hargrove across the open green space between the building containing the warden’s office and the fort itself. He weaves a little, feeling almost drunk with confusion and disbelief.
Brenner knows he’s innocent. Every man in Chateau d’If is innocent, to hear the warden tell it. It’s as though the very bedrock of Hargrove’s world has been shaken and shattered.
Was he a child, to believe that the guilty are punished and the innocent thrive? That justice is and always has been dealt out fairly? That the only men who suffer are those who have deserved it through their own actions? He must have been, and yet he can think of nothing in his life until this point that would have shown him the truth.
Lady Wheeler - he thought her a greedy social climber, but not this. Not so evil as to tell a lie that would put him in this black place, this place of walls and stone, shut away from the world. And his father - but he cannot think of his father. He cannot even begin to understand the depth of the betrayal there.
He looks up as he passes through the door that leads into the castle, trying to regain his senses. The guard is still holding his right arm - his sword arm - and another joins them on his other side. There’s nowhere to run, and he can’t fight them unarmed.
He’s too numb to fight, anyway.
Brenner leads the way into the castle. There’s a small courtyard, with a well in the center and bolted and barred doors leading off in multiple directions, some in the flat walls and some set into the curved towers in the corners. It’s surprisingly light, sunshine pouring in from above, and Hargrove instinctively turns his face into the warmth of it. Who knows when he’ll next have the chance?
It seems he’s not destined for any of the doors on this floor, because Brenner strides forward to a narrow set of stone steps in the corner. There are two more storeys above them, walkways around the square shape of the building, with more doors. Every one is thick half-rusted metal, locked and frighteningly secure.
Hargrove almost falls as he drags himself up the stairs, but at last he’s outside one of the doors. Brenner is unlocking it with a set of keys he takes from his belt, and the two guards thrust the former captain inside. He takes a deep and shuddering breath, looking around the small room. His cell.
It’s perhaps twelve feet long by six feet wide, and there’s nothing to see in it but bare stone. High in the opposite wall is a tiny barred window, too high for him to be able to look out of it. In the corner is a covered bucket. Hargrove turns to Brenner with a kind of wild desperation, because surely - surely he can’t be expected to remain here?
Brenner chuckles. “Oh, you’ll get used to it,” he says, in answer to Hargrove’s wordless plea. He goes over to a wall, touching a brick. “Have you seen these marks?”
Hargrove swallows, his throat dry, and looks where the warden is pointing. Sure enough, there are marks on the stone - scratched lines, spreading across the bricks, marks layered over and over each other, too many to count. They’re tally marks, he realizes with a shock of horror. They’re marks left behind from a previous occupant of the cell, counting the days.
“Please…” The word bursts out huskily. He never thought he’d find himself begging.
“It can be difficult to keep track of the days in this place,” Brenner says conversationally, as if Hargrove had not spoken. “So the prisoners here seem to think, at any rate. These marks… they’re rarely accurate. I like to help the inmates keep track of their time in a different way.”
He nods to the guards, and suddenly they’re taking hold of Hargrove’s wrists, heaving him forward. Brenner ducks outside the cell for a moment, cranking a lever just outside the door - and a chain Hargrove hadn’t noticed drops down from the ceiling, complete with a pair of thick iron manacles. He gasps as the guards shove his hands into the shackles.
Brenner cranks the lever again, and Hargrove’s arms are wrenched painfully upwards as the chain retracts. He lets out a little cry of surprise and discomfort. He’s dangling from the ceiling with his arms above his head and his feet only barely touching the floor - just enough to keep his balance.
One of the guards moves efficiently forwards and lifts Hargrove’s coat and shirt, tucking it around his shoulders so that his back is bared. Brenner is behind him, by the door, and a lurching wave of panic surges up through him as he realizes what’s about to happen.
“Welcome to Chateau d’If,” Brenner says, and his tone is almost kindly. Hargrove shudders. “Think of this day like a rebirth - the beginning of your new life. Today you are born again as an inmate of the fortress, and every year on this day we will celebrate the anniversary of your arrival in the way I am about to demonstrate.”
Hargrove makes a choked noise. He almost begs again - but Brenner is speaking with the practiced ease of a man who has made this speech many times before. He won’t capitulate to pleading. In fact, he’ll probably enjoy it.
In that moment, Hargrove makes a promise to himself: Brenner will never hear him beg again.
He never sees the whip. He only hears the whistling sound it makes as it travels through the air, hears the deep dull thud as it lashes onto his exposed skin - and feels the immediate throbbing pain across his back, a line of fire burning through him.
He cries out, feet scrabbling on the stone floor, and swings a little from the chain holding him upright - but there’s nowhere to go. He’s held in place. Tears spring from Hargrove’s eyes, his head hanging between his arms, his vision blurred.
Another whistle, another thud, another blow. Hargrove can do nothing as he’s beaten. He can only endure, praying silently that each lash will be the last one.
Brenner whips him for a long time, or at least it feels that way. More than once thinks he can’t take another blow - but there’s no choice, and so he does take it, his cries dissolving into gibberish as the beating comes to an end. By the time the chain is lowered and the guards step forward to unshackle his wrists, Hargrove is barely aware of his surroundings at all.
They lay him unceremoniously down on the ground, the chain winched up to the ceiling once more. Brenner bends down beside him, and Hargrove is blearily aware of his twinkling blue eyes, the sadistic smile on his pale face.
“See you next year, Hargrove,” he says softly. Then he’s gone, his men with him, and the door to the cell is locked with a resounding clunk that speaks of finality.
Hargrove can’t even sit up to see them leave him there alone.
For a while he just lies there with his face pressed against the cold stone, shaking and crying and hardly able to move. His back is a pulsating mass of pain, the lashes criss-crossing over each other so that he’s unable to distinguish any individual one. He can feel his shirt sticking a little to his skin, so he knows at least some of the blows must have drawn blood. His thoughts are scattered, unable to draw together into any kind of cohesion.
He has no idea how long he remains in the same position. Several hours at least, if the darkness that falls in the cell is any indication. Every time he thinks of moving, his back screams out in protest again, and he stays where he is, his tears drying on his face.
At last, however, he’s able to formulate thoughts once again, to make sense of where he is, of everything that’s happening. He’s taken a beating, a bad one - but he’s been whipped before, albeit much more lightly and as a boy. He’ll not fall into despair over a little pain. After all, he took a bayonet to the shoulder once in battle, and that could have killed him. He survived that, and he’ll survive this too.
Slowly, he pushes himself up off the ground, wiping his face with his hands as he looks around the little room. It’s still almost empty, with nothing to distract his mind but the bucket in the corner. He shudders as he thinks of its purpose.
In the corner behind the door, he notices a jutting rock that drips a slow stream of water, splattering onto the ground and then draining away into the bricks. At least he won’t go thirsty, though that’s little comfort at present.
There’s a bang over by the door, and Hargrove turns sharply, wincing and crying out as the movement tears through his painful back. A small flap at the bottom of the door has opened, with a hand just visible holding it. The hand, rather incongruously, bears a ladle.
As Hargrove stares, a tin bowl is pushed through the flap. The ladle tilts, and something slops out of it into the bowl. Without a word, the flap closes again, leaving the steaming bowl behind.
Cautiously, he approaches the bowl. Well, he supposes they have to feed him, if he’s to be kept alive until his beating next year. It doesn’t smell particularly appetizing, but it looks edible. Some sort of soup or stew, with unidentifiable meat and vegetables floating in it. Hargrove wrinkles his nose. He’s not hungry enough for it yet.
He will be, if he stays here. The thought makes him shiver with fright. He can see how it will be - how he’ll get to a place where he’ll be desperate for this tasteless stew, barely able to remember the flavor of real food. A man can get used to anything, given enough time.
He’s been left here to rot away for the rest of his life, and he’s only twenty years old. What will he be used to in a year? In ten years? In fifty?
Will he die in this accursed dungeon?
Chapter 6: six (1815-1816)
Notes:
I sort of forgot to warn last week but this is obviously where a lot of those tags start coming into play... I hurt Billy because I love him, you know? I did say it would be angsty XD love you all!
Chapter Text
The wounds left by the whip on his back take a long time to heal. Days pass, and still the pain is there, creaking through him every time he moves, reopening the thin cuts layered across his skin, and so Hargrove spends most of his time lying still and prone on the cold stone floor, shivering and sometimes despairing the fate to which he’s been subjected.
He will not count the days. He decided that after Brenner showed him the marks on the walls. He will not be like those other men before him, hopelessly adding another line to their tallies, surrounded by the reminder of how long they’ve been here.
No, he will not count the days - but there’s little else to do in order to pass through them. While his back is still healing, Hargrove only moves to drink from the dripping rock or eat from his bowl in the evening. Or to use his bucket, though of all his trials it feels the most humiliating. It’s collected every morning, through the same flap at the bottom of the door to his cell that they use to deliver his evening meal.
He can’t move, so all he can do is think. He thinks of his life, the life he had before any of this happened. He thinks of Mercedes, of the way it felt to stand on her gleaming decks with his arms crossed and his hair rippling in the wind, eyes squinted against the sunlight and the enormous expanse of the ocean before him.
When he was on board his ship, he had only to snap his fingers to have his every order obeyed. A crew of men waited at attention to hear his commands, their backs straight and their rifles ready. The respect they held for him was genuine, he’s sure of it. He led them through battles, through complex and difficult journeys, and he always saw them home again.
He’s no captain now. He discovered a day after his arrival on the island that someone removed his captain’s epaulets from his coat, the stitching unpicked and only the tiny needle holes remaining. It must have been done when he was sleeping in his father’s bedroom; he’s not taken it off since. It seems an especially cruel gesture.
When he’s not thinking of Mercedes, he’s thinking of Harrington. He develops a habit of sliding his thumb across the ring made of twine, reminding himself that it’s there.
Harrington will come for him. It’s the thought that keeps him going, when the days feel bleak and empty. Even now, Harrington will be campaigning for his release. Hargrove can only hope that he’s doing so carefully, without jeopardizing his own freedom.
But Harrington won’t rest, won’t stop, until they’re back together again. If Hargrove has not yet been released from this torture, it’s because Harrington is still navigating the many obstacles in the way. It must be a near-impossible task, fighting the deeply entrenched corruption in the city. It will take time. He must be patient.
It’s hard to be patient in this place. Hargrove touches his ring again, reminds himself of Harrington’s beautiful face, the way his eyes light up and his cheeks crease when he smiles. Harrington will come for him.
As the days pass, his back heals, and he’s able to stand and walk around without so much pain. The whip-marks fade from agony to a dull ache, and he takes to sitting underneath the window, set high up in the wall, to enjoy the small patch of sunlight it affords him. It’s the closest he can come to the open freedom of the ocean, this tiny square of warmth.
He hates the way he feels: dirty and unwashed, his clothes picking up all the dust and grime from the room. His hair and beard grow longer now that he’s unable to shave, and his chin itches constantly. He removes his boots and leaves them in the corner of the room, watching as their polished gleam fades and scuffs without the care he usually pays them.
In the dappling sunlight from the little window, Hargrove examines his fingernails, with the layer of dirt under each one. He touches the wildly sprouting hair on his cheeks and upper lip, studies his graying stockings and dirty knees. No, he’s no captain now.
The days grow cooler, and Hargrove watches them pass from his cell. If he lies in one particular spot underneath the window, he can see the sky moving above him, a tiny scrap of sky, the smallest piece of the world in which he used to live freely. He watches the clouds passing, the stars blinking above him at night, the changing weather reflected in one little patch of his surroundings.
Sometimes it rains, the droplets spattering in through the window and onto the stone floor. Hargrove lets them fall on him, like a touch from the outside. They wet his curls, now reaching down to his ears. His hands - he looks down at them - they’re dirty, brown with dirt, each crease in his palm filled with a line of muck. He lets the rain fall on them, rubbing them together.
The ring is dirty too, and it makes his heart throb painfully to see it. Gently, careful not to disturb the neat stitching strengthening the little piece of twine, he rubs rainwater into it.
Harrington gave him this ring. Harrington promised him - Harrington has given him his heart, given him everything, and he’ll come. He’ll come.
He’s hungry all the time, the single meal in the evening barely enough to satisfy. His predictions come true: it’s hardly any time at all before he forgets he ever turned up his nose at the grayish slop he’s given each day. The dripping rock is a godsend, for he’s not given any additional water to quench his thirst. His skin aches, both from the lingering pain of the whipping and from the uncomfortable feeling of uncleanliness.
The physical discomfort, however, is nothing in comparison with the mental torture.
The hours pass interminably, with nothing to occupy them but his thoughts. Each minute seems to drag like a year, filled with memories that blur together in his mind. Whenever he remembers his father, the pain stabs at him like a sword. His father put him in this place. His father did this to him, and seemingly felt no qualms about it.
Nothing to do but think. He lies with his head on the hard ground, staring up at the dark ceiling. Faces pass across his mind slowly, each one melting away when he attempts to look more closely. Words and conversations - the feel of his sword, heavy on his hip - Harrington’s delicate touch, a hand sliding up his thigh, his ribs - drinking down the stew, day after day after day.
His nails grow long and ragged. His beard touches his chest, his hair curling past his shoulders. Harrington will come - Harrington will be trying - but it must be a difficult task, perhaps impossible. Has anyone ever been released from Chateau d’If? He’s never heard of it happening. Harrington will try, will die trying, but he’s only one man. It may be beyond him.
No, he cannot allow himself to think so. He must have faith - faith in the man who laid earnestly beside him and swore to be his husband. Harrington will come, even if it takes him a while. Harrington will come.
Ridiculous to hold onto formalities here - to think of his beloved as Harrington, to hold him at arms’ length. It’s always the way he’s separated their love from their friendship, so that when they’re on the Mercedes together there’s no danger that he’ll slip, touch his first mate or speak to him in a way he shouldn’t - but there’s no one to see him here, no one who cares.
Steve, then. Steve will come for him. He must trust in Steve, for he has nothing else to believe in. He gave up on God a long time ago, when he knew that the God he was supposed to believe in would condemn him for his love.
His thumb worries at the ring on his finger, and tears run silently down his face. He will see Steve again, his love, his husband. This is not the end.
Outside the sky changes and changes again, light fading to darkness and then back again. There’s more rain, heavy gray clouds blotting out all light from his window, and then the bitter cold of winter. Billy shivers in his dirty blue officer’s coat, huddling by the wall and pressing his hands against the warm tin of his soup bowl before he eats each day.
There’s no one here, no one to see or to talk to. Billy speaks to his father, speaks aloud as though the governor were in the cell with him. Sometimes he forgets that his father did this to him. At other times, it’s all he can remember, and an unfamiliar rage courses through him.
“One day, father, I’ll see you again,” he promises the empty air. “You’ll look me in the eyes, and know that the punishment for what you have done to me is coming. Retribution - I will have retribution, father. I will have retribution.”
His head rocks back against the wall, a sudden storm of weeping overtaking him. “Why, father?” he sobs. “Why did you do this to me - to your own son? Why was your greed more important to you than me?”
To an outside observer, he knows he would look like a madman, and that thought only makes him weep all the more.
Perhaps he is going mad. Sometimes he fancies he sees Steve kneeling beside him, always just a little out of reach, though he knows it’s only his own yearning tormenting him. The phantom of Steve never speaks, though he hears his father’s cold voice sneering at him often enough. The governor derides his weakness, his repulsive appearance, his shivers and his tears.
“I swear, father,” Billy whispers to the empty, “you’ll know what it is to have nothing, as I have now. I’ll show you what it means to suffer.”
It grows warmer in his cell as winter passes. Billy talks to himself more with every passing day, delirious in his loneliness. He touches his ring, remembers the vows he swore when he put it on. He’ll never forsake them. He’ll be true to those vows until death, just as he promised.
“One day, my love,” he breathes to the ghost of Steve. “One day, we’ll be together again…”
He would be disgusting now to any man but Steve, who loves him through and through. His hair is long and tangled, his skin so dirty that he’s stopped any attempt at cleanliness. His mouth smells rotten, his teeth thick with layers of food that he’s been unable to remove. His feet and hands are almost black with grime.
His back has moved from pain to a constant itching discomfort, and he scratches himself raw as the weather grows still warmer. The heat, he finds, is worse than the chill of winter. Flies find him as though he’s a piece of decaying meat, and mosquitos feast on his flesh. He takes to stripping off all his clothes and lying with his body pressed against the wall, the coolest part of his cell.
How much time has passed? Billy has cried so many tears by now that his face is half-swollen from them, eyes rubbed raw. Steve, his Steve, his beloved Steve - he’ll be trying. He’ll be doing everything he can - but perhaps he can’t do anything. Perhaps Billy will die here, because the only one who loves him can do nothing.
“No, no, no…” he murmurs faintly. He’ll not allow himself to consider it, to lose faith in his husband. He touches the ring like a talisman. Steve will come for him, and what a reunion they’ll have!
The Mercedes feels a distant dream now - the cool breeze of the ocean pushing through his hair, his hands on her wheel as he gazes out at the distant horizon. It’s as though it happened to another man, a man Billy cannot be anymore. That man was innocent, free from care, blind to the truth but liberated in his ignorance.
“Take me back,” he groans, fresh tears coursing through the dirt on his face. “Good God, take me back, take me back…”
He sobs into his soup that night, because there’s no going back. If it weren’t for Steve, his Steve, he’d have nothing to live for at all.
More days, slipping away like sand through his fingers. Billy makes shapes with his hands for the pleasure of watching his shadow moving on the opposite wall. A swan, a wolf, a fish… puppet games, the kind nursemaids play with very young children. After all, what else is there to do?
His mind feels like a dangerous place, a maze in which he can so easily lose himself. Images swim through his memory, and he no longer attempts to hold onto any of them. The only constant is Steve. His face is clear, beautiful, and once or twice Billy is almost able to dream of his touch.
“My love,” he slurs, face pressed to the floor. “My love, my love, I think of you endlessly…”
Steve must be suffering without him. Billy knows how hard he’ll be working to fight the governor, to win Billy’s freedom. So much time has passed - Steve will be blaming himself for his failure, but Billy will never blame him.
“You’re doing the best you can, my love,” he says. “I’ll wait - I can wait. I can be patient.”
The heat is so oppressive that Billy barely moves, except to chase the shadows as the sun moves across the sky each day, or to bat the flies away from his face. He can no longer smell himself, though he knows he must reek of poor treatment and the beginnings of disease. Even his bucket has ceased to humiliate him.
Occasionally his father still speaks to him in his mind, his voice hard and contemptuous, but Billy is too hot and sluggish to listen to him. He’s just another one of the flies, an irritation he can easily ignore.
The summer begins to draw to a close, and Billy thinks abstractly that his birthday must have passed some time ago. It’s in March, the end of winter, but he didn’t think of it then. He’s twenty-one, a man grown by any reckoning. He laughs wearily at the thought; he’s never felt less of a man than he does now.
Every day the same - the metal flap at the base of the door opening twice a day, once for the bucket and once for his meal. The only human company is the hand that reaches in with the ladle, or to snatch up the bucket. Once Billy reaches for that hand, just to feel the touch of another’s skin, but he’s slapped away before he can make contact.
He takes to lying in that spot under the window, gazing up at his little sliver of sky with his head resting on his folded coat, and that’s where he is on the day that the door to his cell is pushed open, and Brenner walks in with two of his guards.
Billy springs to his feet at once, stuttering and shocked. He hasn’t seen or spoken to another human being in so long—
“Good day to you, Hargrove,” Brenner says with a smile. He nods towards the guards. “Hard to believe it’s been a year already, isn’t it?”
Billy’s mind reels away from the statement. It cannot be true - he cannot have been in this place for a year, a year of his life - surely it cannot be allowed…
The guards snatch up his wrists, turning him around, and Billy remembers with a sudden dread what it means, if he’s been here a year. The reason Brenner is here, the promise he made on the day of Billy’s arrival.
There is an ominous clanking sound as the chains rattle down from their pulley on the ceiling. Billy catches his breath as his arms are wrenched up, exactly the same way as they were a year ago. He’d thought he’d forgotten the fear - the helplessness - dangling from iron shackles with no recourse, nothing he can do to prevent or change the torture he’s about to endure - but it rushes back through him in full force.
One of the guards takes hold of his shirt, pushing it up to catch on his shoulders. Billy moans softly. These wounds feel as though they’ve only just healed.
“No fight, Hargrove?” It’s hard to say whether Brenner is pleased or disappointed. “No pleading? No bribe?”
Billy hangs his head in his bonds, tears already in his eyes, and says nothing.
Brenner chuckles. “So be it,” he says, and as he speaks, the whip crashes with an icy-sharp pain into Billy’s back.
Once again, it’s as though the beating lasts an eternity. Billy is in agony from the first lash, the whip reopening the scars left from the previous year, and he has no control over his response to it. He screams and cries as pitifully as he did the first time, his feet scrabbling on the ground and his shoulders aching as he pulls on the chains.
Blood flies in little flecks from his flesh to the floor, and Billy sobs as he sees it fall.
After each stroke, he silently prays that there will be no more, that Brenner will stop. He wonders in some small part of his mind whether the warden has some number he’s determined to reach, or whether he simply carries on until he’s had enough, until Billy is half-dead in the shackles in front of him. Perhaps next year he’ll count the strokes.
Next year! He can’t endure another year here - he can’t be here next year. Steve - Steve must get him out, before then.
Somewhere amidst the pieces of his shattered mind, the whipping ceases. Brenner motions for the guards to release Billy from his chains, and they deposit him sobbing in the corner of his cell. His body is a mass of unspecified pain, burning through him like a fever, and he’s barely aware of their hands gripping his arms and then dropping him.
“Until next year, Hargrove,” Brenner says, amused, and then the door is closing, and they’re gone.
For a long time after the beating, Billy is delirious. He’s too hot, but he can’t move to cool himself. They’ve put him in the corner nearest his dripping rock, so if he tilts his head in the right way he can drink - but everything else is beyond him. He ignores his food when it’s delivered that night, and fails to deliver his bucket in the morning, concerning the guard who collects it enough that he unlocks the door to look in on him.
When he sees Billy slumped in the corner, however, he only laughs. “Sulking!” he calls to some unknown fellow. He shakes his large head. “Well, stay here with a stinking bucket and no food if you like, you fool. It’s no matter to me.”
On the third day, Billy manages to eat a little, and drags his bucket to the hatch in the morning, but he’s still sluggish, every inch of him in pain. He finds that he can’t gather his thoughts. They slip away from him like water in his hands whenever he tries.
His head is hot, his hair sticking to him, and yet he shivers as though freezing, each movement jarring the bloody whip marks on his shoulders. Somewhere in his mind, he thinks that he must have caught some sickness - but he can’t formulate the thought well enough to do anything about it.
Light moves across the barred window, and Billy stares with vacant eyes at the stones lining his cell. He delivers his bucket to the hatch every morning, and collects his meal every evening. Otherwise he simply lies on the floor, feeling his skin burning and his lungs rattling with every breath, and lets every thought in his head evaporate.
Time… time is nothing, in this place. It means nothing. Four days after his beating, Billy thinks he hears the screams of another poor soul receiving a whipping in his turn, and he wonders - the question crawling sluggishly across his mind - whether this is a new prisoner, or whether he missed the sounds of his beating last year amidst his own pain.
It matters so little, after all, and so he lets his head fall back down to the ground, tasting his rancid breath with every exhale, and gazes unseeingly at the chains still coiled high above him.
The bucket in the morning, the meal in the evening, and in between only the emptiness, the loneliness. Billy is destroyed. Billy is nothing. He is no one. He touches his ring, but Steve feels very far away from him now.
One day, there’s a bird balancing delicately on the bars at his window. Billy watches it with tears running down his face. It’s free as he’ll never be free - free to fly away, to come and go as it pleases, to crest above Chateau d’If in the azure blue of the sky. He croaks out some call, as if to beg it to stay with him, to give him some small taste of something beautiful in this place.
But a bird cannot be caged as a man can. It seems to him that the little creature looks at him with pity in its beady eyes, the pity of some superior being looking down at an animal, and then it flies away. It does not return.
Chapter 7: sept (1818)
Notes:
I wish I could say that it all gets better from here, but I DID promise angst! XD
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Billy lies on the floor, his hand outstretched in front of him, counting his fingers. He does not speak aloud; he gave that up some time ago. Instead he lets the numbers sound in his mind, bending each finger in turn along with the count. He pauses when he reaches his fourth finger, eyes fixed on the twist of grubby string wrapped around it, and a single tear slides noiselessly down his cheek.
His back is still healing from his fourth beating, marking three years in this godforsaken place. He was able to bear it a little better than the three times before, although he was still screaming in agony with every stroke. It seems incredible what a man can grow accustomed to, given time.
He touches the ring, forefinger stroking the rough twine. Steve will still be looking for him. Steve will never give up - but there are some things that no man can do. Billy will die here, his years used up and wasted between these four walls. He’s come to accept that.
His mind is fractured by now, and has been ever since the whipping he received after his first year. Perhaps it was an infection or disease, or perhaps he broke under the realization that he’d truly spent a year of his life wasting away here. Whatever it is, he’s never fully recovered.
He still dreams of his father and of Steve, but now he wakes screaming in the night, haunted by terrible nightmares that make him pant and shake and shout out. Sometimes he has fits, during which it seems that he’s unable to draw breath and must die of choking; he’s learned now to pant his way through them, heaving in air when he can, and eventually they die away. And sometimes he slips away from lucidity, spending long hours muttering to the walls, only to return to reality with no memory of all that he saw in those periods.
Eventually, he’ll fall into madness forever. He can feel his mind dividing and falling away. The part of him that still has hope that Steve will come for him despairs, but the rest of him feels only relief. When he’s mad, he won’t suffer as he does now.
He used his coat to make a noose two weeks after his last beating, but he could find no place to hang it, and when he looked at his ring he thought he heard Steve’s voice, pleading with him not to search harder for that way out.
One at a time, he touches his fingers, lingering over the one bearing the ring as he always does. He never has more than five on any one hand. When he is mad - perhaps that will change. Billy rolls onto his side, staring out across his cell.
At that moment, one of the stones that makes up the floor shifts and moves a little.
Billy watches it with interest. He’s had hallucinations before, but they usually represent people he’s known, people he’s cared about - or people who have betrayed him.
Revenge, he murmurs in his head. It’s an old, comforting refrain, albeit one that has now lost all meaning. I shall have revenge.
The stone moves again, lifting slightly from the floor. Billy frowns at it. He’s never hallucinated a moving stone before. It’s making a grating sound as it rubs against the other stones, and a little dirt spews out across the ground. Billy’s fingers tremble. He’s losing his mind, he must be losing his mind completely—
Then the stone lifts completely out of the ground, and a pair of large and dirty hands come up through the hole left in its wake, shoving the flat heavy flagstone out of the way with a scraping noise.
Billy is too stricken even to scream. It’s not as though it would matter, if he did; they never come for his screams. He clutches at his face as the hands push their way out of the ground, wondering abstractly if the devil has finally arrived to claim him. After all - if Satan did appear, would this not be how he would do it?
But the face that appears in the hole in his floor does not look like the face of the devil. Billy stares with round unbelieving eyes as a man heaves himself out of the ground with much huffing and puffing, a large, ugly and unkempt man - and a man, Billy realizes, he’s seen before.
It’s the pirate.
James Hopper is thinner by far than he was the last time Billy saw him, but he’s still a hulking and imposing figure. He’s as begrimed and squalid in appearance as Billy himself, but there’s still vigor in his large red face, in spite of the long hair and beard that hangs in knotted dust-filled curtains around it, threaded through with gray.
He looks up at Billy with a crooked and somewhat rancid smile. Billy shudders away from him. It must be a vision - a hallucination, caused either by his madness or by the devil himself. It cannot be possible that James Hopper is here in his cell with him.
“Well, here I am,” the pirate says cheerfully. He swings his legs out of the hole in the ground and gets to his feet. Billy cringes away into the corner. “Only three years to make it here!”
Billy cannot find his voice. There are tears running down his face, but that in itself is not unusual. His eyes are permanently swollen with crying. He holds up shaking hands, as if to ward off the phantasm.
Hopper watches him with his head tilted down to one side. “There, there, son,” he says gently. “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a friendly face, I know.”
“No…” Billy croaks. His throat aches from lack of use, and his body shakes and trembles. “No, no… wake up, I must wake up…”
“It’s real,” Hopper says. He steps nearer, and then bends down to kneel at Billy’s side. He reaches out a hand, gripping Billy’s shoulder. “There, now - feel that? This is no dream.” And indeed, his touch is firm and steady, the first touch Billy has felt in three years.
It breaks him. He closes his eyes, dropping his head to bury his face in his hands as he sobs. He’s had no contact with anyone save Brenner and his vicious lackeys in so long, longer than he’d be able to remember were it not for the warden’s sadistic method of reminding him of the passage of time. And as for being touched - he’s felt nothing but the kiss of the whip.
Chateau d’If is a place of immeasurable cruelty, but the loneliness… the loneliness is almost worse than any other form of torture it inflicts. And now - now here is a face from his past life, a face which despite everything calls itself friendly, and Billy sobs brokenly in his little corner of hell.
“There, there,” Hopper says soothingly, and he moves to sit beside Billy with his back to the wall. One arm slides around Billy’s shoulders, and he draws him into an embrace. It’s a comfort that Billy had never thought he’d receive again, and he weeps from some deep-down place inside him. “Oh, you’ve had a bad time,” the pirate murmurs. “There, there, son, don’t cry. All is well. All is well.”
But all is not well. Billy knows that well enough. Still, he has enough of humanity left in him to want the reassurance desperately, to turn unashamedly into Hopper’s shoulder and cry as he hasn’t cried since he was a very small boy. He’s never longed for anything so much as he longs to be held, and Hopper strokes his arm and does hold him for a long time.
At last, when Billy has cried himself out, the two men draw apart. The pirate pats him encouragingly on the back. “There, now,” he says. “It will be alright now.”
“No,” Billy says. He lets out a little choked-up cry, and wipes his eyes on the back of his filthy hand. “No, nothing will be alright again—”
“Now, now,” Hopper says firmly. “None of that. Are you really losing hope so quickly?” He looks around the little cell. “Have you even made an attempt at escape? I thought you more enterprising than this!”
Billy blinks, oddly surprised. Escape - he hasn’t really considered escape. After all, where is there to go? How can anyone escape such a place? All his hopes have been centered around Steve, his love, his husband, who even now will be fighting for his freedom - but who is destined, Billy is now convinced, to fail in his attempts, however hard he tries.
He says hesitantly: “How did you get in here?”
“I dug,” Hopper replies. “It took me three years just to forge a path between my own cell and yours, but I never gave up. I knew you were here, you see. Brenner told me when he brought me in. I think he meant to torment me, but it gave me hope to know that I had a friend here.”
“I didn’t know you’d been brought to this place,” Billy says slowly. In his mind he’s trying to make sense of this new information. He’s wondered, of course, what became of the pirate and his daughter following the governor’s betrayal - but in truth, he assumed Hopper at least had been executed.
Hopper snorts. “They’ll never kill me, not while I might yet give up the hiding place of the Hawkins treasure,” he says. “They brought me here a few days after you, if the yearly whipping can be relied upon for a calendar.”
“I thought I’d heard another man’s screams,” Billy says hoarsely. Speaking still costs him some effort; it’s been too long since he exercised his voice. “Brenner never told me it was you.”
“Perhaps he did not think it could hurt you,” Hopper says. “To cause pain seems to be the only reason that man does anything. I think he thought I’d blame you for my own incarceration, that perhaps I might shout out insults to you through the wall.” He smiles grimly. “In that, however, he has been disappointed.”
More tears leak out of Billy’s sore eyes. “You don’t blame me?” he asks, his voice cracking.
Hopper grips his shoulder once more. “No,” he says sincerely.
“You tried to warn me about the governor,” Billy says on half a sob. “I’ve been such a fool, a blind fool - I trusted him, and he - he betrayed me—” He breaks down in tears again. Even now, he can’t think of his father without emotion.
“He’s your father,” Hopper says gently. “How can you be blamed for believing in his goodness? It is the duty of a man to obey his father.”
Billy wipes away his tears once more. “He’s no father to me now,” he says in a hard voice. “One day - I swear, one day he’ll die at my hand, and he’ll know it’s but a tenth of what he deserves.”
The pirate’s dirty face cracks into a grin. “Now, that’s the fighting spirit I want to see!” he exclaims. “There is the man who captured me on my ship three years ago.”
“It seems hopeless to swear revenge, when I’m cursed to die here,” Billy says.
“I dug a hole in three years,” Hopper says. “Now there are two of us, and we can prevent one another from losing hope.” His fingers tighten around Billy’s shoulder. “We will find a way out of this place, Hargrove. You have your revenge to seek, and I have my daughter. This is not the end.”
Billy looks into his determined and weatherbeaten face, feeling more hope than he’s had in a long time. He can’t blame himself for depending on Steve to facilitate his escape - after all, Steve has never and will never let him down - but the idea of freeing himself from this hell is a satisfying one. Why should he rely on another to do what he might be able to do himself?
His mouth flickers with a smile as he imagines Steve’s surprise and joy when he presents himself before his husband once more. Why should he wait for Steve to battle a corrupt leadership to release him, when he might undo what was never lawful to begin with?
“What is your plan?” he asks Hopper.
The pirate smiles. “I knew you were no coward,” he says. He looks back towards the hole in the floor of Billy’s cell. “We cannot dig down,” he explains. “There is a layer of impenetrable stone between us and whatever poor soul occupies the room below. Even with both of us working at it, I don’t think we could break through.”
“How did you get into my cell?” Billy asks.
“There is a crawl space between the stone that must make the ceiling of the cell below, and the stones that create our floor,” Hopper says. “It’s still rock, but looser, and I was able to move it with some effort. If we could dig a similar tunnel outwards, beyond the doors, we could get out that way. We could break through the floor of the landing outside these cells, and walk down the stairs.”
Billy stares at him. “But… If you could have done that, why would you spend three years digging this way?” he asks. “Why would you come for me first?”
The pirate’s eyes soften. “I am the reason you are here,” he says. “Do you think I am so dishonorable that I would not pay my debts? I wouldn’t leave you to die here. Besides,” he adds hastily, “it was not so disinterested as you might think. We may need to fight our way out, once we’re through. I’d be more confident with another man fighting at my side.”
Billy is silent. Hopper’s reasoning makes sense, and yet it seems incredible that he’s delayed his own escape for Billy’s sake. He could have put his plan into motion from the very beginning, digging under his cell door and into the corridor, but instead he’s wasted three precious years coming to Billy instead. And all that for someone he barely knows - someone who he could easily blame for his incarceration!
“You say that you’re the reason I’m here,” he says slowly. Almost unconsciously, his hand finds a little curl of hair behind his ear, winding it around his finger. “I cannot see how you could believe that.”
Hopper shrugs his broad shoulders. “I brought the story of corruption and darkness before you,” he says. “You might still be living in ignorant bliss, if not for me.”
“I’m not a child,” Billy says sharply. “I do not regret learning the truth. I only regret—” here his voice breaks “—that my father could be party to such a plot, and that his villainy could be so great that he would rather send his own son to this place than risk exposure.”
“He is a failure as a father,” Hopper says simply.
Billy grits his teeth against further tears. “Yes,” he says. “And if I have it my way, he’ll live to regret it.”
“I’m glad to see that you have regained your hope,” Hopper says. “In a place like this, hope is essential. I believe hope is all that has kept me sane, these last three years. I have dug through the floor every day, thinking of my daughter, thinking of all I mean to do when I find my way out, and that has kept me alive.”
Billy looks down at the floor, eyes swelling with fresh tears. “I have not been so lucky,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I think I am not sane, not anymore.”
A gentle hand touches his arm. “You are sane,” the pirate says reassuringly. “You are sane, and this is not the end.”
So begins a change in Billy’s incarceration in the Chateau d’If, and though his despair never fades away completely, he’s able to overcome it for the most part with the pirate’s company. Nothing will ever be so hopeless, so desperately appalling, as the loneliness of three years without the sight of another person, and though his cell is still cold and dirty, though the slop they give him is still foul and unappetising, though every liberty and dignity has been stripped away from him, Billy never fails to be thankful that Hopper took the time to come to him.
There is still a routine, but it’s different now. Billy wakes with the sun as he always does, but now he wakes to see Hopper lying along the wall opposite him, chest rising and falling as he slumbers. He always sleeps longer than Billy can manage, and wakes slowly and blearily with the clatter of the ladle coming in through the flap under Billy’s door.
“I am an old man!” he exclaims, when Billy hesitatingly begins to tease him on this score. “I have not your youth and vigor—”
“Old man! You are a middle-aged pirate, not an old man,” Billy replies scornfully, but after that the nickname becomes a joke between them.
So long as the plate is left in the right spot by his door, there is no need for Hopper to be in his own cell in the mornings. Instead they share Billy’s food, leaving the other meal to be eaten later in the day. Billy finds that two meals a day satisfies his hunger better than one, even though the quantity he consumes hasn’t changed.
After eating they dig. It’s back-breaking, exhausting work, and Billy can well believe that it took the pirate three years to reach him in spite of the comparatively short distance between their cells. Several hours of digging results in only the smallest shift in the crumbling rock that lies beneath the flagstones of his cell, but leaves them both fatigued before the day is half done.
They deposit the pieces of stone they have managed to dislodge in Billy’s bucket - they each retire to Hopper’s cell by way of the tunnel when nature calls - and then Hopper insists that they wash in the dripping stream of water that falls in the corner.
“I am surprised that you have let yourself lapse in cleanliness,” he tells Billy sternly. “Don’t you know how dangerous infection can be? We must not allow sickness to claim us.”
“Sickness has already claimed me,” Billy says quietly, thinking of the delirium that overtook him after his second whipping. But he doesn’t resist Hopper’s edict.
They wash as best they can - which, admittedly, is not well - and then rest for a while. This is the part of the day Billy comes to look forward to the most. He enjoys simply sitting and talking to the pirate, hearing of his adventures, telling of his own. It’s an opportunity too to speak of Harrington, though of course he cannot reveal the true nature of their relationship.
“We are as close as brothers,” he says, the lie stinging his lips as he lets it fall from them. “I know he will move heaven and earth to secure my release from this place. That I still remain here is testament only to the tremendous obstacles my father must have put in his way.”
Hopper nods slowly. “I wish I could claim a friendship as strong as that,” he says. “He seemed a good man when I met him on your ship, though I’d caution you not to hold too much faith in any person from here on out. You do not know who is connected to your father’s treachery.”
Billy touches the ring on his finger, letting his thumb slide across the stitched twine. “Not Harrington,” he says with certainty. “He would never betray me.”
“Perhaps not,” Hopper says. “You know him best. But remember, he may not know you are here. He may have been told you were sent to some other prison.”
“I have thought of that,” Billy says unhappily. Then he shakes his head a little. “I will surprise him when we escape,” he says in a stronger voice.
Hopper smiles. “I am glad to see you with more hope.”
Billy glances at him. His heavy brow is creased with something like worry. “Harrington will take care of your daughter,” he says. “He swore an oath to protect her if I could not, and I think it is safe to say that I cannot.”
“I hope you are right,” Hopper says, his voice creaking with melancholy. “I think of her every day, praying that she has not been punished for my sins.”
“Harrington will have kept her safe,” Billy says firmly. “Besides, it does my father no good to harm her. She knows nothing of your secrets, and it would look poor indeed to mistreat a young lady under his protection.”
“I hope you are right,” Hopper says again.
They don’t speak on the subject again. Billy can understand the pirate’s concern, but he can’t share it. His faith in Harrington is absolute. He charged his first mate with Jane Hopper’s protection, and for Billy’s sake - not to mention his own honor - Harrington will have kept her from harm.
Late in the afternoon they fight. Hopper has him fencing with two thin strips of wood he peels from the door frame in place of swords; Billy is sadly out of practice after three years of inaction.
“You must not allow yourself to deteriorate,” the pirate lectures him. “You must maintain your skill with the sword. One day you may need it.”
At last, when Billy is sweating and exhausted, they eat the food waiting for them in Hopper’s cell, and after the buckets have been collected and returned they sleep. It is not much of a life - not the life Billy could ever have desired - but compared with the years of loneliness, it is a life he grasps with both hands.
“If you had not come to me, I would be dead by now,” he says one night to Hopper, both of them lying in the quiet darkness of his cell. He’s stroking his ring, staring out of the tiny window towards the glow of the moon.
Hopper is silent for a long moment. Then he reaches out a large hand and touches Billy briefly on the shoulder. “Sleep,” he says gently. “Go to sleep, Billy Hargrove.”
Notes:
Okay. It got a LITTLE better. Have I mentioned I'm obsessed with the Billy and Hopper family feels?
Chapter 8: huit (1823-1827)
Notes:
Just in case you were wondering, all the tags related to ANGST were not put there for shits and giggles XD
Chapter Text
The room is very quiet, so quiet that Billy can hear his own labored breaths rasping harshly through the cool morning air. He kneels on the cold flagstones, his hands clasped together in front of his body so tightly that the knuckles have turned white. There is a dull ringing in his ears.
When he speaks, his voice is a broken, cracked whisper. “Five years,” he says.
“I know,” Hopper replies quietly. He’s sitting a few feet away, leaning against the wall with his head bowed in front of him, though he looks up when Billy speaks. “I know.”
“Five years,” Billy repeats. Then: “Five years!”
Kneeling is not enough, not good enough to express his rage. Billy springs to his feet, turning away from the hole in the ground. His body is shaking, his vision blurring.
“Five years,” he says for the fourth time. “Five years, old man, which means - eight years, altogether. I have been here eight years!”
“As have I,” Hopper says evenly.
Billy is in no mood to allow him any concessions. He paces the cell as he has not paced since he first arrived in this accursed place, the space no longer big enough to contain him, and his shoulders bounce off the walls as he shoves away from them.
“You told me,” he says, though he knows well enough that it is not fair to blame Hopper for this. “You told me to have hope! You told me we’d escape!”
Hopper gets to his feet slowly, glancing towards the door. “Lower your voice,” he says urgently. “You must not say anything that would alarm a listener.”
“There are no guards here at this time of day,” Billy sneers. “Don’t you know the routine yet, old man? We’ve been here eight years - how much longer do you need to learn their schedule?”
“Schedules can change,” the pirate says stubbornly, his voice rising a little. “Anomalies can occur.”
Billy shakes his head, unwilling to accept the wisdom in this. “Five years,” he says again. “Five years since you burrowed into my cell, where I was happily going mad, and you brought me back to sanity and told me to have hope. You told me - you promised me - you made me believe I might leave this place. Five years of living like dogs - like rats - five years of tunneling and digging—”
He breaks off with a sobbing cry, his hands grinding into his eye sockets.
The tunnel has taken so long to construct. Without the underlying soil and rock, the floor is liable to collapse, and so they have had to invent ways to maintain its stability so no one will notice their endeavors. Billy’s nails are permanently ragged and bleeding from the effort of digging them into the ground. There have been collapses where the ground shifts, and they must begin again. Sometimes Billy has come close to despair - but always, always the thought of escape kept him pushing onward.
But today - today their tunnel reached beneath the door, a momentous occasion indeed, for just a few feet beyond that they might scratch their way upward and out of the cell completely. It should have been cause for celebration.
“Stone,” Billy sobs out. “Solid rock - rock that we will never break through, not in a hundred years. No man has the strength.”
He had not been able to believe it at first, when they hit the rock. As thick as the castle walls themselves - and apparently running all the way beneath the interior wall that divides them from the corridor outside.
“We will find another way,” Hopper says.
“There is no other way!” Billy exclaims. “Five years - we wasted five years of our lives, all for nothing! I will never leave this place!”
He feels it then, the old hopelessness that had risen up to claim him when he was alone. The old madness. He will never be entirely sane. His mind will always be divided.
His back bears the scars from nine separate beatings. His mind bears the scars from eight years of imprisonment, eight years of dashed hopes and ill treatment and nightmares of his beloved Steve, eight years living in terror and despair and hope all mingled together. Now - now that hope is gone, and Billy is broken.
He falls to the ground abruptly, his legs folding beneath him as though they have forgotten how to stand. By chance, he finds himself in that spot where he used to spend his days, the spot beneath the window from which he can see the square patch of sky, his only connection to the world outside. He stares out into the nothingness. It’s the closest he will ever come to touching the soil again.
“Billy,” Hopper says. He comes to Billy’s side, shakes his shoulder gently. “Billy, you cannot lose hope. You cannot give up.”
But Billy is lost, lost in the whirl of madness that hope alone has kept at bay these last five years. Eight years. He’s been incarcerated in this place for eight years. He’s not sure exactly what time of year it is, but he’s almost certain he’s had his birthday by now. He’s twenty-nine years old, a grown man by any standard. He’s missed half his life.
Eight years - eight years of empty nothingness, eight years in which the world has passed him by, the Chateau d’If an eternal pocket of space away from time, in which men waste away and die without ever really living.
And what of the outside world? What has happened out there in reality, while he has been hidden away here? There was talk of another war before his father sent him to this place. It might be raging still, or fought and won - or lost. Billy shudders to think of it. Steve - his Steve, his bright and beautiful husband - might have fought in his absence, might have been injured - or worse.
No, not that. Billy’s mind shies away from the thought. He’s certain he would know, if Steve were dead. Surely he would be able to feel it.
Eight years. They feel like a lifetime, but they are not a lifetime. No, and that is the worst part of it all - he still has a lifetime ahead of him, stretching on and on to no purpose. He isn’t yet thirty. He could live another forty or fifty years, and then eight will feel like nothing. His mind can barely comprehend such a stretch of time, cannot understand that it is real, that is allowed, that it is happening - but just as he must endure his yearly beatings without hope of reprieve, so the years will roll past without his being able to do anything to prevent them.
“I will die here,” he says thickly.
“You will not die here,” Hopper replies - but how can Billy believe that? They had a plan for escape, and it has failed.
He lies on the ground, staring at the ceiling, and time passes as slowly as it ever does. Billy is hardly aware of his surroundings, lost in his own despair. The pirate moves around him, occasionally attempts conversation - but Billy is beyond conversation. He is sinking back into the quagmire, and not even Hopper can bring him back out of it.
Days go by, and Billy barely moves. His existence resembles those three years before Hopper’s arrival now. He uses his bucket, eats when Hopper puts the bowl into his hands, drinks from the dripping rock - but his mind is elsewhere, his sanity buried beneath all the layers of stone that divide him from his freedom and his husband.
“Billy,” Hopper says. “Billy, you cannot let yourself fall. You cannot do this.”
Billy hardly hears him. The further he retreats into his own mind, the less everything hurts.
More time, sliding by like rock crumbling from a mountain face. Brenner returns to deliver his tenth beating, which means half a year has passed since their hopes of escape were dashed. Billy is lethargic in the rough hands of the guards, and though he still screams himself hoarse under the whip - impossible not to - he can barely bring himself to react to the sadistic warden’s attentions.
Four days later, he lies with his back pressed against the cool stones of his wall, listening to Hopper’s cries on the other side as he receives the same treatment, and tears slide down his face.
For five years, they’ve comforted each other after the whippings. But Billy doesn’t venture into Hopper’s cell this time, and after so long a time trying to bring him back to himself to no avail, Hopper seems to have given up.
Perhaps the pirate has fallen into the same well of despair with which he himself is so intimately familiar. But without Hopper’s voice in his ear, the desperation is worse. He’s lonely as he hasn’t been lonely in five years.
Billy thinks of Steve, tears blurring his vision as he touches his ring. What would Steve think of him, lying inert and hopeless like this? The pirate came to him when he could have dug another way - he wasn’t to know, after all, that it would be fruitless - and rescued him from torment. Steve - Steve would consider it dishonorable, to repay such kindness with this apathy.
Even with this realization, it takes a while before Billy feels equal to the task of dragging himself across his cell to the stone that lies across the mouth of the tunnel. He’s trembling, his mind fluttering to strange places, inventing ghosts and phantoms to fill his cell, and it’s more difficult than he could have imagined to force his thoughts into order.
At last, however, he opens up the tunnel with shaking hands, and scrambles through it.
It’s difficult to know how long it’s been since the whippings. Billy’s back has moved from sharp pain to a dull throbbing ache - but he’s had so many beatings by now that the pain never really fades completely. At any rate, however, it’s been too long since he saw the pirate. Too long since he selfishly threw himself into the pits of anguish alone.
Hopper is lying with his face to the wall, enormous arms thrown up across his face and his body unmoving. Billy thinks he’s asleep, but he flinches and rolls over at the sound of the stone scraping across the floor - and then freezes in his tracks when he sees who it is.
“Hopper,” Billy says cautiously. He’s still trembling, and there’s a buzzing sound in his ears, but he refuses to allow himself to descend into madness again. He pulls himself out of the tunnel, takes a tentative step towards Hopper.
“Billy?” The pirate’s voice is a low croak.
Billy bites his lip. There’s no knowing how angry Hopper will be, after Billy’s abandonment. “Oh, old man,” he says, and his hand unconsciously finds the little curl of hair behind his ear. Tears are threatening to spill out down his face. “Forgive me. Forgive me.”
To his surprise, the pirate looks on the verge of tears himself - and, even stranger, he’s abruptly smiling. He gets to his feet, coming to Billy with his arms open wide. “Thank God,” he murmurs, and wraps Billy into a warm embrace.
It’s been too long since Billy was touched kindly. They embrace for a long time, and Billy thinks to himself that the only greater comfort could be if Steve was imprisoned here with him. Hopper is as close to him as family, and Billy could not love him better than if they were truly related.
“Forgive me,” he sobs into Hopper’s shoulder. “I did not intend - I should not—”
“Nothing to forgive, my boy,” Hopper says gently. One hand strokes Billy’s head. “You have done nothing - nothing! This place would corrupt even the strongest mind. I could never hold that against you.”
Billy wipes his eyes on his ragged shirt sleeve. “You have not fractured and broken as I have,” he says.
“Ah, well,” the pirate says. “If you had seen me after I was first exiled from Marseille, you would not say so. I have had my share of despair in my time. And besides—” here he smiles at Billy “—I have you to fight for, this time.”
“I wish—” Billy begins, and then stops himself. He had been about to say, I wish you were my father - but it seems an imposition to say it, encroaching on the boundaries of their relationship.
Hopper does not press him to finish his sentence, but he pulls Billy in tight once more, and that almost suffices for everything Billy is missing.
So begins a new phase of his incarceration: one in which he has none of the hope Hopper first brought to him, but a fresh determination to succeed regardless. The routine they established resumes, although now there is no digging to be done in the morning. Instead they divide their time between a search for a new escape, and as much stimulating conversation as either can conceive.
“We must exercise our minds, as much as our bodies,” Hopper says. He is devising a mathematical problem in chalk on the back of a stone for Billy to tackle.
“We,” Billy murmurs, for he knows full well that it is only his own mind which is in danger of crumbling.
The pirate levels him with a mock-glare. “We,” he repeats, and passes the stone to Billy.
They make it a game - constructing intricate word or number puzzles for the other to solve, or raising thorny philosophical or political questions to discuss over their bowls of slop, or unpicking military strategy in order to better it. It forces Billy to think as he has not had to think in years, and he has to admit that it goes a long way in keeping him present in the moment, instead of slipping away into insanity.
“What’s the point in any of this?” he asks in a more melancholy moment, shaking his head at the four walls he’s been staring at for close on a decade. “What’s the purpose in honing our minds, in keeping our bodies strong, if we will always be here?”
“You do not know what could happen,” the pirate replies. “You don’t know what could change in the world. Have you lost faith in your friend Harrington’s efforts to release you? Imagine that he finds a way to secure your release, only to find that you have been reduced to a gibbering fool!”
Billy cannot disagree with this, and so he throws himself into the training program they have devised for themselves. They continue to fight in the afternoons, sometimes with the sticks that substitute for swords and sometimes wrestling in hand-to-hand combat. Billy often beats Hopper with his swordplay, but never in direct combat.
“I am larger than you by far, and always shall be,” the pirate says, laughing breathlessly after another bout. “Still, it is beneficial for you, even if you do lose against my bulk!” There’s no denying that; Billy has grown strong and lean since their reconciliation, new muscles springing up on his body in spite of the lack of food.
The madness is always there, lingering in his mind, but he’s determined he’ll never succumb to it again, and with his regime of activity as a crutch, he never does.
Years pass in this way, and Billy learns to ignore the despair hovering in his peripheral vision as he grows older and stronger without seeing more than the inside of his own and Hopper’s cells. They have continued to search for an escape, of course, and sometimes it seems there might be a viable plan - but it comes to nothing. They are here, and barring intervention from the outside, they will remain here.
Brenner’s face grows more lined every year, but his vigor and enthusiasm for the vicious beatings he doles out at the anniversary of Billy’s incarceration never abates. Billy stops feeling shocked by it, and even finds an ability to hang in the chains without screaming as the whip bites into his flesh, though tears flood down his cheeks every time.
After each beating, Hopper crawls through the tunnel to carefully tend to his wounds, and four days later Billy does the same for him. It used to take him weeks to recover from a whipping, but now he finds he’s able to stand and move about again after a mere day or two. As he’s thought so often in this place: a man can get used to anything, given time.
“One day,” Hopper says through gritted teeth, the evening after his thirteenth whipping, “I’ll burst free of those chains and turn the whip on that sadist myself.”
Billy presses a wet rag to his bloodied back, and Hopper hisses. “I’ll hold him down for you,” he offers, and Hopper laughs a little brokenly.
“God knows I’ve pulled enough on those chains to know they won’t move,” he says. They’ve both investigated the chains extensively in their search for an escape, Billy standing on Hopper’s shoulders to reach them and see whether they can be repurposed - as to what, they were uncertain, but it was useless. They’re unmovable, as Hopper says.
“We’ll find another way,” Billy says. It’s an automatic refrain, one he’s said so often it ceases to have any meaning.
Twelve years. He’s been here twelve years, though whenever he remembers it his mind skitters away from the reality of it. He was a boy of twenty when his father sent him to this accursed place, and now he’s a man, his youth spent and his mind so bruised that every day he struggles to force it into compliance.
The pirate chuckles a little. “At least I make them work for my blood,” he says, his voice hard. “That toad Brenner brings three men with him to force me into those shackles, and he hides behind them when they release me afterward.” He grins fiercely to himself. “At least I still frighten someone!”
Billy laughs, dabbing again at Hopper’s back. “I’ve never really fought the beatings,” he says. “At first I was too appalled to think of fighting, and now…” He pauses, recalling the whipping he bore in the midst of his madness, after their hopes of escape had been dashed. “I became a ghost during that beating,” he says, and he knows Hopper will know which one he means.
“You’re not a ghost any longer,” Hopper says firmly.
“No,” Billy says, and he laughs again. “But I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to lethargy when it comes to Brenner’s beatings. I think it irritates him a little, to spark no reaction when he hurts me.”
Hopper winces as water splashes across the cuts in his flesh. “You are more circumspect than I am.”
“That, or more cowardly,” Billy says. “The warden certainly does not fear me. He only brings one man to see to my chains, and this last beating he sent the man away before he began the whipping, and released me himself.”
The pirate does not reply, and Billy finishes cleaning his back in silence. He is not ashamed of himself for behaving in such a cowardly way, not here. It makes no difference to his incarceration, and he’s found over the years that he’s able to bear the pain of the whip a little better if he can drift away in his mind while it cuts into him. Should bravery ever be required, he knows he still has it in supply.
When the evening meal is delivered, Billy brings the bowl to Hopper’s side, tipping it to his lips so he doesn’t have to rise to eat. The pirate swallows the slop gratefully. They don’t speak much that evening; both of them are battling lingering pain, Hopper more than Billy.
It’s only later, when they’re both half-asleep on the ground, the sky dark outside the little window, that Hopper suddenly speaks into the dusk. “Did you say that Brenner sent his man away this time?”
“Yes,” Billy says, surprised by the question. “He whispered his usual cruelties into my ear when he laid me on the ground. Perhaps he wanted to injure me by showing me that he did not need another to control me.”
“Do you think he’ll do the same again next year?” Hopper asks.
Billy contemplates the question. “I cried when he spoke to me,” he says. He’s not embarrassed to admit it; Hopper has seen his tears more times than he can count. “If he wanted a show of my humiliation, I’ll wager he had it. It seems likely that he’d repeat the experiment.” He pauses. “Why do you ask?”
When Hopper speaks, his voice is full of a barely contained excitement. “Brenner is just one man,” he says.
“Yes,” Billy says cautiously.
“Just one man,” the pirate repeats. “Could we not fight one man?”
Billy’s heart is fluttering. “Yes,” he says, “but he still brought that second man into the cell to put the bonds on me. He did not send him away until I was chained up.” He hesitates. “I could not swear that I’d have the strength to fight even one man after a beating like that.”
“I understand,” Hopper says. “But what if - what if I hid in the tunnel under your cell, and I fought him once he sent his man away?”
For a long, long moment Billy says nothing. Hopper is a big man, far bigger than Brenner, and he’s honed his body as much as Billy has over the years. In spite of everything, in spite of all the years of imprisonment, the black mist of despair that still lingers on him every day - he can feel hope mounting inside him.
“You would have to wait until he released me,” he says slowly.
“No,” Hopper says at once. “You should not endure another whipping. I can fight him myself.”
Billy shakes his head in the darkness. “He will have his whip in his hand, and I will be helpless and in chains,” he says. “No, if you wait until he releases me - his back will be to the tunnel, and he will have tucked his whip back into his belt. And should it become necessary, I could perhaps muster the strength at least to prevent him from calling for help.”
“It means waiting another year,” Hopper warns him.
That brings the ghost of a smile to Billy’s face. “As if we have any choice about that!”
“Are you certain I should not fight him before you are beaten?” Hopper asks. “It seems intolerable that you should have to endure another whipping, especially if I do not.”
“I can endure it smiling, if I know that it will be the last,” Billy replies. His heart is beating harder than it has in a long time. “We will discuss all the details in due course - we have time. But my God, old man! This could work!”
Chapter 9: neuf (1828)
Notes:
Okay, I guess I've tortured Billy enough for now. Definitely done with that... XD
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Billy sits with his back to the wall, his heart pounding so loudly in his chest that he’s certain Hopper must be able to hear it. His hands are shaking, and he can’t quite look the old pirate in the eye. If all goes as it ought to - this will be his last night in this place.
He can scarcely allow himself to think about it. It seems impossible, a dream, a fairytale - but incredibly, after a year of planning, the day has arrived.
“This will work,” Hopper says to him. He clearly intends to sound reassuring, but there’s something feverish in his voice that he can’t disguise. “This will work. We will be free.”
“Yes,” Billy says mechanically. His knees are trembling.
They have thought out every moment of the following day. To begin with, they’ve done something Billy swore he would never do: on the reverse side of one of the flagstones on the floor, they have marked off a tally for each day of the year, so that they could be certain when Brenner will be arriving to deliver Billy’s final beating.
Hopper laughed when Billy told him of his oath not to do it, not to feed into Brenner’s sick sense of satisfaction by following in the footsteps of his predecessors. “But now you are using it against him,” he pointed out, and Billy found himself smiling as he has not smiled in years.
Tomorrow they might be free men, might taste the air outside this desolate castle for the first time in thirteen years. Billy’s mind can barely encompass the thought of it.
He touches his ring with his thumb. Even after all this time, it’s still there, still protected. He swore he would never let it leave his finger, and it never has. It has been thirteen years since he saw his husband, but they will be reunited. After a year of desperate planning, Billy actually believes that now. He has tried not to allow himself to spend too long imagining that moment of reunion, but it is difficult not to indulge in the fantasy.
Steve will be older, just as he is - a man grown, and though it pains Billy to consider it, he knows that the years will not have been kind to him. Perhaps not so injurious as they have been to Billy, but Steve has been without his husband for thirteen years, just as Billy has. All this time he will have been campaigning for Billy’s release and yet failing. Knowing Steve as he does, Billy is willing to bet he’s been as close to despair outside the Chateau d’If as Billy has been inside it.
He looks again at Hopper. The thought of Steve is weighing on his mind. They’ve not spoken much of their plans after escaping, but he knows that whatever they do, they’ll do it together. They’re as close as father and son, and to have a secret from the pirate still, on the eve of their escape, seems wrong.
“Hopper,” he croaks.
The pirate glances at him. “Billy,” he says.
“I must tell you something,” Billy says. His mouth is very dry. “Something I have never… have never revealed to another soul.”
Hopper looks surprised, and well he might; there’s almost no topic they have not discussed, over the ten years they have been imprisoned together. “Now?” he says.
“Yes,” Billy says. He swallows. “We cannot… I cannot bear the thought that we might leave this place together without my having shared this secret. It was wrong of me to have kept it from you for so long.”
“Kept it from me?” Hopper repeats. His brow is drawn together in a heavy line. “Kept what from me?”
Billy lets out a breath. “I have not been honest with you,” he says. “It is not a subject that affects you greatly, but our intimacy after all these years is such that I should have told you sooner. I was afraid, afraid of what you would think of me.”
“Billy,” Hopper says, his expression loosening into a smile. “I could never think less of you. You are as dear to me as if you were my own son. You must know that.”
Billy lets out a low and mirthless chuckle. “And you are the father I would have wished for,” he says sincerely. He pauses, one hand rising to tug on the lank curls hanging by his ear, winding the strands around his finger. “But this… some would say that this secret puts me against God.”
“My relationship with God is complicated, to say the least,” the pirate says with a laugh. He still doesn’t understand - thinks, perhaps, that the fear of enacting their plan tomorrow has made Billy melodramatic. “Tell me this secret, Billy. I think you will find that all will be well.”
“You know that I have been hoping that my great friend and first mate Steve Harrington will successfully orchestrate my rescue,” Billy says. He waits for Hopper to nod, his breath coming sharp and shallow. “I have told you that he is my childhood friend, as close as a brother to me.”
Hopper frowns in clear confusion. “Yes,” he says.
Billy takes a breath. “That was a lie,” he says. “Steve is no brother to me. He is… Our bond is… it is not brotherly. It is something… something more.”
The pirate says nothing. Billy’s chest feels unaccountably tight, and he stumbles on. “Since I was a child, I knew I could not desire a woman in the way I desire Steve. Perhaps it is wrong - perhaps it goes against God - but I must tell you that I have never been ashamed of it until this moment. The love I feel for him - and he for me - is too pure and too deep to allow for shame.”
He touches his ring. “Before we came on that fateful mission, the one that led us to your ship, we swore vows to one another as though we were to marry. We said the words from the marriage ceremony, and exchanged these twine rings that you see here on my finger. I consider Steve Harrington to be my husband.”
He stops talking, breathless and light-headed. Hopper still does not speak, and Billy’s breath catches in his throat. He is afraid, so afraid - afraid that Hopper will turn away from him now he knows the truth. But he could not go into the world without telling him, not without abandoning all sense of honor.
“Why do you feel shame now?” Hopper asks.
“What?” Billy says.
Hopper clears his throat. “You said that you have not felt shame until this moment,” he says. “Why do you feel shame now? I hope it is not on my account, for there is no need.”
Billy blinks, his eyes welling up with unexpected tears. “I thought - I thought you would be disgusted with me,” he says, his voice choked. “Yours is the only opinion in the world that matters as much to me as Steve’s.”
“Billy,” Hopper says gently. “I told you I could never think less of you, and I meant it. If I had ever thought ill of those who love as you do, that would be put to rest merely through knowing you.” He laughs a little. “As it happens, however, you are not the first of your kind I have encountered. You will find that among pirates, the laws of the God-fearing man are far less respected.”
“Oh,” Billy says, and now he is swallowing down real tears. “All these years I have - I have been so afraid—”
Hopper reaches out and pats his shoulder comfortingly. “You did not need to be,” he says. He hesitates, and then goes on: “Perhaps I should not tell you this… but there have been moments where I have suspected as much. I did not know for certain, but this is not a surprise to me.”
“I had not - had not realized that I had revealed myself,” Billy says stiffly.
Hopper laughs. “Perhaps if I had not met others like you, I would not have suspected it,” he says. “But sometimes the way you spoke of Harrington gave me pause - and I did notice the ring,” he adds apologetically. “You didn’t tell me, so I thought it best not to ask, but you never mentioned a lady who might have given it to you.”
“He has one too,” Billy explains. “We swore that we would never love another. There is no legal way for us to be married, but in our eyes it is the same.”
“And will he wait for you?” Hopper asks. “I have no wish to pain you,” he goes on quickly. “I just wonder - it has been thirteen years. It’s a long time for any man to wait, and neither of you will be the boys you were.”
Billy shakes his head. “Steve would wait a lifetime for me,” he says with confidence. “I cannot expect you to believe it or understand it, but our love - our love runs deeper than time itself. There is nothing Steve would not do for me, and no part of me he would not fight for, no change in me that he would not accept. It’s the same for me. We are two halves of the same soul.”
Hopper smiles. “Then he deserves you,” he says softly. “Any less, and he could not.”
They try to sleep after that, though it’s a long time coming. Billy runs over the plan again and again in his mind, and he’s sure Hopper is doing the same across the room. There are so many places where it could go wrong - but there’s nothing they can do about that. They must trust to hope, as frightening as that is.
The morning passes like a dream, the minutes sliding away as Billy’s fear increases with every moment. They wake with the dawn, and after eating - they’ve saved more food than usual, for they’ll need their strength today - Hopper slips into the tunnel that connects their two cells. He must take care not to knock too much dirt onto himself, because yesterday they spent the whole day washing him with water from the dripping rock.
They cut away as much of his beard and hair as they could manage with a sharpened stone too, so he looks much more like the grizzled pirate Billy met that day on board the Mercedes all those years ago. For their plan to be successful, it’s essential that he’s not immediately recognized as a prisoner.
Billy waits, heart beating hard. One more whipping. One more whipping, and then perhaps he will be free. He sets his teeth. He can endure one more, with the thought of freedom at the other end of it.
At last, the door to his cell creaks open, which at least allays one fear: that they have miscounted the days. Billy stays slumped against the wall as Brenner and his man stride into the cell. He must appear defeated, as defeated as he has been every year for more than a decade. Brenner cannot suspect that he has more hope today than ever before.
The guard snatches him up, half-dragging him to the chains which the warden has winched down from the ceiling. Billy puts up no resistance. He lets himself hang there, lets the familiar throb of fear of his impending whipping take over his body as the guard pushes his shirt up above his shoulders. This at least is not difficult to perform.
“Oh, Hargrove,” Brenner says, and Billy can hear the amusement threaded through his voice. “What a sight you are! No fight left in you, I see. What has it been - thirteen years? Some men last longer than this before they are broken.”
Billy moans a little. He’s so quick to cry in this place that tears spring to his eyes, though in his chest a fierce fury is building. He is not broken. That will be Brenner’s mistake.
He hears the snap of the whip as the warden tugs it out of his belt. Billy holds his breath. This is the moment - the moment where they will see if all their plans have been for nothing. He and Hopper have agreed that if Brenner does not send his man away, the risk will be too great to attempt to fight.
But just as he did last year, Brenner says: “You go on, lad. I can handle this sorry wreck alone.”
In spite of himself, Billy feels a smile budding on his lips. A sorry wreck? Ha!
The door closes behind the guard, and then it is just Billy and the warden. He waits for the first blow. He can endure it. He can endure anything, because afterwards - afterwards he will be free, and Brenner will be nothing.
The whip whistles through the air, and crashes into Billy’s back.
As always, the pain is exquisite, and Billy makes no attempt to hold back his cries. For Hopper, watching and waiting in the tunnel with the stone held up a crack so he can see when it’s over, it must be torturous. Billy cannot imagine bearing witness to a friend’s agony in this way - but it is the only way. They’ve agreed on it.
The whip bears down on him again and again, and Billy screams and shakes and twists away from its cruelty as he always does. He would not say that it is easier to bear than usual - but he finds a strength in himself that he does not usually possess, simply through the knowledge that this pain is a part of his own plan as well as Brenner’s.
Blood sprays from the lash and onto the ground, and Billy groans in something that might be interpreted as despair. It’s as though Brenner knows this will be the last whipping he’ll ever deliver, for he’s as vicious as Billy has ever known him. The beating seems to last a long, long time, though of course they always do.
At last, at last, the warden stops. He sounds breathless, but almost invigorated. Billy shudders at the sound.
“Did it sting, Hargrove?” he taunts as he unbuckles the shackles around Billy’s wrists. “Where is your courage now, sea captain?”
Billy allows himself to weep, and Brenner chuckles as he leads him over to the wall. All Billy’s muscles are tensed, in spite of the pain radiating through every inch of his body. It’s surprisingly easy to remain alert when he knows what’s coming.
Brenner has his back to the part of the room where the tunnel begins, so unless anything has happened to prevent him, Hopper ought to be climbing out of it now. Billy doesn’t dare turn to look, but he moans as loudly as he dares as Brenner guides him to the floor, hiding any sound Hopper might be making.
There’s a grunt, and a stamp, and Brenner releases Billy abruptly as Hopper barrels into him.
Billy scrambles to his feet at once, turning around. Hopper has tackled the warden to the floor, heaving all his bulk on top of him, and his fists are swinging with precision. Underneath him Brenner attempts to scream - but everyone screams in Chateau d’If. Nobody will come for him.
The whip has fallen from Brenner’s belt, and Hopper snatches it up. Brenner shrieks as the pirate lashes it down on his face and arms; if there was any justice in the world, he’d be hogtied and beaten to death, but they have no time for that. They just need him dead.
Hidden in the corner of the room behind his bucket, Billy has a small piece of sharpened stone, and he dives to fetch it. His fist is clenched around it. All these years - all this time locked away for a crime he did not commit - he’s sworn to himself that he’ll have his vengeance.
Vengeance against Lady Wheeler, who falsely accused him. Vengeance against his father, whose corruption and betrayal sent him here. But before those more important missions of revenge - vengeance against the warden, who knows of his innocence and doesn’t care. More than doesn’t care - enjoys it.
Hopper’s enormous arm is on Brenner’s throat, crushing it. The warden’s face is purple, his eyes bulging as he scrabbles uselessly against the pirate’s weight.
Billy darts forward, and without another thought, without a moment’s hesitation, stabs the sharp point of the stone into the warden’s neck. A gurgle, a spurt of blood - and Brenner is dead.
For a moment he and Hopper merely stare at each other. The warden is dead. It seems impossible, insanity - but it’s true. They have succeeded.
“Good God,” Hopper murmurs.
“Quick,” Billy says, for their escape is only half-done. Hopper gets to his feet. His body is trembling a little.
They strip Brenner of his clothes as efficiently as they can, and Hopper puts them on while Billy shoves the warden’s naked body into the tunnel that connects their cells. He’s not gentle with it. Brenner died more peacefully than he deserved, and Billy is determined that it will be the last time one of his enemies is granted that mercy. It gives him a sick sense of satisfaction to see him maimed and discarded, stuffed into the earth.
He replaces the stone above the tunnel’s mouth. It’s possible no one will find the body here, not hidden as it is, and that also satisfies him.
Hopper has put on Brenner’s clothes by now, and he has the man’s keys and whip at his belt and his hat on his head. This is the part of the plan that requires the most luck, for even in the warden’s attire, he doesn’t much resemble him. However, with his back to the door - well, they have a second plan, should the first one fail.
“Hi there!” Hopper calls, unlocking the door and half-opening it. “Come, quickly, and bring a shroud. The man is dead!”
They’ve heard such a call before, over the years. Men die in Chateau d’If, and no one seems to care very much. Billy lies on the ground, arranging himself as if dead. He’s aware of Hopper standing in the doorway, waiting for a guard to obey his instructions. He’s further out of his cell than he’s ever been, and it must be momentous. Billy must wait a little longer for his freedom.
A guard clatters into the cell, and Hopper turns away from the door as he enters. “Did you kill him?” he asks insolently.
“What does it matter? Put him in the bag,” Hopper says. Billy closes his eyes.
This is the moment of truth. If the guard looks closely enough to see that it isn’t Brenner giving the orders, they’ll have to kill him too, and Billy will take his clothes and use his body as their corpse. But Billy hasn’t cut his hair or beard, or washed the thick grime from his face - he could not risk it when Brenner might have noticed it. There’s risk either way.
But the guard is either too accustomed to following orders, or too stupid to notice anything amiss. Billy feels hands on his body, and a covering is laid over his face. Now he’s nothing more than a corpse.
“You take the feet,” Hopper says. “We’ll take him down to the dock.”
“You don’t want to throw him from the tower?” the man says, sounding surprised.
Billy tenses, and then forces his muscles to relax. He must be dead, must be utterly heavy and still. Hopper says, “Not this one. His father will want to see the body. Don’t you know who he is?”
“No,” the guard says, which is a surprise to Billy. Somehow he’d thought he’d be known among all the guards - but then, why should he be? Why should they care to learn the names of any of their unfortunate prisoners? “Who is he?” he asks.
“The son of an important man,” Hopper says. It’s a clever excuse for the change in what must be the usual routine. “I’ll row his body to the mainland myself.”
Billy hangs limply between the two of them as they carry him. With the shroud on him, he can see nothing - but a sudden burst of light through the bag tells him when they’re out in the little sunny courtyard in the center of the cells, and his heart quickens. It’s the first real sunlight he’s felt in thirteen years, and if all goes to plan - soon enough he’ll be able to stand beneath it on his own two feet.
Time seems to be moving too slowly. The men struggle to get him down the stairs, but they manage eventually. Billy tries to guess where they are - when they’re passing under the arch at the entrance, when they’re crossing the green space in front of the fortress, when they’re passing the warden’s office - but it’s impossible to tell.
In his hand he holds the shard of rock tightly, and prays as he’s never prayed before - not to an uncertain God, but to Steve. Please, Steve, he thinks to himself. Let me see you again soon.
At last, at last, they set him down, and he feels a rocking underneath his body that tells him he’s in a boat. Hopper’s voice comes from somewhere nearby. “Alright,” he says. “Unwind the rope. I’ll be back by nightfall, or perhaps in the morning, if the lad’s father offers me a cup of wine.”
“A cup of wine, for the death of his son?” the guard says skeptically.
Hopper laughs a little cruelly. “His father put him in this place,” he says - and then there’s movement, movement, and they’re pushing away, the ocean rocking beneath the boat.
Billy stays still under the shroud, barely breathing. Minutes slide by - and then there are hands on him, and Hopper’s face appears above him. Billy stares up at him - because behind him there’s the sky.
“The man has gone,” Hopper says. “You can get up.” There’s a muted emotion in his voice.
Billy sits up slowly. His breath is shallow, his heart hammering. He turns slowly to look around him.
He’s under the whole open sky, blue and azure above him, just a few scudding clouds decorating the bright sunshine that illuminates the glimmering ocean. Billy chokes back a sob. It’s as beautiful a sight as it ever was on board Mercedes. The sea glitters and sparkles, stretching out in every direction, an endless open freedom. A breeze ruffles Billy’s hair, and he gasps.
“My God,” he whispers.
“We’re free,” Hopper says. He’s rowing the boat as quickly as he can manage. “Billy, Billy - we’re free!”
Billy turns his face back the way they came. The Chateau d’If - that little yet imposing fortress just off the coast of Marseille, that indomitable prison - is receding into the distance, growing smaller and smaller as Hopper rows them further and further away. Billy remembers the day he arrived, thirteen years ago. He was so young then, so innocent. He had no idea of the horrors he would face.
But he has faced them, and he has escaped. He has escaped. He is free.
“We’re free,” he says. Unexpected laughter bubbles out of him. “I’m free!”
“You’re free,” Hopper agrees, and keeps rowing, away from the Chateau d’If. Away from imprisonment and towards freedom - and soon enough, towards Steve.
Notes:
In the world according to me, pirates are queer allies. Who knew?!
Chapter 10: dix (1828)
Notes:
They're free! They're out! Definitely nothing bad will happen to Billy ever again!
Chapter Text
The sea. She shimmers under the blinding sunlight, and occasionally Billy reaches a hand down to trail his fingers through her cool depths, sobbing with the joy of it. He had not known how much he missed the touch of the ocean until this moment.
He looks across the boat to Hopper. The pirate insisted on rowing without assistance; he is not crippled with the agonizing pain of a recent whipping as Billy is, and he knows where they’re going. When he meets Billy’s gaze, his eyes are as tear-filled and wondrous as Billy’s.
“I can scarcely believe that we were successful,” he says, his lips twitching into a smile. “I thought for certain that the guard would notice I was not his master.”
“He was a fool indeed,” Billy agrees. He turns to look across the vast expanse of the sea once more, his breath catching at the sight of it. “After all, what substandard life would lead a man to that profession? They can none of them be educated or sensible men, to treat innocents in that way.”
“Lady Luck smiled on us,” Hopper says, and Billy nods in fervent agreement.
The boat cuts through the water, the sun shining down on them. The pirate is taking them to his hideout, the cove that in his days as a captain of the city, Billy would have given anything to find. He means to stop at an islet he knows first, however.
“The landscape may be very different now than it was when I ruled the waters,” he says. “I don’t want to arrive at my old home ragged and stinking.”
It’s a few hours before Hopper guides the little boat into a tiny rocky alcove set in an islet so small that Billy would not have noticed it under ordinary circumstances. He himself has spent most of the time lying in the bottom of the skiff, gazing up at the sky with a contentment he has not felt in thirteen years. He is free. No matter what else might happen - he has his freedom.
Once the boat is secure on the shore, the two men clamber onto the rocks - and from there, slide into the cool embrace of the ocean. Billy hisses through his teeth as the salty water stings his back, still sticky with the injuries Brenner’s whip left on him. The fresh pain brings tears to his eyes, but he forces himself into the water nonetheless.
“The salt will help,” Hopper says sympathetically. Billy knows he feels guilty for managing to avoid a fourteenth beating, though of course he does not need to.
In spite of the pain, it’s an exquisite delight to bathe in the shallow edges of the sea. Billy used to swim nearly every day as a boy, running down to the beach with Steve on his heels, laughing and playing at the water’s edge. He’s missed it, missed the feels of water sliding across his body.
He’s also missed feeling clean. It’s been so long since his skin wasn’t ingrained with layers and layers of filth that he can hardly remember how it feels - but at last, he can wash some of it away, and it’s so delightful that he almost forgets the pain in his back.
Without soap it’s impossible to get really clean, but they do their best, scrubbing their skin with sand under the water to rub away as much of the dirt as possible. It’s as though every inch of Billy’s flesh has been weighed down by heavy stones that are now lifted away; his skin tingles, and he feels so light that it’s as though he could float away.
He takes special care to clean the ring on his finger, rubbing salt water into it so that the grime set into it lifts away. It’s less dirty than the rest of him; he’s taken better care of that little piece of twine over the years than of anything else.
His hair and beard are impossible to clean, and now that he’s had some semblance of a bath he longs for a razor to rid himself of both. As a young man he always had close-cropped hair, and now there’s nothing he wishes more than to return to that appearance of boyhood, in spite of the lines that now mark his face and denote all the years that have passed.
Hopper helps him bind his sodden and unruly hair into a thick braid behind his head; he used to arrange it that way in prison when the weight of it on his neck became unbearable. His beard, however, dangles uncomfortably on his chin, awaiting later ministrations.
Their clothes, too, are too ragged and worn to be cleaned, though Billy makes a valiant effort with his coat. He’s pleased to see that his boots - unworn for the most part over the last thirteen years - brighten up considerably with the application of seawater.
No doubt any respectable gentleperson would still look at them both and see a pair of degenerates, ragged and disgusting. But to Billy, it’s the cleanest and best he’s felt since he was twenty.
“It’s another hour or two until we reach my cove,” Hopper tells him as they get back into the skiff. “You rest, Billy. Let your back heal.”
Billy would like to protest, but he can see the wisdom in it. His back is still aching and stinging from the salt water and the movement. He resumes his position in the bottom of the boat, gazing pleasantly up at the sky - and shortly finds himself drifting into sleep. He slept very little the night before, too afraid of their upcoming plan.
It’s the best sleep he’s had in a long time, rocked gently by the waves and warmed by the sun as Hopper rows them closer to their destination. Distantly he listens to the sound of the oars sliding through the water, a gentle splashing that he hasn’t heard in so long, but which is still as familiar to him as breathing. He’s never felt so peaceful.
Does he need vengeance? He’s sworn to himself that he’ll have it - but at this moment, it seems pointless. He has his freedom, and revenge will not make up for the years he was without it. All he needs is Steve, and then his happiness will be complete. The two of them can run away somewhere together, live with Hopper and his pirates, and all the concerns of his past life can float away like driftwood.
“Billy,” Hopper says gently. “We’re here.”
Billy rouses himself slowly, sitting up and stretching his arms carefully, trying not to jostle his whip-wounds too much. He looks around, and his stomach tightens momentarily. He knows this spot. He’s sailed this stretch of ocean before.
They’re not far from Marseille here, and Billy’s chest catches at the thought of seeing his home again. When he turns his head he can see it in the distance - the shoreline, the port. The Chateau d’If, rising from the water like a bad omen. They were closer to Marseille when they started, but they’ve ended up nearer than he would have thought.
“This is your hideout?” he asks the pirate. The skiff is rocking gently in front of a flat expanse of gray rock rising out of the ocean. There’s nothing to be seen but the cliff. Billy can’t see where a clan of pirates could hide here.
Hopper smiles, clearly amused by his confusion. “Look again,” he says. He points to a small crag in the rock face. “See there?” He paddles the boat a little closer. “There’s an opening.”
Billy stares at the place he’s indicating. Sure enough, there’s a small gap between two parts of the rock, though it’s so difficult to see that he loses it twice before he can fix it in his mind. The stone is so similar in color and texture that it’s almost impossible to see where the gap in it lies - but when he squints, he can see it.
“We can’t fit in there,” he objects. “You had a ship! A ship could not sail from there.”
“Ah, the Astraea,” Hopper says, and he sighs a little mournfully. Billy can guess that he feels about his lost ship the same way Billy feels about Mercedes. Then he shakes himself. “No, I didn’t keep her here. That was the secret, you know. You were always looking for a hideaway big enough for a ship, but Astraea had a home off the coast of Corsica. We rowed to her at the dead of night before launching her.”
Billy frowns at the cleverness of it. “Why not make your camp where you had your ship?” he asks.
The pirate shrugs, navigating the little boat around the corner of rock that had seemed so hidden. It’s larger than Billy realized - just large enough for the skiff to squeeze inside, swallowed into the rock. “A few reasons,” he says. “Partly because we knew you were looking for a ship, not a small hideout, so it was safer to live apart from her. And partly because the place where she was hidden was not very hospitable to live in.”
“And this place is?” Billy says with skepticism.
The boat is sliding down a little channel of rock, the water dark beneath them, and he can’t deny the sense of dread descending on him. After thirteen years without seeing more than the smallest piece of the outside world, he has no wish to disappear into another skyless prison of stone, no matter what friends might be found within.
“Have faith,” Hopper says quietly, but Billy can tell that he’s unsettled as well. No doubt he’s sailed this way a thousand times - but never after thirteen years of incarceration.
He navigates the boat along the channel, the paddles slipping quietly through the water - and then suddenly the narrow passageway opens out, and they find themselves in an enormous cavern. Billy turns his head from side to side, gazing around him. The cave is huge, big enough to contain a ship as majestic as Mercedes, if not for the impossibility of getting her inside it. There are torches in sconces along the walls as well as little points in the ceiling where sunlight has found a way to beam through gaps in the rock, so that the cavern is well-lit, almost welcoming.
Ahead of them, the water tapers off into a beach, and there’s a little jetty that Hopper is directing the boat toward. Billy can see more signs of life than just the jetty. There are large crates pushed against the wall of the cave, and piles of nautical detritus - sails, oars, nets and tackle, among other things. And way back in the back of the cave, there’s a passageway leading away, deeper into the rock.
Hopper jumps out of the boat when they reach the jetty, tying it up and holding out a hand for Billy to accompany him. He looks warily around. “I’ll wager they know we’re here already,” he says quietly. “Move slowly as you go.”
They walk onto the beach, climbing up towards the passage at the back. Hopper is looking from left to right, frowning. He’s clearly expecting some kind of welcome - but there’s not a sound to be heard. Billy can feel his heart beating hard in his chest.
“I don’t understand,” Hopper says. “There should be—”
That’s when the attack comes. With a rallying cry, people come out from behind the crates - and before Billy can draw his pitiful shard of sharpened rock, before he can so much as blink, one of the men swings a club and hits Hopper hard around the head. The pirate drops like a stone.
“Leave him alone!” Billy cries - but he’s silenced a moment later by a blade at his throat.
His attacker is a tall, weatherbeaten man in perhaps his early fifties, lean and grizzled. He has long dark hair knotted behind his head, and he holds a curved scimitar in one hand and a shorter knife in the other - the one held beneath Billy’s chin. Billy holds his breath.
“Well, well,” the man says. He glances around at his peers, and gingerly, so does Billy. They’re a mix of men and women, all of them armed to the teeth and with the look of people who know how to fight. This must be Hopper’s pirate crew, though Billy has no idea how many of them will actually remember him.
“I mean you no harm,” Billy says.
The man chuckles. “And no harm shall you deliver,” he says, and several of his crew laugh unpleasantly. “Now, will you come peacefully, or will I need to incapacitate you like your friend?”
“I will come peacefully,” Billy says, and so the pirate crew moves towards the passageway at the back of the cavern with him in their midst. Three of them are carrying Hopper’s limp unconscious body with them; Billy can only hope he’s still alive.
The passage is shorter than it appears from the outside. He turns round a corner, and finds himself in a second cavern, a little smaller than the first - and full of evidence of its occupation. Two or three fires burn at strategic points, and the cave is full of living equipment - cooking apparatus, bedrolls, clothes, weapons, chairs and tables, and much more besides. There are a few other pirates waiting there too, though it seems most of them were part of the attack. There are perhaps twenty or thirty of them all told.
“Here,” says the man, leading Billy to the nearest fire. He frowns as he approaches it. On the ground, supervised by two pirates, is a man bound in rope, bruises on his face and a cloth stuffed in his mouth. “I have an idea what to do with you!”
Billy turns to him with a rising panic - and fury. He’s been imprisoned for thirteen years. He won’t go from one jailer to another. He’ll die first. His muscles tense for a fight.
The man on the floor makes an angry grunting sound behind the cloth. In spite of his bonds, there’s no fear on his pale face, and Billy has the impression that he’s attempting to swear or perhaps spit at the pirate now bringing Billy to stand beside him. The pirate only laughs. “That,” he tells Billy, “is little Tommy Hagan, and until recently he was one of us.”
“And what has that to do with me?” Billy asks roughly.
The pirate laughs. “No coward, I see!” he says. “What is your name? I can see by your beard and the rags you wear that you are no pirate. In fact,” he muses thoughtfully, “if I did not know better, I’d say you were an escaped convict.”
Billy’s senses are all alert. “My name is Billy,” he says cautiously.
“Just Billy?” the man asks. He laughs. “Very well, just Billy. You can call me Perkins. Unfortunately, however, these introductions are short-lived. You see, you have stumbled across our home, and no one who does that can be permitted to live. I’m sure you can understand that!”
“We did not stumble across this place,” Billy says. He gestures angrily towards Hopper. “My father once counted himself among your number. We have come here in search of friends!”
Perkins laughs, and he’s not the only one. “You look for your friends among pirates?” he repeats mockingly. “You think we will extend a welcome to the son of a man who evidently deserted us?” He shakes his head. “More fool you!”
Billy glares at him. “You have no idea who my father is,” he says proudly.
“I don’t care who your father is,” Perkins says. “Let us return to Hagan, for his fate at least interests me.” He gestures lightly to the bound pirate at their feet. “Hagan,” he says, voice hardening, “has had the audacity to marry my daughter without my permission, and for that he must be punished. I would kill him myself, but I have promised my daughter to give him at least a sporting chance.”
“Very sporting!” comes a new voice. A young woman has pushed herself to the front of the little gaggle of pirates. She looks fierce and irate, but her wrath is not directed at Billy. She pushes furiously at Perkins’s shoulder. “You threaten my husband, you bastard—”
“Enough, Carol,” Perkins says sharply, and his daughter subsides somewhat, though it’s clear she’s still simmering with rage. He looks at Billy. “You see, you’ve come at an opportune moment! You will fight my daughter’s husband, and when he kills you, he will regain his honor and his place among us.”
Carol glances at Billy for the first time, as if to size him up. She seems satisfied by what she sees. “When he kills the wretch, I’ll hear no more insults about my husband,” she says to her father.
“Yes, yes,” Perkins says impatiently. “Come on now, let’s clear a space and give the boy a knife. Perhaps he’ll even manage to scratch little Hagan before he dies!”
“Perhaps I will not die,” Billy says coldly.
That gets him a round of sneering laughter from the assembled pirates. Perkins in particular guffaws loudly, his face creased with amusement. “Perhaps if we let your father fight, it might be a contest,” he says. “He at least has size on his side. But you? You look as though a stiff breeze might blow you over. Have you ever even handled a knife before?”
“Still,” Billy persists. “I would like your word that if I do defeat your new son-in-law, you will let me and my father live, and more than that, you will help us.”
Perkins smiles, clasping a hand to his heart in mock solemnity. “Upon my honor as a gentleman,” he says, and then laughs. “I am no gentleman,” he says, as though this might surprise Billy. “But I will give you my word. If you win this fight, you and your father will be welcomed among us.”
“Thank you,” Billy says. He ignores the pirates laughing at his courtesy.
They clear a wide space for Billy to fight Hagan, and give him a short-handled knife as a weapon. Billy twists it in his hands, considering his position. Then, while they drag Hagan out into the area, he takes hold of his ragged beard, pulls it taut, and swipes the knife through it in one decisive motion.
Several pirates laugh. “Would you like a mirror and a razor before you die?” one calls out mockingly.
Billy discards the hank of hair, grinning in spite of himself at the feel of his chin finally unencumbered. “No, thank you!” he calls back, which gets him another round of laughter. In spite of their fearsome appearance, he senses a general camaraderie amongst the crew, and by making them laugh their goodwill extends to him too.
Perkins has cut Hagan’s ropes by now, and removed the cloth from his mouth. He hands his son-in-law a knife similar in appearance to Billy’s - and before Billy can take a breath, Hagan is tearing across the sand, knife out and face grimacing.
He swings the knife furiously - but Billy has trained with knives since he was a boy, and then again in the Chateau d’If, where there was nothing to do but practice. He sidesteps the blow easily, leaving Hagan to stumble and whirl around.
However, the pirate is not to be deterred so easily. He barrels into Billy, the knife slashing past Billy’s ear, and this time Billy elbows him in the stomach, shoving a shoulder into his chest. The movement tears at the wounds on his back, and he barely swallows a cry - but Hagan has been knocked to the ground.
He’s on his feet again a moment later. This time he’s more cautious, dancing close to Billy but jumping away when Billy brings his knife within range. Billy lifts himself onto the balls of his feet, waiting. He must save his strength - he’s never fought on the same day as a whipping. If he wastes energy chasing Hagan down, he’ll lose this fight.
Luckily, Hagan is too impatient to keep taunting him from a distance. He leaps forward with a shout, and Billy only just manages to duck away from the knife’s glistening blade. He can feel his back beginning to bleed again, and it makes him angry. Who is this foolish boy to reopen his wounds just when he has escaped torment? Why must he waste his time with this charade?
He advances on Hagan, and perhaps the watching pirates can see that something in his demeanor has changed, for a hush falls around the circle. This time, when Hagan leaps, Billy doesn’t hold back. His elbow crashes into Hagan’s chest, and his foot sweeps forward to trip the pirate so that he’s knocked, breathless, to the ground.
Billy doesn’t wait for a riposte. He kicks angrily at Hagan’s torso until he falls backward, and before he can scramble to his feet, Billy is kneeling hard on his wrist, rendering his knife useless.
He lays his blade at the pirate’s throat.
Hagan knows he’s been beaten. Billy can see it in his dark eyes - a kind of hopeless desperation, a look that Billy is more than familiar with. He ought to cut the pirate’s throat - but he hesitates.
Somewhere around the circle, Hagan’s wife sobs out: “Don’t—”
“Do you surrender?” Billy growls at Hagan.
“Y-Yes,” Hagan gasps. He drops his knife, his hands open and defenseless.
Billy looks up, finding Perkins in the circle. Not one of the pirates has uttered a sound since he took Hagan down; he can guess that they’re too surprised. None of them expected Hagan to lose.
“Have I won?” Billy snarls at Perkins. “Will you honor your word?”
Perkins’s face is ashen. He glances at his daughter; she has tears in her eyes. It’s clear he never meant for her husband to die, no matter how much he disapproves of her choice. “Yes,” he says quietly. “You have defeated Hagan. I will honor my promise to you.”
Another heartbeat of time - and then Billy stands slowly. He drops his knife, and holds out a hand to Hagan. The pirate grasps it, getting to his feet. “I have no reason to kill you,” Billy says to him. “I won’t do it to satisfy another.”
“Thank you,” Hagan says sincerely. “I owe you a debt.”
“You fought bravely,” Billy says.
Hagan smiles. “I did it for the woman I love,” he says. “There’s nothing I would not do for her.”
Billy glances across the clearing at the woman in question; she’s wiping her eyes, but she looks as fierce and strong as before. He thinks of Steve, and a smile comes to his lips.
“Yes,” he says. “I know what that feels like.”
Chapter 11: onze (1828)
Notes:
Freedom for Billy! An end to pain! An end to suffering! Nothing bad shall happen to him ever again! His happy life is ready to begin!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Come and sit by the fire,” Perkins says to Billy. He’s regained his composure now that Billy has put the knife down; perhaps he was afraid Billy would take some sort of revenge against his crew.
He has nothing to fear. There are only two people against whom Billy has reason to seek vengeance, and neither of them are here in this cavern.
With Hagan beside him, he goes to sit at the fireside. Two of the pirates have moved Hopper’s slumped body to sit there too; he’s groaning a little, but not fully conscious yet. Billy accepts a cup of water from one of the pirates and holds it to Hopper’s lips. Hopper moans again, but manages to drink a sip or two.
Perkins is watching him. Suddenly he starts, and springs to his feet. “Good God,” he exclaims. His face has gone white. “Is that… is that Hopper?”
His exclamation is loud enough to draw the attention of the rest of the crew, and a murmuring starts up around the cave. Billy lifts his chin, trying not to wince when the motion pulls again at the wounds on his back. If Perkins had allowed him to explain himself before throwing him into battle, he would know this already. “Yes,” he says simply.
Perkins stares at him. “Your father is Jim Hopper?”
“Yes,” Billy repeats, his heart throbbing.
“My God,” Perkins says. He sits down again slowly. “I thought - we all thought he was dead.”
Billy holds the cup to Hopper’s lips once more. “He survived,” he says simply.
“No wonder you bested Hagan,” Perkins says wonderingly. He shakes his head. “I almost killed Jim Hopper’s son! Good God—” and here he laughs suddenly “—as good as signing my own death warrant!”
“I would not have let you kill me,” Billy says coolly, and Perkins laughs again.
Hopper groans, and Billy turns towards him. He’s reaching a large hand to his head. “Billy?” he croaks.
“I’m here,” Billy says.
It takes a few minutes before Hopper is cognizant enough of his surroundings to be able to look around. He drinks more water and looks around - and then stills abruptly when he sees Perkins. He blinks a few times. “Andy?” he says disbelievingly.
“Jim,” Perkins says. There’s a strange smile on his face, and Billy realizes forcibly that these men are friends. They have been apart for more than a decade, just as Billy has been apart from his friends, his family, his husband - and now Hopper is having his moment of reunion, just as Billy hopes to in due course.
Hopper gets to his feet slowly, his eyes soft. “I should have known you’d greet me with a head injury,” he says.
Perkins laughs softly. “Oh, my friend,” he says, and then they’re embracing, a tight crushing hug that lasts for several minutes. Billy looks away, reluctant to intrude on their intimate moment.
At last, they break apart. Hopper is smiling broadly. “Now, Andy,” he says, gesturing to Billy. “Let me introduce you properly to Billy - you haven’t hurt him, have you?”
“Hurt him?” Perkins laughs. “He bested one of my better fighters - but I should not be surprised if he is your son! I didn’t know who he was, or I would not have set Hagan against him.” He smiles in Hagan’s direction, apparently minded to be generous towards him now that his old friend has been delivered to him.
“You made him fight?” Hopper turns to study Billy. “You’ve endured much today,” he says gently. “Andy, do you have a medic? Will you let someone look at your back, Billy?”
Perkins frowns. “His back?” he asks. Then, to his daughter: “Carol, will you look? She’s quite the accomplished nurse,” he adds for Hopper’s benefit.
“I’m sure you don’t remember me, but the last time I saw you, you were a child,” Hopper says to Carol. “Now look at you - a woman grown!”
“Yes, and it’s nice to hear it acknowledged,” Carol says tartly. “A woman grown, and therefore perfectly capable of managing my own decisions, whatever my father may think.” She smiles unexpectedly; it’s a pretty smile, reaching her eyes. “I do remember you, Hopper,” she says more gently. “Allow me to introduce my husband Thomas Hagan, whom your son graciously declined to murder.”
Hagan shakes Hopper’s hand. “I am pleased to meet you,” he says formally. “Your son’s mercy is a debt I will never be able to repay.”
“You are not the only one who feels that way about him,” Hopper says, and Billy blushes at the clear pride in his voice.
“Now,” Carol says briskly, “what injuries do you have for me to examine, Billy?”
Billy hesitates. He doesn’t want to expose himself to these near-strangers - but his back is throbbing almost unbearably, his clothes sticking to his hot skin, and if Hopper trusts these people, he knows he can too. Slowly, carefully, he peels off the ragged shirt and turns so that she can see.
There’s a long silence - and then several people nearby, Carol and her husband included, let out shocked expletives.
“My God,” Perkins says in a low voice.
“You fought with these wounds?” Hagan asks. He sounds appalled by the notion.
Billy takes a deep breath, swallowing down the emotion rising in his throat. “I had no choice,” he says.
“I will need to clean them,” Carol says. But for a slight tremor in her voice, she seems unaffected by the sight. “Tommy, fetch me alcohol and honey, and a bowl of water to warm over the fire. And send someone for my bag - I’ll need bandages.”
“If you’re to wrap me up, I’d like to wash first,” Billy says. “My body itches with the need of it.”
Carol hums to herself. “I suppose it cannot hurt,” she says. “Very well - I’ll have someone heat water for a bath.”
The next hour or two passes in something of a blur for Billy. He and Hopper are both given baths, and from the moment he sinks into the warm water, everything else ceases to matter very much. If he thought bathing in the sea was a luxury, this is sent from heaven itself. The water is silky smooth, lapping over his skin, and Billy is so content in it that he feels as though he could die happy at this moment.
“I have never seen anyone enjoy a bath as much as you,” Hagan says to him, amused. He’s appointed himself Billy’s protector as he bathes; clearly he takes the debt of mercy he owes Billy very seriously.
Billy opens his eyes. “I have not had a bath in thirteen years,” he says, and Hagan’s smile evaporates in an instant.
He fetches Billy soap, and at last - at last! Billy is able to wash his hair, scrub every last trace of dirt from the creases of his skin, wash away every vestige of the Chateau d’If. The soap hurts when Hagan obligingly passes it across his back, but Billy is determined to be clean.
Hagan brings him scissors to cut his ragged-edged nails, a pumice stone to scrape the detritus from his skin, tooth powder to freshen his mouth, and finally - best of all - a mirror and razor. It has been more than a decade since Billy was able to shave. He nearly cries as he rids himself at last of the beard that has been his torment since he was twenty.
“I can cut your hair, if you like,” Hagan offers, when Billy’s face is completely shaved. Perhaps in time he’ll find a style of short beard or mustache he likes, but for now he’s enjoying the pleasant coolness of the air on his chin. “I often cut hair for the rest of the crew.”
So Billy sits in front of him, and lets Hagan draw a comb through his unruly hair. He cuts it so that it just brushes Billy’s shoulders, and Billy looks in the little spotted mirror and marvels at the sight of it. His curls have been thick with grime for so long that he’d forgotten what they looked like unblemished. Softly he reaches up to wind a lock of hair around his finger in that age-old motion for which Steve always used to tease him.
“Thank you, Hagan,” he says, suddenly choked with emotion.
“Tommy,” the pirate corrects him. He smiles. “Come, Carol will want to treat your back now.”
Sure enough, she’s waiting for them back by the fire. Her father and Hopper are absent; Hopper is having his own bath, and Billy is certain Perkins will be taking the opportunity to talk with him in private after all this time.
Carol cleans his wounds with white rum and smears them with honey and witch hazel before wrapping his torso in bandages. She eyes him critically as he dresses in the fresh clothes Tommy has fetched him. They’re loose and rough-spun, of a lesser quality than the garments he’s been wearing these last thirteen years - but to Billy, they’re luxurious.
“Have you any other injuries of note?” Carol asks when he’s dressed.
He shakes his head. “None,” he says. “Ask Hopper, though. He was not whipped today, but he bears scars on his back just as I do.”
Carol and Tommy both look unhappy at the mention of his whipping, but they say nothing. Hopper returns a moment later, and Carol demands to see his back, and to apply witch hazel to his scars. Nobody speaks when he lifts his shirt to show her what has been done to him.
When she’s finished with him, Billy and Hopper come face-to-face with each other once more. Billy grins at the sight of him.
Unlike Billy, Hopper has had his hair cut close to his skull, and has left himself a small and neatly trimmed beard. He looks like the man Billy met on-board Mercedes all those years ago. He looks younger, cleaner, more invigorated. Billy supposes that he must look different too. The change in how he feels, now that he’s no longer dirty and humiliated and in rags, is indescribable.
“You clean up well, old man,” he says, and Hopper chuckles.
“I don’t feel so old now,” he says. “And you! Who would have thought, under all that hair - you’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you?”
Billy shakes his head, laughing. He’s almost delirious with happiness. When he thinks of the way the day began - it seems ridiculous that it should end like this, in this place. Ridiculous, but utterly beautiful too.
“Sit down, sit down,” Perkins says. “There’s food here - only bread and stew, but I’m sure it will satisfy—”
“Bread,” Hopper repeats reverently. “I have dreamed of bread.”
Billy feels just as eager, and for a while he is oblivious to his surroundings while he eats ravenously. He’s grown used to being hungry, almost doesn’t notice the dull ache in his belly that throbs constantly, but now he can actually fill his stomach. He has to force himself to eat slowly, mindful that too much might make him sick - but still he consumes two bowls of stew, and half a loaf of bread.
He resurfaces at last, and he’s sure it’s the best he’s ever felt. He’s clean, full of good food, among people and free - only Steve’s presence could improve his day.
“Now,” Perkins is saying to Hopper. “You have told me I was right when I thought you looked like escaped convicts, but you have told me nothing else! Where have you been all these years, Jim?”
Hopper’s face is grim. “The Chateau d’If,” he says.
All the pirates around the fire gasp. “Good God,” Tommy murmurs.
“You escaped?” Carol asks. “No one escapes the Chateau d’If!”
“It took us thirteen years,” Hopper says. “We could not have done it alone. We were given adjoining cells, but we were able to dig a tunnel between them, and that saved us.” He glances at Billy. “I can still scarcely believe that we succeeded. There were times when I sincerely doubted that we would.”
Billy shakes his head with a smile. “That’s a lie,” he says. “You were always the optimist between us.”
“That sounds like Jim,” Perkins says, laughing. “The number of times he has persuaded me into some scheme or other - and whenever anyone raised an objection to it, he could only say that he was sure it would work out for the best!”
“It always did,” Hopper says, eyes twinkling.
Perkins nods slowly. “Yes,” he says. “Until the very last time. Ah, my friend, I am glad to see you. You don’t know how often I have thought of you over the years.” Hopper claps him on the shoulder, and Billy feels a throb in his chest. He is glad for Hopper, of course - but to see him reunited with his friends only makes Billy desperate for the same.
“Now,” Perkins goes on, looking at Billy. “Tell me more about your son, Jim, for the last time I saw you you did not have one! Did you discover him later in life, as you did your daughter?”
“Yes,” Hopper says slowly. His eyes are on Billy. It makes Billy feel warm and not a little emotional to hear himself described as Hopper’s son; it heals the wound left behind by his real father’s betrayal. “Yes, you could say I discovered him later in life. I met Billy for the first time at the time of my arrest.”
Perkins frowns thoughtfully. “You were arrested together?”
“Not quite,” Hopper says. He looks at Billy again. “I trust this man with my life,” he says to Billy, motioning to Perkins. “But I will not share your secrets without your permission.”
Billy looks at Perkins. He doesn’t know the pirate - but he trusts Hopper. He says clearly: “You asked me my name earlier, and I did not give you a full answer. In my heart I am Billy Hopper, and that is all the name and family I need - but I was born William Hargrove, and my father is the governor of Marseille.”
There is a long, long silence. Perkins is regarding him with an almost impassive face. At length he says, “I had heard you were arrested for conspiracy and piracy.”
“I was falsely accused,” Billy says evenly.
“You remember, I have spoken of the conspiracy that forced me into this life of piracy all those years ago,” Hopper interjects, and Perkins nods his head. “I had always suspected that the governor was behind the scheme, but I did not think anyone of note in the city would believe me, or go to any trouble to investigate. But Billy did.”
Billy says: “I was sent to capture the Astraea by my father, but when I heard Hopper’s tale, I attempted to uncover the truth of the matter. My father sent me to the Chateau d’If to prevent me from revealing his part in the scheme.”
“Your father sent you to the Chateau d’If?” Tommy exclaims. “Your own father?”
Billy lifts his chin. “He is no father to me anymore,” he says. “My father is sitting beside me.”
“Billy defended me at the cost of his own liberty and family,” Hopper says, and he reaches out and lays a careful arm around Billy’s shoulders. “I am proud to call him my son.”
“Well, it seems you could not have found yourself a more worthy heir,” Perkins says, and he nods formally at Billy. “You do acquire your children in unusual ways,” he adds with a trace of amusement.
Billy looks at him. “Have you heard anything of Jane?” he asks.
Perkins shakes his head. “Unfortunately not, as I have already told Jim,” he says. “All I know is that she was not executed when the two of you were sent away, as we all assumed had happened to you. She escaped the city with the help of one of her guards, and no one knows where she went. You may imagine that I have kept an ear out for her whereabouts, for Jim’s sake.”
“She fled with the help of a guard?” Billy repeats sharply, for to his mind that can only mean one man. “Which guard?”
“I don’t know his name,” the pirate replies. “To my knowledge she was never recaptured, and if she is sensible, she will have gone far away from here.”
Hopper says, his voice tight with emotion: “That at least is hopeful news. I have spent thirteen years agonizing over the thought that she had been killed.”
“My understanding is that the governor did not think her worth a chase,” Perkins says. “Jim, my friend - I do not know if you will be able to find her. Granted, I have not undertaken a dedicated search, but after all this time I doubt anyone will know where she went.”
“I will spend my life searching for her, if I must,” Hopper says. “She is my daughter, and she means as much to me as Billy does. But I will take comfort in the knowledge that she is likely well and safe.” He looks at Billy. “Perhaps your friend is the guard who helped her,” he says carefully.
Billy’s heart pulses at the thought of Steve - his Steve, who swore an oath to protect Hopper’s daughter. “If anyone did, he did,” he says. He touches his ring with his finger, taking comfort from the feel of it as he always does. “He may be able to tell you where she is.”
“Who is this friend?” Perkins asks curiously.
“Steve Harrington,” Billy says. It makes him swell with pride to be able to say his name. “He was my first mate when I was master of the Mercedes, and I charged him with Jane’s protection.”
Perkins laughs, the sound a little incredulous. “You mean Captain Harrington?” he says.
“Captain?” Billy repeats.
“Yes,” Perkins says with a chuckle. “Every pirate knows Captain Harrington! Captain of the Mercedes, and master of the fleet of Marseille. He must have taken his captaincy from you when you were sent away.”
“Yes,” Billy says slowly. He glances at Hopper, and then away. Somehow he doesn’t like the idea of Steve inheriting his position - but then, who could be more suitable? He can hardly expect Steve to have refused the honor, even knowing what he knows of the corruption in the city. He may have thought he could do some good, for at least with Steve at the helm Marseille can be sure that no pirate will be unlawfully arrested.
Perkins goes on jovially, “I have heard that he is so fond of his naval title that he refuses to answer to Count, although technically that’s the greater honor.”
Billy stares at him. “Count? Is his father dead?”
“Oh, yes,” Perkins says, and Billy feels his stomach turning. “Both his parents died… oh, eight or nine years ago, and Captain Harrington is now the richest man in Marseille with the highest post of honor.” He looks at Hopper. “If he knows where your daughter is, and won’t sell the secret, then you’re fortunate indeed - though I admit it seems unlikely to me. The rich are rarely honorable.”
“Steve Harrington is honorable,” Billy says coldly.
Perkins laughs. “Well, if you say so,” he says. “What would I know of honor, after all? But,” he says, suddenly serious, “if Captain Harrington is your friend and you mean to seek him out, you must swear that you will tell him nothing of this place. I will not have my pirates betrayed.”
“I would never betray you,” Hopper says.
Billy nods in agreement. “I have known more betrayal than anyone,” he says. “I would not visit it on any friend.”
This seems to satisfy the pirate. “Very well,” he says. “I will help you, if I can. You are one of us now, and there is nothing that we would not do for one of our own. But for your own sake, I would advise caution. Perhaps Captain Harrington was once your friend, but most pirates fear him.”
“He does not know the full truth of everything I know, though he heard a little of it before I was sent away,” Billy says. “It would not surprise me if he has used his position as both count and captain to conduct his own investigations. He is a good man.”
“That could be a stroke of luck for you, Jim, if he did help your daughter,” Perkins says.
Hopper nods. “I hope he can tell me something about her,” he says. “I will need to retrace her movements. Do you know how soon after my arrest she left the city?”
“Almost at once, if I remember correctly,” Perkins replies. “Perhaps you could ask Countess Harrington, if you are visiting her husband - her mother had the care of the girl, did she not?” He chuckles to himself. “From what I hear, it was quite an embarrassment for her when her charge escaped from under her nose!”
Billy stares at him. “Countess Harrington?”
“Yes,” Perkins says. “Was he not married when you were sent away? He must have been engaged, surely.”
For a moment, Billy can’t speak. “You must be mistaken,” he says at last. “Steve Harrington is not married.”
“No, no, I am not mistaken,” Perkins says with a beaming smile. “What was her name - Wheeler? You must remember her mother, for she was given Jane to care for while the governor determined her fate.”
“Lady Wheeler,” Billy says faintly. “I agreed that she should have Jane’s guardianship myself.”
Perkins nods. “There you are, then,” he says. “She took care of the girl for a day or two, but then Jane escaped from under her nose, the clever girl. She takes after her father,” he adds in parenthesis, “though she managed to effect her escape sooner than you did!”
Beside Billy, Hopper is as still as a statue. “Go back to Lady Wheeler,” he says quietly. “What did you say about her daughter?”
“She married the captain,” Perkins says. “I am surprised you did not know of it - their daughter must be twelve or thirteen by now. Did the courtship truly take place after you were sent away?”
“Daughter?” Billy says. His head - his head is suddenly aching, his mouth dry and his stomach turning. “Steve - Steve has a daughter?”
“Yes,” Perkins says. “I believe there was some talk at the time - she was born too soon to have been conceived after the wedding, but then, you know what naval men can be!” He laughs - laughs, as though he has not just ripped the bottom out of Billy’s entire world.
Steve, married and with a child. It cannot be so. There must be some mistake.
Hopper must be thinking along the same lines, because he says urgently, “Andy, consider a moment. Are you certain you have the right man? Are you certain that Harrington is married?”
The pirate looks puzzled. “Of course,” he says. “You think I do not know the particulars of the captain we have been evading for thirteen years? Captain Harrington is married to Lady Wheeler’s daughter, and very rich they are too. It is enough to make a man ill, thinking of all that wealth! His child will inherit a small fortune when she comes of age.”
I take thee to be my husband, Steve said. Billy can still remember the earnest expression on his face as he made the declaration. His thumb comes to brush the ring. It cannot have been a lie. Surely, surely, Perkins must be mistaken.
Without quite knowing how, he finds himself on his feet. He’s trembling, his eyes unseeing. Steve is married. Not just married - married to the daughter of the woman who falsely accused him.
Billy lets out a strange sound - a high-pitched keening. Then he turns away from the fire and the little gathering of people, hardly knowing where he’s going. It’s the same feeling he had when he first entered the Chateau d’If - that this cannot be real, cannot be allowed…
As he flees, he hears Perkins saying quietly: “Ah, so it’s like that…”
He walks blindly back down the passageway to the beach where they first arrived - and collapses by the water. He can’t even cry. He can express nothing, not a sound, not a word. He feels hollowed out, as though his insides have been scraped away and nothing is left of him but a shell.
Captain Harrington is married to Lady Wheeler’s daughter. How can it be true? And yet… and yet, if he can let go of the certainty he once had in Harrington’s character, it makes a sick kind of sense.
After all, with Billy out of the way, Steve has apparently been given everything he could ever wish for. He’s a captain now, master of every ship in Marseille, including Mercedes. He’s rich beyond any man’s wildest imaginings. He has a family - a family which he must have started before Billy was sent away, though Billy didn’t know it.
Can it be? Can Billy have been so deceived in the character of his beloved?
He’s married to Lady Wheeler’s daughter. He must have been courting her at the same time as Billy, must have conceived his child weeks before the mission to capture Hopper. He had a second love about which Billy knew nothing.
All this time, Billy has been so sure that Harrington would be campaigning for his release, fighting for him in the outside world. But instead, when given the choice between his love for Billy and his love for the Wheeler girl - he chose her. Perhaps he even colluded with her mother to send him away.
Billy looks down at the ring on his finger, tears filling his eyes. He thought Steve loved him. He could bear everything else, because he thought Steve loved him.
“I will have my vengeance,” he whispers. He reaches a shaking hand to the hair behind his ear, winding it around his finger so tightly that the digit turns white.
He gazes out across the dark water. He will have his vengeance. He has always sworn it, against everyone who has betrayed him. Lady Wheeler, his father the governor - and now, Steve Harrington.
Notes:
Okay, I lied. BUT at least Billy got to have a bath?!
Chapter 12: douze (1815)
Notes:
Two notes:
1) Sorry I missed last week! I got excited posting the most recent ATUA chapter and then had some fun stuff going on that week and just... forgot. Still, I'm back! And this is all pre-written, so that hopefully shouldn't happen again.
2) From this point on, if you get in any way confused about timelines, the chapter names are your friends.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Until death do us part, my love,” Billy murmurs - and Steve’s heart squeezes itself together at the sight of him, so earnest and beautiful in the glow of the sunset.
He barely restrains himself from leaning forward for a kiss. “All the days of my life,” he replies softly, and then with the ghost of a smile Billy turns and walks hastily away, towards his father.
Harrington watches him go. He’s troubled, for all that he knows Hargrove will do all he can to see justice restored. They’ve been away from Marseille for close to a month now, and somehow the city doesn’t feel like home yet. It’s always this way when they return - but he feels a sense of foreboding that makes it different this time. Somehow, something feels wrong.
He shakes his head. It does no good to fill his mind with dark thoughts. He’s tired and on edge after a long time away from home; a bath and a good dinner will set him to rights. He turns away, opting to walk to his house rather than commission a carriage.
But his usual ablutions do little to settle his growing feelings of unease. Usually after a voyage the captain comes home with him, and they eat and bathe together - but this time Harrington is alone, and his house is quiet and still around him. He sends his servants away irritably, and after his bath he sits in his study alone with his hair still wet, waiting for Hargrove.
Surely Hargrove will arrive soon. Surely the tale he has to tell his father cannot take too much longer - surely there is little to be done tonight. Hargrove must arrive soon.
But the captain does not arrive, and the clock on the mantel ticks on, the hours slipping away one by one without anyone coming.
Harrington drums his fingers on the desk in front of him, face creased in agitation. He cannot say why he’s so distressed - nothing has happened to excite his anxiety, and yet… Hargrove is not here. He can think of no reason the captain would not come to him.
When the clock chimes for midnight, he springs to his feet. He will wait no longer. If Hargrove will not come to him, then he will go to Hargrove, and tell him exactly what he thinks of him for keeping him so on edge. He takes out a fresh coat from the closet in the hall and shrugs it on, squaring his shoulders in determination for the task ahead.
He rides to Hargrove’s house on horseback, the horse’s hooves clattering quietly on the cobbled street as he goes. All is quiet in the city; most people will be in bed. Only Harrington is still active, unable to sleep while his husband is absent.
When he reaches Hargrove’s home, everything seems dark and silent - but Harrington is still holding onto the hope that the captain is asleep inside. He can hardly put a name to his fear. There’s no real reason to think anything is amiss, nothing except his own intuition. But after several years on the sea, he’s learned to trust his gut.
He bangs on the door. It’s a few moments before anyone answers; Steve waits, pacing a little in his impatience, until at last the captain’s butler Mondego comes to let him in.
“My lord,” he says, clearly startled to see Harrington. “How… how may I assist you?”
“I am here to see B… Captain Hargrove,” Harrington says impatiently. He looks around the quiet entrance hall. “Is he at home?”
Mondego shakes his head slowly. “No, my lord,” he says. “The captain has not been home since returning from his voyage earlier this afternoon. I have not seen him.”
Harrington’s heart sinks. “Well, where is he, then?”
“I could not tell you, my lord,” Mondego says - but Harrington catches sight of his face. There’s an odd little smile on it, his eyes flickering with something Harrington does not like.
He steps forward angrily. “Speak, man! Where is your master?” he demands. “You know more than you are saying.”
“I know nothing, my lord,” Mondego says, but he still has that strange smile curving his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes - cold eyes, Harrington suddenly thinks. “I think Captain Hargrove will not be back tonight.”
Harrington stares at him. “Why not?”
“I could not tell you,” the servant says again, and from that position, Harrington can see he will not be swayed. He curses angrily, and sweeps out of the house, narrowly avoiding knocking Mondego out of the way.
So - Hargrove has not been home since they disembarked. Where could he be? He went to see his father at the governor’s offices - but surely he cannot still be there? He never socializes with his father, never spends time with him outside his duties. Governor Hargrove does not care for his son enough to make that kind of effort.
Still, perhaps there someone will be able to tell him where the captain went, at least. Harrington strides over to where his horse is tied, shoving his hands furiously in the pockets of his coat as he goes.
He slows, frowning, as something small and pointed scratches his finger inside one of the pockets. He pulls the object out. It’s a golden hairpin, clearly belonging to a woman, set with a scarlet jewel. It takes Harrington a moment before he recognizes it - but then he remembers. This is the token Lady Wheeler gave to Hargrove when she attempted to seduce him. The captain gave it to him before they set off on their voyage, and Harrington put it in his pocket without thinking twice about it.
All his clothes from the sea mission have been sent to be laundered - but this coat was left behind, and so the pin is still here. Harrington smiles a little at the memory, and puts the pin back into his pocket.
He will give it back to Hargrove the next time he sees him, he decides. For a moment he touches the ring wound about his left finger. Then he walks quickly on, and unties his horse.
It’s a short ride to the governor’s building. There are still lights on within, though this in itself is not unusual. Governor Hargrove often works into the night, and his servants and advisors are usually kept busy. Harrington ties up his horse and strides up to the side door.
A young serving girl opens it to his insistent knocking, looking flustered. “Oh!” she exclaims at the sight of him, and attempts a curtsey. “I did not expect - should I fetch someone, my lord? Most of the footmen are gone to bed.”
“Just tell me this,” Harrington says impatiently. “Is Captain Hargrove here still? I know he came to visit his father the governor earlier today.”
The woman looks startled. “Yes, my lord, but that meeting did not last long,” she says. She flushes a little when Harrington gives her a questioning look. “I… I happened to be cleaning in the hall when the captain left his father’s offices, not an hour after his arrival.”
Harrington understands from this that she was satisfying curiosity rather than duty in these observations. “He left?” he presses her. “Did you see him leave the building?”
“No, my lord, only the governor’s rooms,” she says. “He was accompanied by men from the governor’s own guard, so I thought he was sent away on official business. I do not not know where he went.”
Sent away on official business. It makes no sense, for even if the captain had been sent to do something for his father, he would surely have sent word to his lover - his husband. He would not leave for so long without making sure Harrington knew where he had gone, not when conspiracy abounds around them. Harrington bites his lip. Something in this business feels wrong.
“You’re sure he’s no longer here?” he asks the girl.
She shakes her head. “If he is here, he is not with the governor,” she says with certainty. Her eyes gleam with something like pleasure. Dropping her voice, she goes on in a scandalized whisper: “Governor Hargrove has been in his office with a lady all the evening.”
Harrington is rather disgusted by her obvious enjoyment of this gossip, particularly as the governor could easily be conducting business with the lady in question - but he gives her a coin anyway and turns away, full of trepidation. Everything in him tells him that something is amiss, and he’s simply incapable now of returning home and waiting until morning to see whether the captain returns. He must find him now.
He considers what possible mission the governor might have sent his son to fulfil. It must be related to the pirate and his tale - could he be visiting the city jail where Hopper is being kept? Harrington vaults lightly onto his horse, considering his next destination. It seems unlikely that Hargrove is at the jail. What could Hopper tell him tonight that he would not be able to tell him tomorrow?
But where else could he be? Reluctantly, Harrington snaps the reins.
As he had predicted, the jail looks quiet and dark, with only a single guard on duty outside. Harrington exchanges a word with him, but the man confirms what he already knows - no one has come to the jail since Hopper was brought here earlier in the day.
“Is the pirate still safe in his cell? Has anyone been to question him?” Harrington asks.
“No, sir,” the guard says. “The hour was late when the pirate was brought here, though I’m sure he’ll be questioned tomorrow. He’s under constant watch. He won’t escape.”
Harrington nods distractedly, trying to think. “May I see him?”
The guard’s face twists. “My lord… I cannot allow it. The governor left clear instruction - the pirate is not to be seen by anyone.”
“I understand,” Harrington says. He knew when it said it that the chances were slim, and in truth it’s not Hopper he wants to see. It’s not as though the pirate will know where Hargrove has been sent, not if he’s been isolated here since they disembarked.
He flips a coin to the guard and gets back on his horse, heart aching for want of his husband.
The dread in the pit of his belly has only increased with every fruitless inquiry, and now he’s left without a lead to follow. He has no idea where Hargrove - where Billy, his Billy - could be. He was last seen in the company of the governor’s men, but going where? What quest could possibly be so important that he would not stop to tell Steve where he was going?
Steve cannot think of any answer he likes - and he cannot help. He can do nothing.
He pauses a moment. That’s not quite true; there’s one task Billy left to him. Steve nudges his horse to increase her speed. He has nothing but instinct to guide him - but that instinct is telling him that danger is near, and Billy charged him with the protection of the pirate’s daughter. He will not fail in his duty to her or to his captain, not now.
The Wheelers live further out of the center of town than either Hargrove or Harrington. Harrington’s horse canters up the hill, through the narrow cobbled streets that lead to their residence, emerging out of the shadows of the night like a ghost. It’s as dark and quiet as any other, and Harrington slows down as he approaches. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s been here.
Silently, he ties his horse to the railing outside. No guard was sent with the girl other than Michael Wheeler himself, and that’s all to the good. Hargrove thought the young private was taken with her. Harrington hopes he was right, because if Wheeler puts up a fuss, it’s hard to know what he’ll do.
He slips around the house to the kitchen door, but no one answers to his soft tap. All the staff must be in bed - the Wheelers are not as well-to-do as the Hargroves or the Harringtons, who have servants who will jump up at a moment’s notice. However, there’s a window slightly ajar on the second floor, and after a minute of consideration, Harrington scales a nearby tree to reach it.
It belongs to an empty bedroom, and he’s able to slip quietly inside without disturbing anyone, closing the window behind him and stealing across the room. He opens the door - and then freezes in his tracks.
Private Wheeler stands on the other side of it, sword extended and blade narrowly missing Harrington’s throat.
“Lay down your weapons!” Wheeler says fiercely.
“Stand down,” Harrington whispers. He raises his hands. “I am unarmed. Stand down, private.”
Wheeler stares at him. “My lord?” he says uncertainly. He lowers his sword. “My lord, what… what are you doing here?”
“Is the girl safe?” Harrington asks. He has no time for the private’s questions. “Has anyone visited her since we arrived in the city?”
“She is safe,” Wheeler says. “She’s in her bed, but I swore I would not sleep all night. I fear for her, sir. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I sense danger in this place. I know there are those who would kill her simply for the crime of her parentage, even here in Marseille.”
Harrington sighs, running a hand through his hair. He touches his ring briefly; he wishes Hargrove could be here with him. “You are more right than you know, private,” he says.
“What’s happened, sir?” Wheeler asks.
“I do not know,” Harrington replies. “Nothing that I can tell you - but you are not alone in sensing danger. I fear that harm will come to the girl if she stays here. Is your mother at home? Is she likely to wake?”
Wheeler shakes his head. “She is not at home,” he says. “I don’t know where she is. My sister is sleeping, however, and I would not trouble her with this. Shall we go downstairs? Should I wake Jane?”
“Yes,” Harrington says, making up his mind. His sense of trepidation has only increased through the course of the night, and now to hear Wheeler say he feels it too - he will not wait for further confirmation. He swore to protect Jane Hopper, and he will not fail in his duty. “Bring her downstairs to a quiet room, and we will discuss her protection there.”
The Wheelers do not have the same sense of luxury in their home as Harrington or Hargrove. The rooms are more modest in size, and the furnishings less rich and decadent. All around Harrington can see the little signs of a family attempting to live beyond their means - small but observable repairs to furniture that a greater lady would discard, wine in decanters rather than bottles to hide the cheapness of the vintage, dust along the mantel that better-paid servants would never allow to stand. Harrington stands by the door in the drawing room, waiting for Wheeler to come back with the girl. He’s aware that should he be successful tonight, the Wheelers will soon have more to contend with than scuffed furniture.
The door opens, and Wheeler enters the room. Behind him, her shorn head as shockingly stark as it was on the ship, comes Jane Hopper. She’s wearing a nightdress a few sizes too big for her with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, but she looks alert and ready for action.
“My lady,” Harrington says with a quick bow of his head. “Do you remember me from the Mercedes?”
She raises an eyebrow. “How could I forget?” she says coolly. “You were standing at the captain’s side when he arrested my father.”
“Your father is a pirate,” Harrington says curtly, “and it is due to that same captain that I am here tonight. Captain Hargrove charged me with your protection, and I swore a solemn oath that I would keep you safe.”
Her face changes, and she glances worriedly at Private Wheeler. “You think I’m not safe?” she asks.
“Come and sit down a moment,” Harrington says, and she obeys. The three of them sit on a sofa in the middle of the room. It’s dark around them, only a single lamp flickering on the table beside them. Harrington says as gently as he can: “My lady, I know you do not know me, but I swear to you, I have come here tonight because I want to protect you as I was charged. I fear that you are not safe in Marseille.”
“I don’t feel safe,” Jane says frankly. “I have not felt safe since the moment I stepped off your boat. There at least it seemed I was surrounded by honorable men - but here I feel as though there are enemies everywhere. What is it you fear?”
“I can hardly tell you,” Harrington admits. “I have nothing concrete to explain my apprehension, except that the captain has not returned home when he ought to have done, and no one I have spoken to knows where he has gone.”
Jane levels him with a steady gaze. “Perhaps he has gone to create evidence against my father,” she says, voice hard. “My father who is innocent, my lord. Do not tell me it is the naive belief of a child!” she adds before he can speak. “He is innocent, but the governor will stop at nothing to see him hang, and the governor’s son will do his bidding.”
“No,” Harrington says. He holds up a hand when she opens her mouth furiously. “I will not argue with you,” he says firmly. “Your father’s innocence I can believe - but Captain Hargrove would never invent evidence against him. He is the most honorable man in the world, and I won’t hear a word spoken against him.”
“Men with power will do anything to keep it,” Jane says contemptuously.
Wheeler stirs. “Jane,” he says softly, and to Harrington’s surprise, he reaches out and takes her hand. “Lord Harrington is right about the captain. He would not betray an innocent.” He looks at Harrington. “Jane has told me her father’s story,” he says. “Sir, I know it looks very black against him, but I think you should hear it. I believe there is more to the situation than you know.”
Harrington sighs. “I should not tell you this,” he says. He hesitates, and then goes on, “Your father told the captain and me his story while we were still onboard the Mercedes. Captain Hargrove believed him, and for what it’s worth, I’m inclined to feel the same. The captain went to his father to lay all the particulars before him when we disembarked.”
Jane looks startled. “The captain… the captain spoke for my father?”
“I told you, he is an honorable man, the best of men,” Harrington says, and momentarily his finger finds the ring once more.
“My father believes that the governor is implicated in the plot against him,” she says hesitantly.
Harrington heaves another sigh. “So he said,” he says. “But the captain’s hands were tied - he could hardly release your father having captured him! Besides, no investigation has been carried out. He could not know who was involved. He could only bring your father back to Marseille and lay the whole story before the governor.”
“You sound as though you have your doubts,” Jane says shrewdly.
“I… have not the love of a son for his father that the captain has,” Harrington replies evasively.
Wheeler is looking from one to the other. “Sir, you cannot mean… can you really suspect the governor? Governor Hargrove - the governor of Marseille?” he exclaims.
“I don’t know what I suspect,” Harrington says baldly. “All I know is that the captain has not returned from his mission, and Marseille no longer feels safe. I have made a promise, my lady, and it is a promise I intend to keep - a promise to keep you safe. That is what I have come here to do.”
His heart breaks for her when he looks at her. She looks afraid, and very young - but determined nonetheless. “What is your suggestion?” she says bravely.
“We must remove you from the city,” Harrington says firmly. “We will find a boat and take you away from here tonight. You must get to safety. If I am wrong - well, you can return, and perhaps all will be well, but I’m unwilling to take the risk. You must leave at once.”
“My father,” Jane begins. “I cannot leave my father.”
Harrington shakes his head. “You can’t help him,” he says. “I swear to you, I will do what I can for him, but I may not be able to help him either. He is in jail, and I don’t know how the investigations against him will proceed. I know that Captain Hargove has vowed to see justice done for your father, and you may trust his word.” He pauses, and then goes on more gently: “Your father’s only concern is for you, my lady. The best thing you can do for him is to ensure your own safety.”
She bows her head, eyes shining with tears. “I understand,” she says. “I will go with you.”
“Sir,” Wheeler says. “Sir, please allow me to accompany the lady. I promise that I will guard her faithfully.”
“Truthfully, I hoped you would say so,” Harrington says with a small smile. “I can see that you are attached to one another. But Wheeler, think on it a moment before you commit yourself - you may find yourself unable to return. What we are doing here is a crime, and I can’t guarantee that we will be pardoned for it. I may be able to hide my involvement, but if you go with the lady, you cannot conceal yours.”
Wheeler turns to look at Jane, his eyes soft. “I could never leave her,” he says simply. Then, turning back to Harrington: “I know someone with a boat who can be trusted.”
“Good,” Harrington says. “Then let us prepare for your departure.”
Notes:
The plot thickens!
Chapter 13: treize (1815)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jane has almost nothing of her own to bring, but it takes Wheeler half an hour to gather together his supplies for the journey. Harrington is glad to have a moment alone with the girl while her appointed guard is upstairs packing his bag. He’s concerned for her, concerned that he’s not personally accompanying her out of the city himself.
“But you can’t,” Jane objects, when he voices this. Her voice is steady, but her eyes are wet with tears. “I am relying on you to look out for my father. If you come with us, you won’t be able to return.”
“The captain charged me with your protection,” Harrington says agitatedly.
Jane smiles. “Michael will protect me,” she says, with all the certainty of young love. She leans forward in her seat. “He says that these brothers, the ones who will take us out of the port, are old friends. They can be trusted.”
“I hope he is right,” Harrington says. He considers for a moment, glancing at the door. Wheeler is still upstairs; he lowers his voice. “But my lady, in case he is mistaken in his faith, I need you to signal it to me.”
“How, sir?” she asks.
Harrington reaches into his pocket, drawing out the jeweled pin belonging to Lady Wheeler that he found there earlier. He’d thought to give it to Hargrove the next time they saw each other, but that will have to wait.
“Take this,” he says to Jane. “If these brothers do as they should, and deliver you safely to your destination, give this pin to them at the end of your journey and have them return it to me. If they do not bring it back to me, I will know you are not yet safe, and I will do all I can to find you and protect you.”
Her hand closes around the hairpin. “I am sure all will be well,” she says, but her voice is uncertain.
“Don’t tell Wheeler,” Harrington says. He holds up a hand at her indignant expression. “I trust him,” he says. “But these brothers are his friends, and he may not see the need for discretion. It would only take one slip to reveal this plan, and then it would be for nothing. Keep the pin to yourself, and I will wait to have it returned to me.”
“Thank you,” Jane says to him. “You are an honorable man.”
Harrington shakes his head. “I wish this did not feel necessary,” he says.
It isn’t long before Wheeler is back in the room, a pack slung over his arm. Harrington feels a frisson of fear dart through him. He’s colluding with the daughter of an enemy, and planning to commit a crime that would see him imprisoned if anyone ever discovered his part in it - not to mention encouraging the young private to do the same. He wishes fervently that he could do this with the captain at his side.
But Hargrove is not here, and Harrington must do what he can in his absence. He swore to protect Jane Hopper, and he’s certain he’s not imagining the aura of danger that surrounds Marseille this night.
The three of them steal out of the house and into the night, only the dim moonlight illuminating the way. Harrington feels as though there are eyes watching him from every gloomy hiding place in the street outside, although there isn’t a soul to be seen aside from his two companions. He goes on foot, leading his horse quietly towards the port, with Jane and Wheeler walking beside him. They don’t speak as they go.
Wheeler’s friends live in a small ramshackle apartment tucked in the narrow alleys behind the docks, and Harrington spares a thought to wonder how they know each other. The Wheelers may not be gentry of Harrington or Hargrove’s caliber, but they do have a title. The people who live here live very differently.
As if in answer to his unspoken question, Wheeler says quietly, “We played together as boys, before my mother decided we could not mix.” He raises his hand, and taps lightly on the door.
Harrington can well believe it. Lady Wheeler raised her station through her marriage to her late husband; social climber as she is, he cannot imagine that she would want her son playing with lower-class children. It raises his estimation of Wheeler, that he has retained the friendship in spite of his mother’s wishes.
The door opens, and a man of around Harrington’s age stands on the other side of it, sleepy-eyed and wearing a nightshirt but bearing a large wooden bat defensively against them. He has strong, fisherman’s arms, tanned from the sun, and a large quantity of straw-colored hair falling into his face.
“Jonathan,” Wheeler whispers urgently, and the man lowers his bat.
“Michael?” he replies, clearly surprised. His eyes dart briefly to Jane and Harrington. “It’s the middle of the night - what are you doing here?”
“We need your help,” Wheeler says.
There’s a sound behind Jonathan, and then a younger man appears in the doorway behind him. He looks to be fifteen or sixteen years old, the same as Wheeler, and he’s undeniably Jonathan’s younger brother. “Mike!” he exclaims.
“Will,” Wheeler says, sounding relieved. “Please - will you help us? This is Jane—” his voice warms considerably as he indicates her “—and she is in terrible danger. I must take her out of the city.”
“Jane,” Jonathan says sharply. “Jane Hopper - the pirate’s daughter? The news has been all over town today.”
Wheeler nods. “Please,” he says again. “Allow me to explain.”
Harrington is expecting trouble, or at the very least that the brothers will demand lengthy explanations for which they have little time - but it seems that Jonathan and William Byers are as honorable as the young private claimed. After only the smallest account of the events which have led Wheeler and his lady to their door, the pair of them disappear inside once more to dress and prepare for the journey, leaving Harrington to stand uncomfortably at the open doorway. He would not allow Wheeler to introduce him by name, though he suspects that Jonathan Byers at least has some inkling of his identity.
“My idea is to take you to Algiers,” Byers says at last to Jane, a pack thrown over one shoulder and his younger brother behind him locking the door. “It’s a journey of a few days - more, perhaps, if we need to stop to avoid detection - but it seems as good a destination as any.”
“I have no ties to Algiers,” Jane replies, looking worried. “I had thought to rejoin my father’s crew in Cagliari.”
Harrington touches her arm. “I suspect that will be the first place the navy will be sent to search for you,” he says. “The governor may not know precisely where the pirate’s crew is hidden, but everyone knows they have links to Cagliari. Have you reason to suppose anyone will be waiting for you there?”
“No,” Jane says, eyes troubled. “To tell the truth, I have little connection with the pirates, save that my father always told me they would protect me if anything happened to him. I have no real reason to find them.”
“My feeling is that you will be safer on your own course,” Harrington says. “You must decide for yourself, however.”
They’re walking now, stealing softly towards the shipyard where the Byers’s boat is docked. Jane looks very young in the dim moonlight, her eyes shining and her hands shaking a little as she attempts to think through her options. She turns to Wheeler beside her. “What is your opinion?” she asks.
He hesitates, eyes flickering to Harrington before he answers. “I understand your wish to be reunited with your father’s crew,” he says at last. “I fear I would not receive a warm welcome among them - but that is no reason to avoid them, if you would feel safe there.”
“I do not feel safe anywhere,” Jane says unhappily. “I have no friends among my father’s crew. Why Algiers?” she asks suddenly, looking to Jonathan Byers.
He seems surprised to be included in the conversation. “There is still much military unrest in Spain and Sicily,” he says. “Algiers will be safer, and you will be less conspicuous there. I think, too, that you would have more opportunity to travel elsewhere from Algeria undetected.”
“Could I stay there?” she asks. “I would not want to travel too far from Marseille, not while my father’s fate is yet unknown.”
“It’s certainly possible,” Jonathan replies.
His brother, speaking softly but resolutely, adds: “We could carry communications from Marseille, should the need arise. We will not betray your location.”
“Thank you,” Wheeler says, and the younger Byers brother smiles briefly at him.
Everything moves quickly after this exchange. The Byers are clearly used to managing their boat under cover of darkness, and Harrington spares a thought to wonder about it; their legitimate business is in fishing, but it would not surprise him to learn they deal in some form of smuggling as well. Still, he has no doubt that Wheeler would not associate with them if their business did harm, so he chooses not to concern himself unduly.
He takes a moment to speak to Jonathan Byers before they set off. The fisherman is an interesting young man - unassuming and soft-spoken, yet with a quiet strength Harrington recognizes beneath his calm exterior. If he were not already married to his captain - and here he pauses to touch his ring briefly - Harrington might feel an attraction towards Jonathan Byers.
“I’ll come back to hear that they have been delivered safely to Algiers,” he says to Byers.
Byers nods, slow and careful. “I can come to you upon our return, if you prefer,” he says. His eyes slide sideways, and he lowers his voice a little. “I know who you are, my lord.”
“I had suspected as much,” Harrington replies, though he can’t deny that it worries him.
“I won’t betray you,” Byers tells him earnestly. “Michael is my brother’s closest friend, and even if he weren’t, I believe we are doing the right thing here tonight. Besides,” he adds, “I’d be just as culpable as you, if we were caught.”
Harrington hums under his breath - but he finds that he believes in Jonathan’s sincerity. “Thank you,” he says, and they shake hands.
Soon enough, the four of them are packed onto the little boat, Jane looking very small and uncertain between Wheeler and the two Byers brothers. Harrington watches her, his face twisted up. He still can’t be certain he’s chosen the correct course of action. He’s choosing to defy his city’s laws, with very little proof to demonstrate that it’s necessary - and he’s doing all of it on the word of a lawless pirate.
But no - he’s not doing it on Hopper’s word. He’s doing it for Billy - his Billy. There’s nothing he would not do for his husband.
“Be safe,” he says to Jane, and he gives her a meaningful glance to remind her of the pin.
She nods with a flickering smile. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for taking care of me. Please - if you would be so kind, please send word of my father, when there is any to send.”
“I will,” Harrington says. He transfers his attention to Wheeler. “You are a brave man, private,” he says.
Wheeler looks pleased and surprised by the praise. “Thank you, sir,” he says.
“Take care of her,” Harrington tells him, and Wheeler nods fervently. “Take care of them both,” he adds to Jonathan Byers.
“We will,” Jonathan replies, and his brother echoes his words. Then they’re casting away from the shore, and Harrington must stand and watch helplessly as the little boat sails away, getting smaller and smaller until it is completely swallowed up in the darkness.
Dawn is creeping across the sky by the time Harrington finally returns home, little tendrils of pink and yellow casting reflections on the glittering surface of the sea. He stables his horse and creeps up the stairs to bed, going as quietly as possible so that no servant will be able to definitively claim that he was there. He ought to be exhausted, but fear and adrenaline keeps him from falling asleep even when he’s finally in his bed.
He thinks of Jane, sailing across a quiet dark sea to an uncertain future from which Harrington is now unable to protect her. He thinks of her father, the large gruff pirate with his fantastic tale of corruption and betrayal, locked away in prison. Most of all he thinks of Hargrove, his husband and lifelong companion, sent away on some unknown errand. Until they’re together again he’s unable to feel any kind of peace.
Sleep, when it comes, is disjointed and filled with dreams which he hardly remembers but which leave him with a general sense of unease and discomfort. Harrington wakes feeling as little rested as if he hadn’t slept at all, his body heavy with weariness and sick with longing for his husband.
He dresses slowly, blinking the tiredness away as his fingers fumble on the buttons of his shirt. He longs to spring into action, to find some task to fulfill - but there is nothing to do. He has no idea where Hargrove can be, and until he is sure that Jane is safely away, he doesn’t dare draw attention to his captain’s absence.
The morning wears on slowly, with Harrington restlessly confined to his house, waiting for Hargrove to return. Fear is curling deep in his belly, though he can hardly explain it. When they’re together again - perhaps then he and Hargrove will laugh at his fear, but until then he can’t force it away. There’s a terrible foreboding in his mind that no rationalization can forgo.
At midday he can bear it no longer. He rides to Hargrove’s house on the pretext of inviting him for lunch - but Mondego tells him, still with that unpleasant glint in his eyes, that the captain has not yet returned, and Harrington eats alone at their usual tavern, his chest tight.
When he returns home, his man Dantes is in the hall waiting. Harrington begins to remove his coat, but a flutter of Dantes’ hand halts him in his tracks. “My lord, a messenger arrived while you were gone,” he says quietly.
“A messenger? From Captain Hargrove?” Harrington says eagerly.
“No, sir,” Dantes replies. “The message is from Governor Hargrove, summoning you to his offices.”
For a moment, Harrington says nothing. His mind is racing - does Governor Hargrove suspect his involvement in Jane’s escape? Her disappearance must surely have been noticed by now. Or perhaps the captain is behind the message, inviting his involvement in whatever investigations he has been conducting all night.
There is no way to know until he answers the summons. “I will go at once,” he tells Dantes, who nods solicitously and turns away to fetch his hat.
The ride to the governor’s office is a short one, and Harrington finds that he’s full of something approaching relief. At last he has a task, and it is one that must surely reunite him with the captain - for where else can Hargrove be, since he has not slept at his own house or Harrington’s? Harrington digs his heels into his horse’s flank, galloping still faster. He will rest easier when he looks upon his husband’s face once more.
The municipal building is made of sparkling white stone, ringed with a high metal fence and kept in exquisite condition by an army of staff. A young man in a red coat springs forward to take Harrington’s horse as he draws to a halt, his head bowed deferentially as Harrington dismounts. He gazes up at the mansion which contains the governor’s offices, and which ought to contain the governor’s son too.
It’s a beautiful place. But as he steps through the elaborate wrought gates and across the sweeping gravel pathway that leads to the entrance, he can’t help but feel as though he’s foolishly walking into the mouth of some enormous and dangerous creature.
The large ornate doors swing open at his approach, and for a moment Harrington hesitates in front of them. Is he imagining things - inventing danger, giving into half-dreamt fears? It’s impossible to be certain. He’s not given to being fanciful, as a rule.
It’s too late now, in any case. He takes a resolute breath, and steps inside, willingly allowing the jaws of the beast to close around him.
“My lord?” It’s another red-liveried guard, standing beneath the glittering chandelier that hangs in the main hall of the municipal buildings. There are enormous gilt-framed mirrors on both walls to his left and right, so that the guard and Harrington are reflected a hundred times, standing in a hundred hallways. “This way, please, sir.”
Harrington nods, his mouth unaccountably dry, and steps forward through the hall. Momentarily he catches his own reflection as he walks by the mirrors - sees his own anxious wary expression. He shakes his head. This is no way to carry on.
He pushes away the feelings of fear gripping him, following the guard along the corridor and up a wide sweeping flight of gleaming stairs to the offices above. It does no good to assume the worst. Captain Hargrove - his Captain Hargrove - may well be waiting for him within the governor’s inner sanctum.
But the sense of foreboding which has shadowed him since the moment they docked in the port yesterday is growing ever stronger, and Harrington can’t entirely shake it away. This beautiful building no longer feels like a palace - it feels like the belly of a beast, and every step he takes brings him closer to the moment of destruction.
“I’ll tell the governor you’re here, my lord,” the guard says, and he disappears into the governor’s inner office after a brief tap at the door, leaving Harrington outside.
Why is he so full of dread? After all, nothing has happened, not yet. But why that word - why does he automatically assume that something is going to happen? The Mercedes was successful. He and his captain should be celebrating, joyous in the knowledge that a dangerous pirate has been apprehended.
Of course, in his heart Harrington knows that there can be no celebration. He believes the pirate’s story of corruption and betrayal, as much as he wishes he could dismiss it. But even so - Captain Hargrove was resolved to investigate. He is the governor’s son, and the most celebrated captain in the navy. There are few doors closed to him. This should not be a moment for fear.
He can keep reminding himself of all these things - but the fear does not abate. He stands in the hallway outside the governor’s office, hands folded behind his back and shoulders straight in an attempt to mask the emotions swirling beneath the surface. Why is he so afraid? He cannot explain it.
It’s not even fear for himself, which might be more understandable. After all, he committed a crime last night when he helped Jane steal away in the night. Perhaps he was seen, or one of the Byers brothers betrayed him - but somehow, Harrington isn’t concerned on this front. Gendarmes would have come for him, if he were in trouble with the law.
No, his fear is for his husband, and he can’t understand why. What, after all, does Captain Hargrove have to fear in his home city?
The door opens, and the guard emerges. “The governor will see you, my lord,” he says politely.
“Thank you,” Harrington says distractedly, and he steps through the doors.
The captain is not in his father’s office. Somehow this comes as no surprise, even as Harrington’s eyes flicker automatically around the room in search of him. The governor is sitting, not behind his desk, but at a small conference table to one side. He’s accompanied by four of his advisors - but not his son.
“Ah,” Governor Hargrove says as Harrington enters the room. “My lord.” He motions to the guard, and the big doors close behind Harrington. “Come in and sit down, Harrington.”
“Thank you, sir,” Harrington says guardedly. He looks around the little ring of advisors. He knows none of them well. He’s a first mate in the navy, with no real involvement in politics except through his connection with his captain.
He takes a seat at the table, almost exactly opposite the governor. His heart is beating too quickly. Something is wrong - his body knows it, even if his mind has not yet understood it.
“Harrington,” the governor says again. He pauses. Harrington notices that his hands are trembling a little. “Harrington, I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Harrington glances between the advisors. Every face bears the gravest of expressions; he swallows. “Bad news, sir?”
“Before I tell you, I must ask you about your voyage,” Governor Hargrove says. “There is a particular question I must ask you, and I would urge you to consider it carefully before you answer.”
“Of course, sir,” Harrington says slowly.
The governor nods. There is something sad and somber in the movement, as though he’s holding back some great emotion. “You captured the pirate Hopper, and brought him back to Marseille as you were instructed,” he says. “A great feat indeed, as I’m sure all my advisors will agree.”
“Oh, indeed,” one of his men murmurs.
Hargrove continues as if the man hadn’t spoken. “Think carefully, Harrington,” he says. “After you captured the pirate, did anyone speak to him alone? Did anyone have private counsel with him?”
Harrington stares at him. “Sir?” he says cautiously.
“Did my son speak to him alone?” the governor clarifies.
“I—” Harrington stops, frowning. His mind is spinning frantically. Of course Billy had private counsel with the pirate - but has he not told his father this himself? Why would the governor need confirmation of a fact that should have been freely given to him?
If Captain Hargrove has not told his father of his discussions with Hopper, it must be for a good reason. Harrington will not betray his trust.
“Not to my knowledge, sir,” he says at last. “The pirate was imprisoned below decks after his capture. I don’t think he spoke to anyone before we arrived in Marseille.”
“It is as I thought,” the governor says, spreading his hands. He’s speaking to his advisors. “The captain told no one of his plans.”
This confuses Harrington even more. “I don’t understand,” he says haltingly. “Has something happened, sir?”
Governor Hargrove heaves a deep, deep sigh. “Yes, Harrington,” he says, sounding immeasurably weary. “Yes, my boy - something has happened, though it gives me nothing but pain to relay it. My son - my own son, my dearest relative, in whom I have always had the greatest regard and faith - indeed,” he adds with a weak smile, “as I believe you have too - he has deceived us all. He has betrayed us.”
“Betrayed us?” Harrington repeats blankly.
“He has allied himself with pirates,” the governor says, and with every word it’s as though heavy weights are falling into the pit of Harrington’s belly, his veins turning to ice. “He has betrayed his city. He has committed treason.”
Harrington is shaking his head before the man has finished speaking. “That cannot be so,” he says. “There must be some mistake. Please, sir - please, allow me to speak to him—”
“Speak to him?” The governor stares at him, and his face ripples with pain. “Harrington, you cannot speak to him. He committed treason. I had no choice but to follow the law.”
Harrington’s mouth drops open. “Follow the—”
“Oh, my boy,” Governor Hargrove says, voice cracking. “William Hargrove is dead.”
Notes:
This is the point at which I hide under the table...
Chapter 14: quatorze (1815)
Notes:
It just gets sunnier and sunnier from this point on......
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For a long, long moment, Harrington can’t speak. He can’t move. He can’t even breathe.
The words the governor has just spoken - he can’t understand them. They make no sense in his mind, because they cannot be true. This cannot be real.
“What?” The word falls unbidden from his lips, sounding as though it comes from somewhere very far away. There’s a groaning, buzzing noise in his ears that he can’t shake away.
Governor Hargrove touches his eyes. He’s crying, Harrington realizes dimly. He swallows before answering. “My son is dead,” he repeats throatily. “He has been executed for treason.”
The buzzing sound intensifies, until Harrington is barely aware of anything else. He’s staring at the governor, his eyes so wide that they’re beginning to ache. Words… words have lost all meaning.
“Billy—” escapes his cracked lips. He’s touching his ring, he realizes - his finger stroking the string again and again, as if by doing so he can escape the truth with which he’s been presented.
“I know,” Governor Hargrove says, voice breaking. “I know you will feel as I do - that you will understand the loss as keenly as I do, even in the face of this betrayal. He has been like a brother to you, I know.”
A brother! Harrington’s left hand closes into a fist under the table, the ring a burning circlet around his finger. Billy - his Billy, his husband - they are nothing like brothers.
“He…” His mouth is so dry that he can barely speak. “He cannot - he cannot be dead.”
“Forgive me,” the governor says, and now there’s a tear trickling down his face. “I could not allow anyone but myself to be present at his execution.”
Harrington swallows, shaking his head without knowing he’s doing it. “But - but…” He gasps suddenly, as the weight of what the governor is saying begins to sink in. Billy - dead. It cannot be so, cannot be right. “Sir, we only just returned - Billy cannot have - there can be no treason!”
“I wish I could still think as you do,” the governor says heavily. He dabs at his eyes with his sleeve; beside him, his advisors shuffle in their seats, looking uncomfortable. “I appreciate that this is a shock to you, Harrington. Unfortunately, I have been investigating this matter for some time now.”
“Some… some time?” Harrington repeats blankly.
The governor nods his head. “I have long suspected that the pirate Hopper had some connection in Marseille,” he explains. “He has always known too much of our dealings - always been able to evade our efforts to capture him. But I could not bring myself to suspect my son - not my son—” His face creases with pain, and he wipes away fresh tears.
“You are trusting, my lord,” one of his advisors says - Kline, Harrington thinks his name is. “It does you credit to have faith in your son.”
“I should have seen it sooner,” Hargrove says.
Kline shakes his head. “My lord, he’s your son,” he says. “There’s no shame in missing the signs.”
“Wait,” Harrington croaks. “Sir - please, wait. There must be - must be an error. Billy - Captain Hargrove - he could not - he could never—”
“I have been investigating this matter for many months,” the governor says with a weighty sigh. “Believe me, Harrington, I understand your skepticism - it was a long time before I could bear to believe it myself. But I have evidence of my son’s treachery, more evidence than I could ignore.” He turns to Kline. “Show him,” he says.
Kline nods slowly, reaching across the table for a sheaf of papers and rifling through them. Harrington can feel tears beginning to build, though he doesn’t let them fall. He’s numb, unable to speak. He’ll look at this evidence - refute any charge of treason against his Billy, his husband - because to think of anything else will be to break down, and he can’t do that.
He takes the papers Kline passes him, looking through them. His eyes prickle and his heart plummets as he examines them, because the evidence seems damning. There’s correspondence between Billy and Hopper, dating back several years, and with a signature that certainly appears genuine. There are ledgers and inventory reports, all with Billy’s name on them, cross-referenced against recent pirate attacks. It’s more than Harrington can take in on a single parse.
“You have a… a witness statement,” he says at last, his voice creaking low and painful. He holds up the relevant document in trembling fingers.
“Yes,” Governor Hargrove says heavily. “That was the final piece of evidence I collected before your return. A witness saw him consorting with one of the pirate’s known associates, and heard a little of their conversation. It seems—” his voice cracks “—it seems my son was attempting to warn Hopper of the quest to capture him.”
Harrington stares down unseeingly at the witness statement. “Who was the witness?”
The governor hesitates. “She has asked to remain anonymous, and I must respect that,” he says.
A large salty tear splashes onto the page Harrington is holding; it takes a moment before he realizes it belongs to him. He looks up at the governor. “I cannot believe it,” he says hoarsely.
“It is too much to take in, I know,” Hargrove replies gently.
“Hopper confessed,” Kline adds, and Harrington shuffles through the papers again to find the correct one. Sure enough, it seems the pirate’s word concurs with that of the anonymous witness.
Harrington’s breathing is coming in shallow gasps. “But sir - to execute him—” His chest hitches. “Surely - a trial—”
“God knows, I have never before abused the privileges of this office,” Governor Hargrove says wearily. “But this is my son, Harrington. I could not bear to hear his sins shouted from the rooftops in a public trial. I could not bear to see him hanged in the town square. Perhaps I ought to have followed the letter of the law—”
“No, my lord,” Kline says soothingly. “None of us would have asked for that.” A murmur of agreement ripples through the other advisors. “A private execution, done cleanly - as our governor, we would not begrudge you that, not when you have had to manage the burdens of your office as well as the agony of a father losing his child.”
Harrington’s breath catches at the words. “He is… he is truly dead?” he whispers. “He is executed?”
“Yes,” the governor says, his eyes shimmering with tears. “I saw it done myself.”
It doesn’t sink in. It cannot sink in - his husband can’t be dead. Harrington is holding the finger bearing the ring so tightly that it has turned white under his grip. Surely - surely if Billy were dead - surely he would know it, would have felt it in the moment that it happened?
But that’s the stuff of romance stories. The reality… the reality is that all the morning while he’s been sitting uselessly at home and wondering where Billy was, his husband was dead.
He stands abruptly, his chair scraping across the floor. “I should go,” he says thickly. “I…”
“I know,” the governor says quietly, getting to his feet. “I brought you here to explain because I knew you would feel the loss as I do. I could not let you hear it from any other source.”
“Thank you,” Harrington says blindly, though he’s not certain what he’s thanking the man for. This is the man who saw his husband executed. “Sir - my lord, I - I must go.”
Governor Hargrove nods in understanding. “Before you go, allow me to give you this,” he says. He reaches into his pocket, drawing something out. Harrington stares wildly at him. His eyes are a small dark blue, so unlike his son’s. He shudders. There’s something unpleasant about those eyes. “Here,” the governor says.
Harrington takes the proffered item. It’s a small scrap of fabric - and then he realizes, his throat closing up, that it’s a piece of Billy’s epaulets. This is the designation that marks him as the captain of the Mercedes. It’s been removed carefully from his coat, unpicked as though he never wore it, as though he never led the ship to victory a thousand times. More tears splash down Harrington’s face.
“Keep it,” the governor says, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s yours now, Captain Harrington.”
“No,” Harrington says at once. “No, I cannot—”
“You must,” Governor Hargrove says. “He would - he would want you to have that title. Please, Harrington. There is no one else I could bear to see in my son’s place on the Mercedes.”
Sickness is rising within him - Harrington can only stare, his head spinning, his heart aching. He gazes down at the epaulets in his hand - the same hand that bears the ring, the ring that binds him to Billy as much now as it did on the day he first put it on.
“I…”
“It is not the way I would have made you captain,” Hargrove presses. “I know it is not the way you would want the honor. But please, Harrington - tell me you will accept the captaincy. I must have one thing settled. Tell me you will give my son’s name at least some modicum of honor, by taking on the mantle of his ship and his position.”
Harrington swallows, tears falling silently down his cheeks. His heart - his heart, he thinks, is breaking. What does it matter? Billy isn’t here. Billy will never be here again.
“Yes, my lord,” he says woodenly. “I will accept the honor.”
“Thank you,” Governor Hargrove says, sounding relieved.
It’s all Harrington can do to hold himself together. “If you would allow me, sir—”
“Yes,” Hargrove says. “Yes, I understand. Go. We will speak again another time.”
Harrington has all but run from the room before the governor has finished his sentence. His chest is so tight that he thinks he might burst, his breath coming in harsh labored gasps that tear through his throat. He clatters down the marble steps, dashing along the corridor at their foot without stopping to speak to any of the guards he passes, disregarding their stares. He can’t breathe.
“My horse,” he chokes out to the man at the door, and someone must understand him, because she’s brought to him before he reaches the gates.
He has no idea how he finds his way home. His vision is blurred, the world an indistinct haze around him as he rides, because Billy is dead. Billy is dead, and his ring burns his finger like a brand, and he can’t believe it. He can’t allow himself to believe it - and yet it thuds through him with every movement of his horse beneath him, like a heartbeat. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
It cannot be true. It cannot be real. And yet - and yet it is.
Somehow he arrives home, handing his horse blindly to his man at the door and stumbling up the short flight of steps to the front door. His face is aching with the effort of holding in the tears that threaten to fall at every moment. Dantes opens the door for him, and Harrington half-falls inside.
“My lord?” Dantes says, sounding concerned.
“Leave me be,” Harrington gasps. He raises his hands, backing away from Dantes’ instinctive attempt to relieve him of his coat and hat. “Dear God - leave me be! I need - I need to be alone - I need you to go - I need everyone to go—”
Dantes’ eyes are wide, as well they might be; Harrington has never spoken to him like this before. “Of course, my lord,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. “I can ask your staff to leave you - but sir, please, allow me to—”
“Leave me be!” Harrington bawls. “Please - he’s gone - let me alone—”
He’s bracing himself against the wall by now, unable to stand on his own without crumpling. He longs to be alone, without any of his staff in the house to watch him and wonder, to know, as they surely do know at least to some extent, what he has lost.
Dantes has not held his position in the Harrington manor for so long by being a poor manservant. He moves swiftly to the bell by the door, ringing it sharply, and within ten minutes he’s managed to corral all the staff in the house, leading them briskly out. Harrington can feel some of them looking at him, taking in the way he’s leaning against the wall with his head in his arms - but he can’t bring himself to care.
At last the door closes behind them all, and he’s alone in his house.
For a long moment, Harrington remains where he is, pressed against the wall, his face hidden in his arm - as though by not seeing, not looking, he can pretend it has not happened.
Then he turns away with a deep sickening gasp, and crashes to his knees. His fall is so heavy and so graceless that it jars the nearby table, and his knees ache beneath him - but none of that matters. None of that will ever matter again.
Harrington screams.
He screams, the sound reverberating around his entrance hall, a hollow desperate aching call. He screams because his heart is breaking, shattering into a thousand pieces, and this anguished broken wail is all he has left to him. He screams until he feels sick from it, as though he’s turning his heart out for the world to hear - but there’s no one to hear. There’s no one there at all.
Billy is dead. Billy is dead. Billy - his Billy - his husband - the man he has loved all his life, the man he married - his Billy - is dead. Harrington - no, no, he cannot be formal, not here, not now - Steve screams again, sobbing out his agony. Billy is dead.
He stares through his tears at the ring on his left hand, the ring Billy gave him only a month ago. I’ll put one on your finger, and you’ll put one on mine. Billy died wearing that ring, and Steve - Steve will die wearing his.
A forlorn cry bubbles out of him, his chest hitching. He’s so alone here. So, so alone.
Slowly, he drags himself to his feet. This house - every inch of it contains memories of Billy, every corner, every aspect. He can’t move without being assailed with some fresh torturous remembrance.
Here, in the doorway to the drawing room - here Billy pressed him against the wall, his hands cupped around Steve’s face, his mouth pressing light kisses that tingled on Steve’s skin. Here, on the wide sweeping staircase - here they fought, throwing angry words at one another over some conflict which seemed important in the moment but which Steve can’t now remember. He chased Billy up the stairs, caught him by the arm - and then they sat together on the steps and talked it out until all was well once more.
He follows the memories up the stairs. Here in the bathroom, with its deep ornate tub in the center of the room - here he covertly watched Billy washing himself when they were both boys, and felt strange and guilty, and ran away to hide in his room with blushing cheeks and a hard cock. Later - much later - he told Billy the story, and they laughed over it and tumbled together into bed to finish what Steve had left undone.
Here beside the grandfather clock in the hall which chimes the hours irregularly - here they sat with their backs to the wall, and Billy wept bitter tears because his father had disappointed him again, and he rested his head on Steve’s shoulder while Steve held him tight and loved him fiercely. Here in the drawing room they lounged naked in front of the fire, legs tangled together and Billy tugging absentmindedly at that lock of hair behind his ear. And here in Steve’s bedroom—
This room, of all the rooms, holds the most recollections.
They have had a thousand conversations in Steve’s bed, sheets pooled around their waists and both of them finding some small way to touch the other as they talked. They have touched in every way possible - Steve knows Billy’s body as well as he knows his own. They have explored each other, loved each other, held each other - and now it’s gone. It’s all gone.
Never again will Billy wake him in the night with some question that appears to have come from nowhere, laughing down at Steve as he groans and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Never again will they sit by the window looking out across the garden and loosely holding hands without speaking. Never again will Steve lie back against his pillows with his eyes closed as Billy reads aloud to him, savoring every word Billy speaks.
Never again will he massage Billy’s shoulders after a hard day, pressing feather-light kisses to the back of his neck. Never again will he lead Billy into his room after weeks away at sea where they could not touch, closing the door firmly behind them and fairly leaping into Billy’s arms now that he’s finally allowed. Never again will he have the pleasure of seeing Billy laughing until he almost chokes, the sound high and clear and joyful.
Never again will he have Billy in his arms, sharing lazy gentle kisses in the morning and passionate, heated ones at night. Never again will they writhe against each other, sweaty and panting and desperate, Billy’s legs wrapped around his hips. Never again - never again. Billy is dead.
Good God, he might as well be dead himself.
Steve collapses on the floor beside his bed, tears streaming down his face. His hands are shaking violently, his body wracked with broken sobs. Billy is dead - the words are like a tattoo in his mind, reverberating through his head. His husband is dead, and he will never recover.
He holds out one trembling hand in front of him, staring down at the ring stitched around his fourth finger. Until death do us part, my love - that was what Billy said to him, and now - and now—
Death has parted them, and Billy was executed with his ring on his finger.
Steve’s other hand closes over the ring. Their vows - their vows are broken. Billy is no longer his husband. He sobs again, drawing his knees up to his chest and curling over them. Just a day ago - just a day ago he was happy, he had his beloved - and now he has nothing.
He has nothing. He lets out a wail - and reaches for the ring, intending to tear it from his finger.
But then he stills, because he’s remembering again that day when he and Billy exchanged those vows.
Until death do us part, my love, Billy said - but Steve did not swear the same vows.
Steve did not promise to love Billy until death parted them. He made a different vow. All the days of my life - and his life is not yet over. Not yet. He doesn’t intend to die without this ring on his finger.
His life now holds so little meaning. Without Billy - without his love, what is there left for Steve? He buries his head in his arms, crying bitterly into them. A picture is presenting itself to him now - a life stretching on, empty and hollow, devoid of all joy and all love. He can’t bear it. What is he to do now? How is he to keep on going alone?
He leans his head back against the bed, tears still falling silently down his face. He makes no attempt to stem the flow; what would be the point? To be strong - to be a man - it will not bring Billy back.
Nothing will bring Billy back. His husband is gone, and with him every piece of joy in the world.
Notes:
Steve be going through it, y'all.
Chapter 15: quinze (1815)
Notes:
Okay, I'm done pretending. Steve be suffering, and nope, it's not getting better for a WHILE. Uh.... I did tag for angst, right?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For six days after finding out that his husband is dead, Steve thinks seriously about ending his life. It’s a sin, to be sure - but there seems little point in living, now that he’s alone in the world, unmarried and friendless. There is no one to turn to, no one he can speak to about his pain.
On the contrary: all the world now believes that Billy - Captain Hargrove, the brightest star in Marseille - betrayed them all, committed treason, conspired with pirates for his own gain. Steve cannot set foot outside his house without hearing it spoken of, hushed whispers that die away when he comes near. It makes him sick to his stomach to listen.
It matters little, of course, since he rarely leaves the house. What would be the point? He’s grieving, grieving the loss of his other self, the man who completed him in every way. He feels so empty that it’s as though he’s already dead.
He attends Billy’s funeral on the fourth day. It’s a tiny affair, with barely six attendants, and it sickens Steve still further; had Billy died at sea, he would have had a grand commemoration, flags and banners and trumpets, a choir to sing for him and half the city in attendance. He deserves no less, in Steve’s view - certainly more than Steve and the governor standing silently in a church together, hidden away from view as a somber priest speaks carefully selected words over his coffin.
“Soon, my love,” he whispers, his ring against his mouth. He intends on joining his beloved soon.
Only one piece of unfinished business prevents him, and it finds him the night after the funeral. Steve is awake, sitting still dressed in the chair in front of his empty fireplace in spite of the late hour; he hasn’t slept well since hearing the news. Instead he sits with reddened eyes, staring at nothing, fingers rubbing idly at the ring on his finger.
A pebble hits his window, and Steve stirs for the first time in several hours.
He goes to the window. All his staff are abed, though they’d wake as they ought to if someone knocked on the door. But when he looks outside, he sees why the man who threw the stone didn’t want to disturb his servants.
Standing in the gloom of Steve’s garden, and representing perhaps the only reason Steve has not yet followed his beloved to the grave, is Jonathan Byers.
He nods to the man, and then darts back across his room, snatching a coat and shoes before running lightly along the corridor and down the stairs. His heart is beating quickly; this is the only part of everything that’s happened over which he feels he has any modicum of control. Jane Hopper’s fate - the last task, the last oath he swore to his captain - he cannot fail.
Jonathan is waiting by the door, pressed flat against the wall so that his thin figure is not immediately obvious upon first glance. He steps forward when Steve emerges from the house, removing his hat. “My lord,” he says. Then, with a slight hesitation: “Captain Harrington.”
“None of that,” Steve says harshly. He swallows, and then repeats more gently: “None of that, not here.” He cannot bear to be addressed in such a way. That’s Billy’s title, not his own, and he hasn’t the wit just now to put on the manners and airs of a man who might deserve it.
Jonathan nods slowly, fingers clenching around the cap in his hands. “What should I call you, sir?” he asks.
“Steve,” Steve says. He bites down on his tongue, feeling fresh tears build behind his eyes. “Just Steve.”
“Steve,” Jonathan repeats.
They walk away from the door, around the side of the house and towards the dark hidden parts of the garden where no one will be able to see them from the windows. Steve’s chest throbs with renewed pain as he leads Jonathan to the right spot, for the reason he knows it is that he and Billy used to hide here as boys, to play rough-and-tumble and share secrets and, later, to kiss unobserved by their guardians.
Billy permeates every memory - but he cannot allow himself to think of it now. He says, his voice jerky: “You have returned to tell me that Jane is safe, I hope?”
“She is safe,” Jonathan says. “My brother and I delivered her safely in Algiers, and she and Mike - Private Wheeler,” he corrects himself with the ghost of a smile. “We have known him so long - it’s no matter. They are safe in Algiers, and plan to remain there until they hear word of Jane’s father.”
“I have no word,” Steve says.
Jonathan nods. “I have asked around - we returned earlier today - but it seems no one knows his fate.”
They’ve come to a bench, set underneath the low-hanging boughs of an olive tree. The number of times Steve has sat here with Billy in his arms—
But he will not think of it. He gestures, and the two of them sit down together. Jonathan goes on: “The lady gave me a token to return to you.”
Steve looks sharply at him. Jonathan puts his hand in his pocket, and draws out the pin with its blood-red stone. “Jane gave this to you?” Steve asks.
“She did,” Jonathan says, handing him the pin. Steve closes his hand around it. The tip pricks his palm, but that matters so little now. “She told me its purpose. I hope that will reassure you that my brother and I can be trusted, though I cannot blame you for your caution.”
“Yes,” Steve says slowly. It is indeed a relief to have the token back, because it means that at the very least, he can trust that she and Wheeler have reached safe shores. He has protected Jane Hopper as his captain commanded, has discharged his duty. He may absolve himself of any further responsibility for her without guilt.
Jonathan is looking at him thoughtfully. “I heard about the execution of your friend,” he says quietly.
“My captain,” Steve replies, voice cracking. “My - my brother.” It’s a lie, but there’s no other way to explain the way his heart is breaking.
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan says.
Steve turns his face abruptly away, the tears springing from his eyes once more. He has cried more in these past six days than in all his life before them. He chokes out: “It has… it has distracted, at least, from Jane’s disappearance.”
“Yes,” Jonathan says after a pause. “Though there is talk on that matter too. I spent some time going from tavern to tavern this afternoon, listening to hear what people are saying about it all.”
“Tell me,” Steve says. He still cannot look at Jonathan. He watches the sky instead, a darkened cloud scudding slowly across the crescent moon. “I have not… I have not been much in company lately.”
Jonathan nods his head, the motion just visible in the corner of Steve’s eye. “No one suspects outside influence, from what I’ve heard,” he says. “The most common view is to see it as a great romance - that she fell in love with her captor, and now they have run off together to marry.”
“Will they marry?” Steve asks, glancing back at the other.
A smile flickers on Jonathan’s face. “It would not surprise me,” he says.
“It would be safer for her if they did,” Steve says. “Safer to rid herself of her name - though his, I suppose, is no more protected now than hers.”
“I suppose you have not heard whether the governor intends to pursue them?” Jonathan asks.
Steve shakes his head. “He has not spoken to me of his plans,” he says. “I cannot express undue interest in the matter - though I confess,” he adds, his voice trembling, “that in the wake of my captain’s death, I have not thought to ask.”
They sit for a while together without speaking. Steve senses that Jonathan has more to say, but the fisherman does not press the matter. It’s peaceful, he thinks, to sit here in the moonlight with someone who at least knows a little of what has happened. It’s the first peace he’s known since Billy’s death. His finger finds the ring once more, stroking it gently.
“Was he guilty?”
Steve turns sharply at the question. “What?”
Jonathan looks as though he perhaps regrets asking it - but he lifts his chin bravely. “Captain Hargrove,” he says. “Was he guilty? Jane believed her father to be innocent, but many children have faith in their fathers when they should not.”
For a moment, Steve says nothing, his heart beating wildly. Truth be told, he hasn’t thought too much about Billy’s guilt or innocence. Perhaps that is naive of him - Billy always laughingly accused him of naivety - but his grief is unchanged regardless of anything Billy has done. What does it matter whether he was executed fairly or not? He is still dead, and Steve is still alone.
But now that Jonathan has asked the direct question, some buried part of him rises to the surface. Many children have faith in their fathers when they should not. If that applies to anyone, it is Billy, not Jane. Steve has often lamented Billy’s staunchly-held belief in his father, a belief that was shaken again and again by small cruelties and neglect but which stayed strong in spite of Steve’s own protestations.
Billy, guilty of treason? Never.
“He was innocent,” he says to Jonathan, emotion rippling in his voice. “He did nothing. He was honorable - good - the best of men. He was betrayed.”
“By whom?” Jonathan asks.
Steve’s jaw hardens. “It must have been his father the governor,” he says, realizing as he speaks that he has known it for a while. He’s just been buried too deep in his grief to acknowledge it. “He executed his son to hide his own crimes.”
“Dear God,” Jonathan says quietly.
“He has never loved Billy - the captain - as he should,” Steve says. His voice breaks over his husband's name, and he touches his ring once more.
“What will you do?”
Steve says nothing. He had not thought to do anything. He has been too mired in his own heartache to think of anything but Billy, the loss of Billy, the loneliness of a life without Billy - but of course, now that Jonathan has said it - how can he live with himself without clearing Billy’s name?
“I will gather the evidence I need to prove that it is the governor, and not his son, who is behind this conspiracy,” he says, his voice like steel. “I will find out the truth, and I will expose this murderer to the world.”
There’s a pause. Then Jonathan says softly: “If I can help you, I will.”
Steve bites his lip, hard enough to hurt. “Thank you,” he says.
There seems to be little else to say after that. It does Steve some good to know he has at least one man in his corner - or two, since Jonathan commits his brother to the cause without needing to ask him - but something has dulled inside him now that he has sworn to clear Billy’s name.
Without knowing it, he’d eased his pain with the thought of ending his life, of joining his beloved soon - but now it’s no longer possible. Now he must wait longer alone and bereft, unhappily collecting his evidence. He must put on a pretense to the world, hide his heartbreak away as he completes this task he has set himself.
It is no more than Billy deserves, and he could not forgive himself if he did not set himself to the challenge - but it will be a long and lonely road. Steve must resign himself, here and now, to never knowing happiness again.
Jonathan’s task will be to maintain communications with Jane and Wheeler, for now that Steve has committed himself to the course, he will not absolve himself of his responsibility towards them. He will keep them safe, as he promised Billy he would.
A lump rises in his throat as he slowly walks back to the house. All he can do now, in this gray joyless life, is keep his promises.
The next day dawns bright and clear - though Steve does not see the dawn. He sleeps late, the only time he ever manages to sleep, and wakes just past midday, stumbling across the hall for a bath. His servants must have heard the news - they know better than most how close he was to Billy - but they have not been so unwise as to mention the captain’s name in front of Steve.
Steve lies in the tub, studying his ring. It is his only connection with his beloved now, save for the epaulets and the pin, both of which he keeps in an enameled box on the mantel in his bedroom. A quiet tear drips down his face. He barely notices them now.
He has just climbed out of the bath, slowly pulling an embroidered robe around his shoulders, when a light knock sounds at the door. Dantes steps inside, hands discreetly folded behind his back.
“My lord,” he says softly.
Steve knots the robe around his waist, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dantes must know of his despair, must have heard his sobs in the night, but he’s far too well-trained to make any allusion to it. “What is it, Dantes?”
“You have a visitor, sir,” Dantes says.
“A visitor?” Steve repeats, frowning.
“A lady, sir,” Dantes replies.
Steve stares at him. He can think of no conceivable lady who could be visiting him - why would they? He has always had Billy. Nevertheless, he nods to Dantes and tells him to ask her to wait, and hurries to his room to dress.
Once clothed, he takes a moment to open the little box above the fireplace as he always does before leaving his bedroom. He gazes inside at the captain’s epaulets that were once stitched onto his beloved Billy’s gleaming blue coat. The edges are frayed, a long loose thread tangling with the golden pin lying beside it. Tears spring into Steve’s eyes - but he hastily dashes them away with a hand.
At last, he emerges from the room, smoothing his hair behind his ears as he strides along the hallway and down the stairs. He has no idea who his visitor might be, but he knows that for the first time since Billy’s death, he will have to smile, to pretend that he has not lost his only love. It will not do for the governor to hear that Steve is inappropriately distraught by the death of a traitor, after all.
Dantes is waiting at the foot of the stairs. He opens the door to the drawing room as Steve approaches it. “Lady Wheeler, my lord,” he says.
The name shocks Steve, enough that his admittedly shaky smile falters on his face. He turns to frown at his manservant - and then looks into the room to see that, sure enough, Lady Wheeler, the social climber who once made her pitch at Billy, is standing within.
For a single wild moment, he wonders if she’s here to commiserate with him over Billy’s loss, as another who cared for him.
She’s positioned herself by the window, one gloved hand resting on the sill, but she turns when Steve enters the drawing room with a beaming smile on her face. “Captain Harrington,” she says warmly.
The title makes him flinch. It doesn’t belong to him - but he certainly can’t say so. “Lady Wheeler,” he replies politely. Whatever else her mode of address might have made him feel, it’s made one thing clear: this is not a woman who comes with sympathies.
“It’s so kind of you to see me,” she says, and smiles graciously when Steve gestures for her to sit down. He sends Dantes for wine, and they sit opposite one another in the gold-striped couches in front of the fireplace. There’s no fire burning; the weather is still far too warm for that.
“This is certainly an unexpected pleasure,” Steve says, once Dantes has delivered and poured the wine, and they’re alone in the room. He can think of nothing else to say. He has met Lady Wheeler at social occasions, of course, but he cannot think of a single conversation they’ve had outside larger groups. He can’t imagine what she wants with him.
He shivers a little. Something about the unexpected visit bodes ill.
Lady Wheeler laughs a light tinkling laugh, as though he’s said something amusing or ridiculous. “Oh, captain,” she says, touching her hair. “We are to be family, are we not? The pleasure, I assure you, is all mine.”
Steve frowns at her. “I beg your pardon, madam?”
She looks guilelessly back at him. “I said, the pleasure is all mine,” she says again. “After all—” and here she pauses, her eyes light - and yet somehow cold “—after all, you are to be my son-in-law.”
“Son-in-law?” Steve repeats, stupefied. “My lady - I fear you must be mistaken—”
“No, no, I am not mistaken,” Lady Wheeler says sweetly. “Did you not ask for my daughter’s hand this week? The announcement,” she adds, “will be in the newspapers in the morning.”
Steve stares at her. “Your daughter?”
“Yes,” Lady Wheeler replies. She gazes at him, her expression cool. “My sweet daughter Nancy.”
Something is happening here, and Steve is too slow to understand it. Billy, he’s sure, would grasp her meaning in a moment - but Billy is not here, and Steve’s mind is sluggish with grief, unable to make sense of what the lady is telling him. She must know that what she is saying is an invention - but then, why would she say it? Billy never had anything good to say about Lady Wheeler, not after she set her cap for him in her bid for social position, but he never labeled her a fool.
“My lady,” Steve says slowly - but goes no further. He has no idea what to say to her.
“I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if the wedding were to take place as soon as possible,” Lady Wheeler goes on blithely, as though unaware of Steve’s bewilderment. But how can she be? Confusion must be written all over his face. “Before the end of the year - wouldn’t you agree?” She smiles. “I know how eager you are to wed.”
Steve opens his mouth, frowning, and then closes it again. He stares at her. “Madam—”
“Yes?”
The expression on her face checks him. There’s something cold and flinty in her eyes, something which tells him - later than it should have done - that she knows exactly the effect she’s having on him at this moment. It makes him shiver to see it. She’s speaking to him this way deliberately, for some reason he can’t fathom.
He tries to unpick her motives in his head. To have her only daughter wed to Steve Harrington, the son of the richest family in Marseille - and, to tell the truth, in half of France - that would be a worthwhile accomplishment indeed. Even if Steve were not already married in everything but law, he’d pause before considering Lady Wheeler’s daughter. Their respective families are nowhere near equal in rank or fortune, and the Wheelers have a reputation for underhandedness and social climbing.
But the lady has not come cap in hand to beg for a match far above her in station. No, she has come with a cold self-assurance, an absolute certainty that she will have her way.
Steve shakes his head. He is too slow and too stupid. “You will have to explain it to me,” he says wearily. He waves a vague hand, and Lady Wheeler’s eyebrows climb in surprise. “I have no patience for games.”
“This is no game, my lord—” she begins.
“It is a game,” Steve says. He rubs his temple for a moment. “You know that what you are saying is nonsensical. These hidden meanings, saying one thing but meaning another - I have never been able to understand them. If you wish to say something to me, say it plainly. Why would I marry your daughter? I hardly know her.”
For a long moment, Lady Wheeler looks at him, her expression thoughtful. At last she says: “Speak plainly, you say?”
“Yes,” Steve replies. His senses are all alert. This cannot mean anything good - but still, he would rather hear it in simple words.
“Very well, sir; I will say it plainly,” Lady Wheeler says. “Why should you marry my daughter?” Her lips flicker, her eyes gleaming. “Well, my lord, I will tell you: if you don’t marry her, I will tell the world that you were the lover of the traitor William Hargrove, and you will hang for sodomy.” She pauses, eyebrows raised. “Was that plain enough, captain?”
Notes:
Hands up if you saw this one coming?!
Chapter 16: seize (1815)
Notes:
I am loving the fact that people have THEORIES! Perhaps this makes me evil, but it truly delights me. Thank you so much for sticking with this very silly angsty story!
Chapter Text
Captain Harrington sits frozen in his seat, eyes wide and staring, and for a minute or more, he’s unable to speak.
If you don’t marry her, I will tell the world that you were the lover of the traitor William Hargrove, and you will hang for sodomy.
In front of him, Lady Wheeler sits serenely, waiting for him to take in the damning words she has just spoken. Perhaps he ought to feel afraid, or even disgusted by the lengths she’s apparently willing to go to in order to marry off her daughter - but instead, he’s filled with an intense wave of longing for his beloved.
If the captain were here - the real captain, not his own wretched facsimile - then nothing evil could ever happen again. Captain Hargrove was his husband, and Harrington longs for his touch, his presence, more than anything he has ever wanted before. It rises up inside him, the renewed despair, the knowledge that evil has crept into his life as his husband has left it.
“Good God…” he murmurs wretchedly.
“I see that this has come as some surprise to you,” Lady Wheeler says, fussing with the sleeve of her gown. She takes a careful sip of wine.
Harrington stares at her. “What?”
“Perhaps you thought you could keep your proclivities secret forever,” she says. There’s a small smile on her face, as though she’s enjoying herself. “Perhaps you thought that, now your lover is dead, no one would ever find out.”
He stands abruptly, turning away from her. Now that your lover is dead - as if that’s all Billy meant to him! A secret lover, something sordid and dirty, rather than a pure and clean love between husbands. Does she think he rejoiced in the necessary secrecy of their relationship? That he feels ashamed of the nature of his relationship with Billy?
“So you mean to blackmail me,” he says, his voice shaking with bitterness. He can’t look at her. “You think I will marry your daughter out of a cowardly fear for my own life?”
“I assure you, my lord, my threats are not empty ones,” Lady Wheeler says. “If I go to the governor and his advisors with what I know, you will be executed.”
Harrington wheels around to face her. “Do you mean to frighten me? Tell the governor, if you like! My life… my life is worth nothing without him in it.” He laughs wretchedly. “I would rather lie beside him in the grave tomorrow, than spend an empty lifetime married to any progeny of yours.”
He can see he’s shocked her. “You are… you are agitated, sir,” she says carefully. “You must consider your words—”
“Considering my words will not change my feelings,” Harrington tells her angrily. “Do you think the thought of death frightens me? I have longed for it these past few days!”
Lady Wheeler looks taken aback, and Harrington laughs mirthlessly. She knows nothing of his feelings for his husband, even if she has somehow stumbled upon their secret.
She says slowly: “And are you so cavalier in respect to the late captain’s reputation, as well as yours?”
That brings him up short. “What?”
“You say you would welcome death,” the lady says, the smile returning to her face. “You will allow your name, your family’s name, to be sullied throughout Marseille, all in the name of love - but what of Hargrove’s name? He is already known as a traitor. Will you allow him to be remembered as an unnatural sinner as well?”
“He would not—”
But he cannot finish the sentence. Cannot truthfully say that it wouldn’t matter to Billy. Billy’s reputation meant everything to him.
Harrington has sworn to clear his name, to prove to the world that his husband did not commit the crimes for which he lost his life. He has sworn it because he knows it matters. If he allows this heinous woman to enact her threats - not only will he be breaking his vow to do this, but he will be adding more crimes to Billy’s name beyond the grave.
“Why would you want your daughter to marry me?” he asks dully. “When you know what I am?”
Lady Wheeler shrugs her shoulders, draining her glass of wine. “You could give her a good life,” she says. “I am sure you could make her happy.”
“No,” Harrington says with conviction. “I could not make her happy - but you do not care about that, do you? You care nothing for your own daughter’s happiness, so long as she can bring you wealth and position.”
“Judge me if you like,” she replies coolly. “It is not easy to be a widow in today’s world. I had hopes for my son, but…”
Harrington frowns. Slowly, he sinks back down onto the couch, one hand gripping the armrest so tightly that his knuckles are white from it. His mind is moving more quickly now, his thoughts clicking together so methodically that they almost seem audible. The mention of Lady Wheeler’s son has reminded him that there is more at work here than might appear at first.
Lady Wheeler’s son is the young private who helped Jane Hopper escape the city - assisted by Harrington himself, though she will not know that. Though Harrington has been little in company since Billy’s death, he is still aware that the story of the runaway lovers is on everyone’s lips, eclipsed only by the greater scandal of Captain Hargrove’s treason and execution.
No wonder the lady is so desperate for her daughter to marry well. Her family’s reputation has been forever tarnished by her son’s actions.
“Do you think that they will forget about his disgrace, if you marry your daughter to me?” he asks slowly.
Lady Wheeler flushes, all but confirming Harrington’s half-formed suspicions. “My son has done nothing but follow his heart,” she says primly.
“He has committed a crime,” Harrington replies, though his mind is racing all the faster. The irony of both their words has not escaped him; he too has done nothing but follow his heart in his relationship with Billy, and yet he too has committed a crime in the eyes of the law.
“He is no criminal,” the lady says, still pink-cheeked. “The young lady, after all, has broken no laws. My son has been pardoned by the governor himself.”
Harrington stares at her. “Pardoned by the governor?”
“Yes,” she says. She takes another sip of wine, fussing a little with her hair.
More thoughts sliding into his mind, like links in a chain - Harrington sits stone-still, trying to put them together. He’s remembering something the governor said to him, words spoken over that table in his office, a place still associated in his mind with the worst pain he’s ever felt in his life. The governor showed him evidence of Billy’s treachery - evidence which Harrington is now convinced must have been falsified in some way - and among the assorted papers—
The witness statement. A witness saw Billy consorting with one of Hopper’s associates, or said they did. And when Harrington asked their name… She has asked to remain anonymous, and I must respect that.
She. It did not register in Harrington’s mind at the time, not in the muddle of grief and despair, but for the witness to be a she - is that not unusual, in this world of men? When would a woman be able to bear witness to a clandestine meeting between criminals?
And now here is Lady Wheeler’s son, pardoned for his crimes by the governor of Marseille. That cannot be unrelated.
Harrington stares almost unseeingly at the lady, sitting in his drawing room, the very picture of respectability as she blackmails him into marrying her daughter, and knows with perfect clarity that she traded her false witness statement against Billy for the pardon of her son - and, consequently, the restoration of her family.
If she could do that - her villainy, it seems, runs as deep as that of Governor Hargrove - and Harrington is sworn to expose her to the world just the same.
“It seems you leave me no choice, madam,” he says, throat constricted. “I will marry your daughter.”
Lady Wheeler gives him a satisfied smile. “I am glad to hear it,” she says, draining her glass and setting it down on the table. “As I have said, I think it will be for the best if the wedding were to take place as soon as possible. After all - why wait, when you are in love?”
Harrington grits his teeth against the wave of rage that floods through him at the words. “Why, indeed?” he says tightly. He understands why she wants the marriage to proceed with haste. It will give society a new piece of gossip to chew on, as well as preventing him from formulating any sort of plan to get out of it - or escaping the city himself.
“I will leave you,” she says, perhaps sensing the barely-controlled anger behind his polite tones. “Unless, of course, there is any particular wording you would like in the announcement? I can certainly amend it before tomorrow, if you would prefer.”
“Since there is no one else here to play into this farce,” Harrington returns coldly, “I will not pretend with you as you clearly wish to pretend with me. You have had your way, madam. You have forced me into a marriage I do not want and never will want. You have my compliance in your scheme of blackmail. Do not ask me to smile about it.”
For a long moment, she just looks at him. He wonders if there is the slightest remorse in her for what she’s doing to him - but if there is, it’s quickly swallowed. She lifts her chin. “I hope you will be more cheerful when you appear in public,” she says, her tone a warning. “You would not want to give society at large a reason to doubt your intentions towards my daughter.”
“As you say,” he says, and then there is no more to be said, and the lady departs.
Harrington sits alone in his drawing room for a long time after she is gone. He’s frozen, barely able to believe the turn things have taken. He’s engaged to be married - he, who thought he’d never marry anyone if he could not marry Billy! Perhaps he did not swear it as vehemently as his beloved did, but he meant it. This feels like a betrayal.
It is a betrayal. It is a betrayal of everything he holds dear: his love for Billy, his own convictions, his strength of character. It is bowing his head to a woman he knows to be a villain, marrying where he does not love, falling in with a wicked plan that has already claimed the life of his husband. Everything inside him rebels against the idea.
But it is the only way, if he wants to keep his head long enough to clear Billy’s name as he has vowed to do.
The next few weeks are so full of activity that Harrington almost doesn’t have time to indulge in the depths of his grief and loss. He endures a stiff conversation with his parents, neither of whom can understand why he’s marrying the nondescript daughter of an unimportant widow rather than one of the many far more eligible young ladies in Marseille. As Harrington is unable to give them a truthful explanation, the meeting ends unsatisfactorily for all involved.
“Oh, well, dear,” his mother says at last, her fingertips fluttering together. “If you love her - well, then, you must bring her to meet us. We are very happy for you, of course.”
It’s less of a fight than Harrington might have expected, which means that his parents either think Nancy Wheeler is carrying his child, or - and this latter, sadly, seems more likely - are so relieved that their long-held but never-expressed suspicions regarding their son and his best friend have been proven incorrect that they are in no mood to argue. Perhaps they believe both are true.
He is too exhausted and unhappy to disabuse them of either notion. Now that the marriage has been announced, he must re-enter society, must pretend that the deep aching sadness which overtakes him every moment he is alone does not exist, must accept congratulations and exclamations of surprise at his imminent marriage.
In amongst it all, he manages to find a moment to write a letter for Jonathan Byers to take to Jane Hopper when he is next able, informing her that Private Wheeler has been pardoned for the crime of stealing her away. It seems unlikely that the governor is actively searching for the pair of them, although it will never be safe for them to return to Marseille, in Harrington’s view.
He sees the governor too, though only briefly - so that Hargrove may officially bestow upon him the title of captain, and congratulate him on his upcoming marriage. Harrington smiles stoically through the meeting, frozen inside, his fingers twisting together to stroke the ring of twine on his left hand.
It’s two weeks after his meeting with Lady Wheeler before Harrington actually has a moment alone with his intended. He’s seen her here and there, of course, at various social occasions - but he hasn’t sought her out, and she seems equally content to keep her distance.
He’s curious, however, to know her own feelings about the marriage - and though it seems unlikely, if there’s the smallest chance he could persuade her to change her mother’s mind, he has to make the attempt.
So at last he rides to her house, thoughts occupied with recollections of the last time he visited. Then it was dark, bruised clouds scudding across the moonlit sky and obscuring the stars, and his horse’s hooves clicking on the cobbled street beneath him were the only sound to be heard. He crept into the house on a secret mission in the dead of night, and only two people in the world know that he was ever there.
Now, of course, it is different. The sun is bright in the sky, and Marseille is crowded and noisy with people going about their usual business. Harrington’s destination is no secret; anyone might guess that he is visiting his bride. He tethers his horse outside the house openly, and raps smartly on the front door in full view of any passers-by.
“I am here to see Lady Nancy,” he informs the gray-haired butler who comes to answer his knock.
“Very good, my lord,” the man says, ushering him inside and taking his hat and cane. “Allow me to show you into the drawing room. May I bring you some port?”
Harrington accepts the port, and sips it slowly as he waits in the lounge. It is the same room where he spoke to Jane Hopper, pressing the jeweled pin into her hand as a gesture of safety before helping her flee the city. He remembers her wide dark eyes, her determination in the face of danger. What would she think of him now?
It’s ten minutes before the door to the drawing room opens, and Nancy Wheeler steps inside. Harrington rises automatically, putting down his glass. She’s alone, which he had not expected; he can only assume that her mother is not at home, for she would surely never allow her daughter to meet with him unchaperoned.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Nancy says, her face and voice perfectly composed.
She’s an attractive young woman, he thinks dispassionately as he looks at her; if not for Billy, he might look at her with some interest. She has dark curling hair tucked into a fashionable style behind her slender head, and she wears her cheap blue dress as well as can be expected. But he will never be interested in anyone who isn’t Billy.
“My lady,” he says formally. He pauses a fraction. “Or should I call you my future wife?”
She must take note of the stiffness of his voice, but she merely raises a cool eyebrow as she sits down in the seat opposite him. “Whatever you prefer, my lord,” she says evenly.
“I prefer not to marry,” Harrington says starkly. That surprises her; her mouth falls open a little. “How much has your mother told you, I wonder?”
For a moment or two she says nothing, merely staring at him. Is she surprised that he has come to speak to her on the subject? He is the man to whom she has been promised for the rest of her life, and yet this is the first time they have had any sort of private conversation. Can she really be surprised that he has no wish to be wed?
“My mother…” she begins, and then breaks off, clearing her throat. “My mother is a very determined woman, Captain Harrington.”
“She certainly is,” he agrees pleasantly.
Nancy looks discomforted. “Our family has suffered since my brother went away,” she says.
“He was pardoned, or so I was told,” Harrington replies.
“Yes, he was,” Nancy says. “But that has not prevented tongues from wagging. With everything that has occurred… My chances of making a good marriage were never very great, even without this new scandal attached to our name.” She looks at him. “My mother has not told me what arrangement she made with you. I assumed it was a transaction made in good faith. I see now that that cannot be the case.”
His mouth twists. “No,” he says. “No, it was not.”
That term - transaction. How can she be satisfied to be married off in such a way? But then, she is a woman from a low-status family. Her choices, as she has stated, have always been limited.
Nancy says: “I imagine she has tricked or blackmailed you into the match in some way, if I know my mother.”
“You seem clear-sighted when it comes to her,” Harrington says.
“I am no fool,” Nancy says. Her eyes narrow as she studies him, seemingly deep in thought. She goes on, “She will not be dissuaded. Whatever threats she has made, they will be genuine.”
Harrington nods slowly, reaching for his glass of port. “I am aware of that,” he says. “But—”
“But you thought that perhaps I could be persuaded to turn against my mother? To refuse to be wed?” she says shrewdly. She shakes her head before he can answer. “My mother would never let me refuse. And why should I? This is the best match I will ever be in a position to make.”
Fingers trembling, Harrington places his glass back on the table. He’s suddenly furious, shivers of rage sliding ice-cold down his spine. “I see,” he says, his voice shaking. “So you are content to blackmail a man who does not want you into a marriage he regards as a prison, all so that you might live a comfortable life.”
Her already pale face whitens still further. “I have not blackmailed anyone,” she says.
“But you will reap the benefits of blackmail,” Harrington says.
“Do you think my mother will allow me to walk away?” Nancy asks angrily, her mouth pinched together. Two small spots of color have appeared high in her cheeks. “Do you think she will not enact whatever threats she has made against you, if I did? What is it that she holds against you?”
Harrington shakes his head. “If she has not seen fit to tell you, neither will I,” he says.
She throws her hands up. “You expect me to defy my mother for your sake, and you will not even tell me why,” she says.
“It is enough to know that you would need a reason,” he says coldly. He had not really expected this appeal to her better nature to be successful - after all, she’s certainly right to assert that her mother would not allow it, even if she were amenable - but to hear her boldly give precedence to her own comfort and position over his consent burns painfully.
“There is no rebellion to be had here,” Nancy replies, her voice as icy and hard as his own. “We are to be married, and neither of us have any choice in the matter.”
Harrington swallows down the insult he wants to return to this statement. “So be it,” he says.
“We will have to find some way to come to an accord,” she says. “We are to share a life.”
“An accord, is it?” Harrington says. He’s angrier than he can ever remember being. Billy was always the one with a temper out of the pair of them. Never before has he felt the need to rage and shout and exercise his will on others. “Here is an accord for you: you will be my wife, and thus you will obey me in all things as God ordained.”
Nancy’s eyes widen, and the color in her cheeks deepens. She opens her mouth, but he cuts across her before she can speak.
“I will never touch you,” he tells her. “I will never desire your counsel or your partnership. You will never have children by me. You will live in a beautiful home, and you will have gold and possessions, expensive clothing and social position. You will have everything you covet, but you will never have me.”
She stares at him, apparently speechless.
“Your opinion will never matter to me,” Harrington goes on. “I will never slight you in public, never give an outward sign of my disdain for you - but know that I will feel it in every moment. I will never forget the way you and your mother conspired to force me into this union—”
“I did not conspire!” Nancy bursts out.
He raises a hand to quiet her. “You have not stood against her,” he says coldly. “You have made it clear that you see only the benefits to yourself in this scheme. You have not spared a thought for the torment she inflicts on me—”
“It is marriage, not penal servitude,” she interrupts in a waspish tone. “Perhaps we do not know each other well, but many marry under similar circumstances - is it really such torment? Your words are dramatic, my lord.”
She rolls her eyes as she speaks, and Harrington realizes with a start that she means what she says. She really believes that their situation is the same as any couple whose families arrange their union.
“Others are not forced,” he says roughly. “I love another, and will always love another. I am separated from my beloved by the machinations of your mother, and you call me dramatic? It is clear, my lady, that you have never known real love. You would not dismiss me so easily if you had.”
Nancy’s face has gone pale once more. “I did not know—”
“You know nothing about me,” Harrington says, getting to his feet. “You are content to take whatever benefits I can offer you, but you know nothing about me. You never shall.”
“My lord,” she says, rising as he goes out of the room. “My lord, wait—”
He pauses, one hand on the door. She looks unhappily after him, biting her lip. Perhaps she knows there is nothing she can say. Harrington bows his head courteously to her.
“I will see you again at our wedding, madam,” he says, and departs.
Chapter 17: dix-sept (1815-1816)
Notes:
There have been THEORIES and I love to see it... but a few things are going to be REVEALED this time around. Don't say I never treat you!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In December, when snow lies in a thick carpet across the ground and a chill wind blows the overcast sea into a frenzy, Nancy Wheeler becomes the wife of Captain Harrington. The ceremony is smaller than expected, but tasteful nonetheless - organized chiefly by the bride’s mother, though funded by the groom’s parents, if gossip is to be believed. The bride is so resplendent in her gown as she walks down the aisle that nobody turns to examine the face of her intended - and wonder why he looks so grim.
Harrington is white with exhaustion and grief as he waits at the front of the church for his intended to reach him. He doesn’t meet her eyes as she walks steadily towards him; his gaze instead is fixed on a spot somewhere above her dark head, staring behind her as though Billy might come rushing through the door to prevent this travesty of a wedding from continuing.
But, of course, Billy does not come. Billy is dead. Harrington touches his ring for the thousandth time, forcing back his tears as his thumb slips across the rough twine.
He has no idea whether Nancy tries to catch his gaze as the ceremony takes place. He refuses to look at her, staring over her shoulder as he repeats the vows he has already made to another. Billy is in his mind and in his heart, and he keeps his thumb on the ring Billy gave him all the while. Every promise he makes aloud to Nancy, in his head he swears only to Billy.
When it is all over, he bends to briefly brush his lips against Nancy’s mouth for the merest second without looking at her. It will be the only time he ever delivers her even an approximation of a kiss.
After that the day is a blur. Harrington greets his guests, conducts polite conversation with his bride’s friends and family, accepts gifts and congratulations with a brittle smile that does not reach his eyes. If anyone notices that he does not look at his new wife, that they have not exchanged two words all the day through, they are not so ill-bred as to mention it.
The closest thing they have to a conversation is when they are obliged to dance. Harrington holds Nancy in his arms, again fixing his gaze somewhere above her left shoulder, and moves gracefully to the music without a word to her.
“You mean to continue punishing me, I see,” she murmurs, as they waltz around the room.
“No, indeed, madam,” Harrington replies coldly.
She’s silent for a few moments, seemingly gathering her thoughts. Then she says: “My lord, we are married now. It cannot be undone. Can we not be friends, at least?”
Harrington takes her hand so that she can twirl elegantly under his arm. His new wedding band gleams on his finger, covering the true ring beneath it. Nancy did not even notice the twine when she pushed the circlet that denoted her claim on him over it.
“We are not friends,” he says, his voice tight. “I have told you how things will be. You knew what you were choosing.”
“This was not my choice, any more than it was yours,” she says quietly.
He raises an eyebrow. “Was it not? But you did not refuse. After all, this was the best match you would ever be in a position to make.”
He has the satisfaction of watching her flush scarlet as she recognizes the words she spoke to him when he visited her three months ago. This is the first time they have been alone together since then. What more could they have to say to one another?
They do not speak again before the celebrations are over, and they are climbing into a carriage together amidst a sea of applause from their guests. Harrington offers his new wife a polite hand to steady her as she steps into the vehicle, scrupulously careful to avoid any demonstration of his true feelings for her. As he makes to follow her into the carriage, he catches her mother’s eye for a moment.
Lady Wheeler has a satisfied smile on her sallow face. Harrington masks his furious glare with an effort, and turns away.
It is only a short journey between the celebration hall and Harrington’s home, and it is conducted in complete silence. Harrington gazes unseeingly out of the window, twisting absent-mindedly at the ring on his finger - the real ring, not the false effigy of gold which he has already removed. Many men wear their wedding rings only for social occasions; it goes without saying that he will be among their number.
Dantes is waiting deferentially in the hall when they arrive, Nancy hurrying after her husband’s quick steps. “My lord,” he says carefully, as Harrington enters. “Welcome home.”
“My wife, Dantes,” Harrington says with a careless gesture towards her. “I am sure you will do what you can to secure her comfort.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, my lady,” Dantes says, bowing. “May I show you to your rooms?”
Nancy glances at Harrington. “That is all the conversation we are to have on our wedding night, is it?” she asks. Her voice is cool and sharp, like the edge of a knife.
He shrugs and does not answer, and after a moment or two she follows Dantes away from him, up the stairs and presumably to the bedroom he has selected for her.
For a long, long moment, Harrington doesn’t move. He’s a statue in his own front hall, alone in the stillness of his house, his frozen image reflected back at him in the gleaming mirror above the table. He is married. He has done what he said he would never do, and married someone who is not his Billy.
He touches the ring on his finger again - and turns sharply to muffle a sobbing cry into his arm.
It is, indeed, all the conversation they are to have on their wedding night - and only a little less than they are to have over the days following. Harrington has no interest in being a husband, and is determined to go about his ordinary business as if he had no wife at all. He sees Nancy at their shared morning and evening meals, but all the hours between them are spent apart, and he never once ventures to her rooms at night.
Nancy, for her part, swiftly realizes that no entreaties will change her husband’s mind about the kind of marriage they are to have. Her attempts to draw him into conversation or alliance last no longer than breakfast the morning after their wedding. At least she is not foolish enough to continue to try and persuade him.
They’re meant to be in their weeks of honeymoon, unable to attend social events or conduct business while they supposedly spend every moment of early marital bliss together. Nancy must be lonely, but she doesn’t complain to Harrington. He has no idea how she occupies her empty hours.
He himself mainly spends his time writing to Jane - he and Jonathan exchange letters twice in the month after the wedding - and making nebulous plans about how he might best prove Billy’s innocence. The former occupation brings some satisfaction at least. He learns that Jane and Wheeler are married, and they are learning Berber together. They sound happy, and Jane offers Harrington congratulations on his marriage to her husband’s sister.
He considers explaining some version of the truth to her - but to what end? At least this way, Michael Wheeler knows that his sister is protected from the repercussions of his treachery, and might believe her happy.
Jonathan brings the letters after dark both times, and both times he sits with Harrington for a few minutes in the moonlit garden and talks to him while he reads. His presence is restful, representing just one person around whom Harrington is not required to act a part. He can never tell Jonathan exactly what he has lost, but he doesn’t have to pretend that he does not grieve.
And grieve he does. It seems that not a moment goes by without Billy looming bright and present in his thoughts. Harrington can remember every line of him - the gleam of his blue eyes, the way his face lit up when he smiled. He falls into memories every night when he sleeps, and wakes up every morning with the renewed ache of loneliness. He looks across the table at his unsmiling wife at supper, and thinks of the man who ought to be there instead.
His servants step delicately around the newly married couple, well-trained enough that Harrington doesn’t see so much as a raised eyebrow in spite of the frosty atmosphere between him and his new wife. He assumes Nancy has taken an interest in the management of the household as she ought, but he doesn’t care enough to ask Dantes about it.
There’s nothing he cares about anymore.
He lives only to clear his beloved’s name, and that, he is beginning to realize, will be a long and difficult task. He’s so rarely given any opportunity to access the kind of evidence he will need, and it might be years before anyone trusts him enough to let him into the secrets surrounding the corrupt governor’s office - if they ever do.
The Harringtons pass Christmas quietly, without marking the occasion in any particular way and without exchanging gifts. Their honeymoon is over in January, and with it the bleak weeks away from society. Harrington is looking forward to his reemergence into the world - partly because it will get him out of the silent mausoleum his home has become, but mostly because at least now he will have some chance of success on his quest.
“We will be expected to host some kind of ball or soirée,” Nancy says to him at dinner one night in January. Her voice is cool and distant. “Unless you mean to abandon all forms of societal expectations and pretense.”
“If only I could,” Harrington replies dryly. “I presume you will be more than capable of arranging such an event?”
She looks surprised that he’s answering her so civilly - but he doesn’t mind speaking to her on practical matters. There are likely to be a few, over the course of their marriage. “Yes, of course,” she says. She hesitates. “Is there anyone in particular you would like me to invite?”
He stares at her. “You know all my social circle,” he says uncomprehendingly.
“Yes, but…” Nancy pauses, frowning. “I know you go out sometimes at night,” she says at last, her voice a little lowered. She looks down at the table. “I wondered perhaps if you were meeting someone - a lady. I could ask her to our gathering.”
For a moment or two, he has no idea what she means. Then he remembers his late-night walks with Jonathan, and laughs in spite of himself. “You think I am meeting a lover?” he says incredulously.
“You said you had been separated from your beloved,” Nancy replies quietly.
Harrington opens his mouth - and then closes it again. He did say so. He never told her that the loss was more than mere parting. He has been cold and distant from her since the moment they were wed. Why would she not assume that he has been conducting an affair?
“I promised your mother that I would never give society any reason to doubt my intentions towards you,” he says slowly. “I would not meet a lover on our honeymoon. Indeed, you never need doubt my loyalty. When I give my word - when I swear an oath, as I did when I married - you may be sure that I will never break it.”
It’s the truth, though he’s not referring to their farcical wedding when he speaks of oaths. No, he’s thinking of an earlier exchange of rings and vows, one which he will always cleave to, no matter how he is threatened and blackmailed. That is why he will never be a true husband to Nancy.
Nancy appears to be at a loss for words. “I… I see,” she says at last. “So… So you have not been meeting your lady love?”
“A business matter only,” Harrington says dismissively. “Invite who you like to the party.”
They say no more about any of it, although he cannot help but wonder at her reaction when she thought he was meeting a lover. To invite the young lady to their ball - that, surely, is not the usual response? She must be trying very hard to find some kind of equilibrium in their marriage.
For the first time since their wedding, Harrington feels a little sorry for his wife. These last weeks cannot have been very pleasant for her, alone and friendless in a stranger’s home. But there is nothing he can do. He can never be a husband to her.
Besides, now she will have society to occupy her - meetings with friends, parties, balls, teas, games and chatter and dancing. She will want for nothing. Was that not why she married him?
The ball is a resounding success, for everybody except Harrington. Every noble family in Marseille is in attendance, and Nancy has thrown an exquisitely presented party. There’s music and dancing, cards and conversation, hundreds of people milling about in the ornate rooms of Harrington’s house, all of them dressed in their best finery.
Harrington behaves impeccably. He dances - first with his wife, and then with every other important lady he can find. He even takes Lady Wheeler for a turn around the floor, though he refuses to speak to her as they move in tandem. She doesn’t appear to mind, if the satisfied smile on her face is anything to go by.
When the dancing is over, he circulates through the various rooms the ball is occupying, speaking to everyone. He makes a toast at dinner to his wife, who smiles prettily when her guests raise their glasses to her. Nobody could imagine Captain Harrington to be anything other than the young vivacious society gentleman, full of life and joy in his early days of marriage.
He never knew he could lie so well. Billy would laugh to see it.
But he will not think of Billy, not now. He stretches his lips into another false smile, kissing the knuckles of some other elegant lady and only briefly touching the ring on his finger. It’s hidden today, covered by the gold band Nancy gave him and which he is obliged to wear for such an occasion.
The evening, while puerile, is not a complete loss. Harrington spends much of it deep in conversation with Lord Kline, one of Governor Hargrove’s closest advisors. He can only lay the groundwork at this stage, begin to form a connection from which an alliance may be formed over time - but it is at least a start.
It will be like this for a long time, he knows. The process of uncovering the corruption in the city will not happen overnight. Patience, a virtue for which he has never been well-known, will have to become his watchword.
At last, at last, the evening begins to wind down. Guests depart in their carriages, the musicians put away their instruments, and the servants begin the arduous task of cleaning away all remnants of the festivities. Harrington stands in the entrance hall with his wife on his arm, bidding his farewells. His smile feels brittle on his face.
“That certainly seemed to be a success,” Nancy says to him when the last guest is gone. She disentangles her arm from his own, turning to look up at him. “Are… are you satisfied, my lord?”
The uncertainty in her voice gives him pause. Harrington is not a naturally cruel man, in spite of the trials his wife and her mother have put him through. He can’t bring himself to continually slap her down, though he has no interest in building a friendship between them.
“Yes, indeed,” he says. He can’t quite make himself smile at her, but something in his voice must reassure her, for she exhales in something like relief. “You seem to have a talent.”
“I have always wanted to host a ball of my own,” she replies, smiling.
At once Harrington is uncomfortable, and irritable with it. How nice for her, that through her forced marriage to him she has been able to exercise such a shallow wish! He bites his lip angrily. “It was certainly a success,” he says tightly. He bows to her. “I bid you goodnight, madam.”
He’s certain he can feel her eyes following him as he strides away from her, but he doesn’t turn to look.
It’s late, the clock in the hall melodiously chiming four times as Harrington reaches his room, and after the evening he has just endured - as well as the final interaction with his wife - he’s ready to collapse into his bed. He shuts the bedroom door behind him, hands already reaching for his cravat and waistcoat to tug them off. His eyes are gritty with weariness.
Then a shadow moves in the darkness of his room, and Harrington throws himself back against the wall with a shout.
He can only blame his tiredness, and perhaps the free-flowing wine, for his immediate alarm, for a few moments later his eyes adjust to the dim candlelight and he realizes that the figure is that of a woman, dressed in finery and in no way a threat. Hand pressed to his beating heart, Harrington straightens up again.
“Captain Harrington,” the woman says, stepping forward into the light. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord.”
He frowns. He doesn’t recognize her. She’s older than him by perhaps ten years, though still attractive in her own way, with a cloud of hastily-arranged reddish-blonde hair behind her pale head and delicate, wan features. Her dress is pretty, but not expensive.
“My lady,” he begins - and then stops. He’s not certain he is speaking to a lady, not in the social sense of the word.
Whatever her standing in society, the impropriety of her appearance in his rooms is glaring. She seems to be aware of it; her arms are folded uncomfortably across her stomach, and she fidgets and shifts her eyes skittishly around the room. “Forgive me,” she says again. “I know I should not be here.”
“No, you should not,” Harrington says slowly.
“I need your help,” the woman says. Her voice is a little shrill. “Please, sir, I have nowhere else to turn.”
He stares at her. “My lady, I do not know you.”
“No, but I know you,” she replies. “My name is Mayfield - Susan Mayfield.” She drops her gaze. “I am no lady,” she confesses. “Until lately, I worked in the governor’s offices as a serving woman.”
Harrington’s heart leaps for a moment, although on an entirely different track. A serving woman - he had not thought of speaking to the governor’s servants! If he could buy some of them, he could have access to evidence he’d be sorely pressed to gather on his own.
For now, however, he turns his attention back to the matter at hand. “I see,” he says. “And how did that bring you here, Miss Mayfield?”
“You are a respectable gentleman,” Susan replies. “The only one in Marseille, or so I have been told. I have nowhere else to go - no one in whom I can confide. I was told that you were an honorable man. I thought you might help me.”
“Help you?” Harrington repeats - and then he sees it. Sees the way she’s clutching her belly, sees the gentle roundness of it below her dress. He sighs, shaking his head, and moves to sit down in his favorite armchair by the fireplace. “I see,” he says again. “There is to be a child?”
She comes hesitantly to perch on the chair beside his. “Sir,” she says desperately, “I know you don’t know me, but if you do not help me - I have been cast out of my place of work. I have no money, no family. I beg you, please. Please help me. I was told - I was told you were a gentleman.”
“Who told you that?” Harrington asks her wearily.
Susan bites her lip. “The governor’s late son, William Hargrove,” she says.
It’s like ice in his veins, to hear the name of his beloved planted in the conversation so unexpectedly. Steve is frozen, tears pricking his eyes, all formality lost. “What?”
“William Hargrove,” she repeats quietly. “I met him the night before his execution - I did not know then what he had done, or what would happen to him. But he was kind to me.”
“Yes,” Steve says in a broken whisper. “Yes, he was always kind.”
She nods, eyes swimming with unshed tears. “He did not… did not know my situation. I did not know it then myself, or at least I did not want to admit it. But when I told him I knew nobody in Marseille who would help me, he named you.”
He named you. Billy - his Billy, his own love Billy - named him as an honorable man, a respectable man, someone who this foolish woman could turn to in her time of need. Steve has to bite down hard on his lip to prevent the tears from spilling over. Of course Billy would name him. Of course he would think Steve as honorable as himself.
“What of the father of your baby?” Steve asks. “Does he refuse to help you?”
“He cast me out when I told him,” Susan says, voice choking. “I thought - he told me he would marry me. I was a fool to believe it.”
Steve frowns. “He cast you out?” he repeats. “But you said… Who is the father of your child, Miss Mayfield?”
She swallows. “The governor,” she says. “Governor Hargrove.”
Governor Hargrove. Steve can feel his stomach tightening as though a ball of lead has been dropped into it. Governor Hargrove has fathered another child, as if to replace the one he murdered - but it seems that this time, he will not wait twenty years to betray his progeny. He has already disavowed it, before it is even born.
Steve stares unseeingly at poor, gullible Susan Mayfield, the mother of Billy’s unborn brother or sister, and his grief stabs at him anew. Billy sent her to him. It was perhaps the last thing he did before his death, and it was a kindness for a stranger. How very like him!
How very like him indeed - and now that stranger is standing in front of Steve, speaking Billy’s name, because Billy believed in Steve’s goodness. Steve has done everything Billy asked of him before he died. He’ll do this thing too.
Notes:
DIDJA GUESS? DIDJA DIDJA???
Chapter 18: dix-huit (1816)
Notes:
I can't even tell you how grateful I am for the comments and kudos on this thing. I know it's very niche, so thank you for sticking with me lovelies!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Steve is up early in the morning, in spite of the late night after the ball. His head is still reeling from the unexpected arrival of Susan Mayfield in his bedroom, and the revelation that she’s carrying the governor’s unborn child - Billy’s brother or sister. There’s no possible way, after finding that out, that he can send her away again.
He put her into a guest bedroom near his own for the night while he thought over the situation, and she was clearly so relieved to be allowed to stay that she asked no questions about his intentions. Truthfully, Steve has no idea what he will do.
On the one hand, he knows nothing about this woman. He’s under no obligation to help her, and he doesn’t know what sort of help he could realistically provide in any case. The best thing anyone could do for Susan Mayfield would be to marry her, but Steve is already married, and he can’t think of any respectable man who would fill that role for her now.
He could employ her, but her condition would not long remain a secret, and if the governor learned she was working for him, it could bring unwelcome scrutiny. The last thing Steve wants to do is alienate the man he’s determined to investigate.
But Billy sent her to him. Billy told her he was a respectable man, that he would help her. And the child she carries is Billy’s sibling.
In the end, he decides that the best thing he can do for Susan is to ask her what she wants from him. She must know he’s married - after all, she used his wife’s first ball as her means to sneak into the house - and presumably has her own ideas about the help he might give her.
He has a quiet word with Dantes before breakfast to warn him about the unexpected guest, and then goes to the dining room still lost in thought, barely expecting to see his wife at the table opposite him.
Harrington draws up short at the sight of her. “My lady,” he says, startled.
“Good morning, my lord,” she replies. She frowns at him. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” Harrington murmurs. He’d almost forgotten her in all his abstracted thoughts of Billy and Susan - but this will add another layer of complication. Nancy will presumably have no interest in supporting a maid of no consequence with an illegitimate child in her belly.
She still looks at him with narrowed eyes, but they don’t speak again until the meal is over. Then Nancy announces her intention to call on her mother that morning, which Harrington - anxious to have his home to himself - heartily supports. Fortunately, Nancy doesn’t appear to notice anything amiss; after all, her husband has never expressed an interest in her remaining near at hand.
At last she is gone, and Harrington instructs Dantes to fetch Susan to the drawing room. He’s unsettled, unable to sit still. His life seems to be growing more and more complicated in increasingly unpleasant ways by the day.
But no - not increasingly unpleasant. Nothing can ever be as terrible as Billy’s death. Steve swallows down the lump in his throat.
Susan enters the room a few minutes later, still dressed in the cheap finery from the night before. He wonders if she has any other clothes - any possessions at all. She cannot have much. She is utterly without resources. No wonder she was desperate last night.
“Sir, I cannot thank you enough for allowing me to stay,” she says as she comes into the room.
“Not at all,” Steve says awkwardly. He gestures for her to sit, and she does so. “Have you eaten? Can I offer you anything?”
She smiles. “Your manservant was good enough to bring me breakfast in my room this morning,” she says, and Steve offers a silent prayer of thanks to the ever-capable Dantes.
“Good, good,” he says. He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “Miss Mayfield, I’d like to help you,” he goes on at last. “You have not been treated as you should, and nobody should be left alone in the world. The governor’s son—” here his voice wavers, but he marches on “—was a dear friend to me, and if he has recommended me to you, I will do what I can for you.”
“Thank you,” Susan breathes, her voice heavy with emotion.
Steve runs a hand through his hair, touching his ring briefly with the other. “However, madam, I must say that I don’t know how I can help you,” he admits. “I cannot openly defy the governor, and I can’t find a husband for you.”
“I understand,” she says. Her gaze is lowered. “I would not ask you to do either.”
“Then what—?”
She looks up at him with a sudden urgency. “I have thought about it long and hard,” she says. She presses a hand to her belly, her eyes welling with tears. “I know I have been a fool. I have trusted where I should not have done, and I have been indiscreet. If it were only my reputation, my life, I would not ask. But it is not only me, not anymore. This baby is innocent, and I cannot give it the life it deserves.”
Steve nods, biting his tongue. A bastard child born to a servant - the child will have no life. If it even survives.
“You could adopt it,” Susan goes on, and Steve lurches back in surprise. She presses: “I know it sounds like madness - but many gentlemen take on a ward, do they not? You could adopt my child after it is born, and you could give it a better life. You could raise it in the way it deserves. It is the child of a gentleman, after all!”
The child of a gentleman - and the sibling of his love. Steve can’t deny that the idea is seductive, as much as it borders on insanity. “How would I explain it to the world?” he asks helplessly. “My wife - she would never agree!”
Susan covers her face with her hands. “Please, sir,” she says through her fingers. “Please do not abandon this baby. I know it is not your responsibility - but for the friendship you bore my child’s brother, please help me.”
Steve’s mind is spinning. He never thought of having children; why would he, when he thought he would remain a bachelor forever, married in secret to another man? And he swore he’d never touch Nancy. She can expect no child from him.
Unless—
“I cannot formally adopt your child,” he says slowly, and Susan lets out a dry sob. He holds out a hand to stay her reaction. “There would be too many questions,” he says. “Society at large would assume the baby was mine, regardless of what I told the world. They would think I had fathered a child outside my marriage. I would not do that to my wife. But—”
She peers at him from behind her hands, face hopeful. “But?”
“Perhaps there is another way,” Steve says. His heart is beating very hard. “Perhaps… What you must understand, Miss Mayfield, is that my wife will never bear me a child. We are… incapable.” He’s choosing his words carefully, allowing her to draw her own conclusions. Let her think him infertile, rather than realize his disdain for his own wife.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “That must be a hardship.”
Steve shrugs his shoulders. “I have made my peace with it,” he says untruthfully. “I do not know if we can manage it, and I will have to convince my wife, but…”
“You mean to pretend to the world that my baby is yours,” Susan guesses shrewdly. “Rather than a mere ward, my child would be your heir.”
“Yes,” Steve says. He pauses. “Forgive me. I know it must be difficult to think that your baby would not be raised with you as its mother. I would not suggest it if I could think of another way to help you.”
She shakes her head. “It is not as difficult as you might think,” she says. She hesitates. “There is another aspect to this matter I have not yet told you, which might explain to you why I am so anxious to have my child’s future assured.”
Steve frowns. “Go on.”
“I have lately discovered…” She stops, swallowing, and dabs at her eyes. Steve wordlessly passes her his handkerchief. “Thank you,” she says. “The truth is, my lord, I am dying.”
He stares at her. “Good God…”
“I have always been sickly, ever since I was a child,” Susan explains. Her voice is remarkably steady, though her hands twist around the handkerchief in her lap. “The doctor diagnosed me with wasting sickness and thought I would not survive, but I recovered against all the odds. Though I have never been very strong, it seemed I was over the worst.”
She pauses, taking a deep breath. “It seems that motherhood is more than my weak body can stand,” she says, only the slightest tremble in her voice. “I spent my last savings to have a doctor tell me I will not survive the birth. I am ready - but I must know my baby will be taken care of. I cannot leave it alone in the world without protection. That is why I have come to you, my lord. That is why I am asking you to adopt my child. I would not have dared ask that you claim it as your own, but if you are willing - it is all I could ever wish for.”
Steve catches his breath. He hadn’t thought he had tears for anyone but Billy - but he has tears for Susan, he finds.
“My lady,” he says. His voice shakes. “My lady - forgive me. I wish I could do more for you.”
“It is my own doing,” she says. A tear has spilled onto her white cheek. “If I had behaved as I should, I would not be in this position. Perhaps it is punishment for my sins.”
But Steve shakes his head fervently. “You have not sinned,” he says fiercely. “Sometimes those who have done nothing are punished, and sometimes those who are the greatest sinners are left to walk free. This is no testament to your actions. You have not sinned.”
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I will care for your child as if they were my own,” Steve promises her. “I will raise it as my heir, both for the love I bore its brother, my dearest friend, and for you, my lady. You need have no fear. The baby will be protected.”
More tears splash down Susan’s face. “Thank you,” she says again. “My God - thank you. Thank you. I am forever in your debt.”
“No,” Steve says. “I am glad to do it. I am only sorry I cannot do more.”
“You have done more for me than anyone in all my life,” she tells him.
That pains him to hear, but he can’t allow himself to dwell on it. Poor child! It will be without a mother or a father, just like its elder brother - but Steve is determined that it will grow up loved as Billy was not loved. He’s filled with a fierce adoration for the creature still as yet unborn, a desire to protect and care for it that he’s never felt before.
No, he never thought of being a father - but he will be one now, and he will do it well. He will be a father to Billy’s sibling, and perhaps it will be like having a little piece of Billy with him.
“I will have to explain this to my wife,” he says, his face twisting. Doubtless Nancy will not like it - raising another woman’s baby - but he has a few ideas about how he might convince her to go along with the ruse. He hesitates. “I am afraid she will think the child is mine,” he says.
“I will explain,” Susan begins, but Steve shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “Forgive me, Miss Mayfield, but although it may be uncomfortable, I believe it is better that she should believe it.” He can see her frowning, clearly turning things over in her mind. Perhaps revising her earlier assumption about his fertility. “My wife… Ours is not a love match,” he explains awkwardly. “Though I respect her—” this is a lie, but even here he will not reveal everything “—she has none of the loyalty to my… my dear friend William Hargrove that I do. She will not understand my decision.”
She nods slowly. “I understand, sir,” she says.
It seems unlikely that she does, but Steve has no intention of explaining further. For him, raising Billy’s brother or sister is the obvious choice, the last possible way he has to show his love and respect for his husband - but Nancy knows nothing of the depth of their bond. She will never consent to stand mother to a child so unrelated to her - unless he can convince her it is in her best interest.
That, and persuade her to keep the baby’s true parentage a secret from her mother. He does not mean to hand Lady Wheeler any more ammunition against him.
“Where are you living at present, my lady?” he asks.
Susan flushes. “I… am between lodgings,” she says. “Recently I’ve been sleeping in the backroom of a tavern by the water. I know the proprietor a little.”
“My man will fetch your things for you, if you tell him where to go,” Steve says, determined not to react to this fresh injustice done to her. For the governor to have left her in such a way - penniless and sick, with a baby on the way - if Steve did not already know him to be a murderer, he’d denounce him as the worst kind of man. “You’ll stay here, and I’ll find a discreet doctor to tend to you. No one knows you’re here, do they?”
“No, sir,” she says, shaking her head. She bites her lip. “My lord, your generosity—”
Steve waves away his generosity. “Think nothing of it,” he says hastily. “My servants have been with me since I was a child - they can be trusted. I will deal with my wife.” He pauses, breath catching. “I will make you comfortable, my lady. You will have the best of care, as will your child.”
By the time Nancy arrives home, Susan is once again installed in her rooms above stairs, and Dantes has been sent out to recover her meager collection of possessions from the tavern where she’s been sleeping, and to delicately inquire about a doctor. Steve has been pacing, thinking through what he wants to say to his wife. Regardless of how he puts it, he doubts she’s going to be happy about this development.
She returns just before lunch, coming to the lounge with her shawl over her arm. Steve turns as she enters. Something in his face must show his feelings, because she pauses by the door. “My lord,” she says uncertainly.
“My lady,” he returns, bowing his head formally to her. His heart is beating a little too quickly for comfort. “And how is your mother?”
“She is well, thank you,” Nancy says cautiously, coming a little further into the room. He gestures for her to sit in the chair nearest where he’s standing, and she obeys with a little frown on her face.
When she is seated, Harrington crosses to the door and shuts it, before striding back to where he was standing before. “She must be anxious to hear about these early days of marriage,” he says conversationally. Nancy’s eyes follow him as he speaks. “Have you told her that as yet you have not successfully seduced your husband?”
He sees her stiffen. “I would not - we did not discuss—”
“No, no,” Harrington says, sweeping his hands expansively. “Of course, you would not want her to know. She must be hoping for a child, to cement your position in my family.”
“You’re angry,” Nancy says evenly, though by the tightening of her lips he’s sure he’s right. Lady Wheeler seems the type of woman to speak to her daughter about securing her new name with an heir. “May I ask why?
Slowly, Harrington takes a seat opposite. “I am always angry,” he says, more honestly than he’d intended. “But you’re right to suppose that something has occurred. Did you tell your mother that there would be no child? That I have sworn never to touch you, so there will never be a child?”
A pause. Nancy’s mouth works silently for a moment or two before she answers. “No,” she says.
“No doubt she would be very disappointed,” Harrington says.
“Yes,” Nancy says, her voice clipped.
He’s amazed she’s admitted it - but then, what has she got to lose? Her mother must be putting pressure on her. If she cannot produce an heir, the eyes of the world will be on her, and they won’t be kind in their assessment. No marriage is truly deemed successful until a child is born.
“Do you believe me when I tell you I will never be intimate with you in that way?” he asks her.
Her shoulders hunch over. “Yes,” she says. Her face is flushed and embarrassed. “I thought at first - but yes, you have made it clear that you intend to stick to your word.”
“You’re right to think so,” Harrington says. He pauses. This is his moment. “But fortunately for you, there may be a way out of our predicament.”
Nancy’s head shoots up. “What do you mean?”
He takes a breath. He’s determined to say it in the right way - in the way he’s been practicing all morning. “There is a woman,” he says carefully. “She visited me this morning. She is… with child.”
A long, long silence follows these words. Harrington refuses to break it, waiting for his wife to understand what he isn’t saying. He won’t lie to her outright, won’t claim to be the father of Susan’s unborn baby - but he’ll allow his silences to fill in the gaps in his story.
“A woman,” Nancy says at last. Her cheeks are still flushed pink.
“Yes,” Harrington replies.
Nancy takes a breath, apparently calming herself. “And she is…”
“Yes,” he says again. He bites hard on his lower lip. “She is dying.”
That startles Nancy; her mouth falls open. “What?”
“Her doctors say she will not survive the birth,” he tells her. He can feel the tears approaching again. Since Billy’s death, it seems he can do nothing but cry - but how can he avoid it? This baby will be Billy’s sibling, and just like its brother, it will have no mother, and a father who abandoned it at the earliest opportunity. It has no one. No one but him.
Nancy thinks that this woman is his lover. He can see it in her wide staring eyes, her mouth slightly open, her shocked expression. She thinks that this unknown pregnant woman is the love from whom he has been separated through Lady Wheeler’s machinations. It’s a lie, of course - but it’s hardly far from the truth. After all, his love really has died, just as Susan will die.
“I—” Nancy begins. She doesn’t seem to know what more she can say.
“I am claiming the child,” Steve says flatly. Nancy lets out a tiny distressed sound. “Its mother will be staying here until the end.”
Nancy exhales a shuddering little breath. “I suppose you are giving me no choice in the matter,” she says.
“You have a choice,” Steve says. He’s thought carefully about this. “You can decide what the world knows of this baby. Whether it is seen as my illegitimate child, conceived outside my marriage to you, something shameful, or—”
“Or,” she says levelly, picking up the thread he’s weaving, “my own child, our legitimate heir, and no shame to us at all.”
He nods, pleased that she’s understood him so quickly. “I hope you will choose the latter,” he says frankly. “It would be better for all of us, as far as I can see. But I will not abandon the child.”
“It is not much of a choice,” Nancy says acerbically.
Harrington shrugs. “It is more of a choice than I had, when I was forced to marry you.”
She flushes an angry scarlet. “Will you ever stop holding that over my head?”
“Perhaps,” Harrington says, folding his arms as he looks at her. “Perhaps, if you agree to this plan. You cannot tell anyone, not even your mother. She cannot be trusted.”
“I know that,” Nancy says irritably. “I would not…” She bites her lip, and then looks at him with emotion in her eyes. “This is the only baby I will ever have,” she says.
He presses his lips together. “Yes,” he says.
“I will not begin my marriage in more shame than I already have,” she tells him. She passes a hand across her face - but when she looks at him, her eyes are dry, and her voice is perfectly steady as she says: “I agree to your plan. I will stand as a mother to this child, and I will tell no one.”
Harrington exhales. “Thank you,” he says.
She looks unhappily back at him. “You leave me little choice,” she says. “Perhaps you will think better of me now.”
He can see the longing in her - the loneliness, the misery. The hope that he will reach for her, will comfort her. But he’s too riddled with grief and weariness to do it. Her mother took away his only love, and he has nothing left for his wife at all.
Notes:
Convenient wasting sickness is convenient. Also, if anyone is interested, I did a little research and my modern-day interpretation here is that Susan has untreated diabetes!
Chapter 19: dix-neuf (1816-1819)
Notes:
Whoops, I forgot it was Thursday yesterday! Enjoy a Friday chapter. It may shock you to learn that it contains angst.
Chapter Text
The sky is a shroud of unfathomable inky blackness above the house, thick clouds obscuring every hint of stars or moonlight, and the wind rattles through the trees and shakes up the ocean into an enraged maelstrom. It’s not yet raining, but Steve is certain it cannot be long. It’s that kind of night.
Another groan of pain echoes through the hallway, and he flinches in his seat, hands pressed to his temples. He’s so useless out here. There’s nothing he can do.
Nancy sits in the chair opposite his own, frozen like a statue, her eyes fixed on some empty spot in front of her. He has no idea what she’s thinking.
It’s been a strange six months. Impossible for it not to be, with the situation they’ve all found themselves in - but all in all, there’s been less conflict than Steve anticipated. He’d thought Nancy would fight more, thought more problems and difficulties would present themselves as Susan’s pregnancy progressed. Thought, too, that it would be harder to lie to the world than it has been.
But the pretense has gone smoothly from beginning to end, without anyone questioning Nancy’s sudden transition from new bride to expectant mother. Indeed, it seems that for much of Marseille society, the announcement has answered questions. No one quite understood why Steve Harrington, the most eligible bachelor in half of France, would marry a nobody like Nancy Wheeler - but now they think they understand it.
Of course there is to be a child. The town busybodies all nodded and smiled to one another when they heard, and Steve ground his teeth and lifted his head above it all.
The door leading into Susan’s bedroom opens, and Doctor Clark emerges. Steve springs to his feet, and the doctor comes over to him with only a fleeting glance at Nancy.
“It will not be long now,” he says quietly.
Steve hesitates. “Until the baby is born, or—”
Doctor Clark’s head tips to one side, his eyes softened. “Both,” he says gently.
He’s a kind man, Doctor Clark. Steve found him through Jonathan Byers, in the end; he’s an old friend of Jonathan’s mother. He’s been attending Susan from the beginning, without passing judgment on her or on Steve, the assumed father of her child, and Steve trusts him to be discreet.
“I see,” Steve says, passing a hand in front of his face.
Susan has never protested her impending death, has never expressed sadness or railed at the unfairness of it all. She seems, in Steve’s view, to have entirely given up on life. It seems sad, unhealthy, wrong - but what can he do? She’s dying, and he cannot save her.
All she cares about is her child. She has stayed quietly in his home, hands protectively stroking her steadily growing belly, and grown weaker and weaker with every passing day without complaint. Even Nancy has not been able to resent her over the past few months. It is, after all, impossible to resent someone so quietly unwell.
Steve has caught Nancy looking between the pair of them every now and again, a small frown on her pale face. She’s obviously confused; they’ve shown no sign of being lovers, either now or in the past. But she’s asked no questions, and Steve has not had to tell her more lies.
Another wail pierces the air, and Doctor Clark hurries back into Susan’s room with an apologetic glance towards Steve. Steve sits wearily back in his chair. It’s hard to be outside the door, unable to do anything but wait. He never thought he’d know the anxiety of impending fatherhood like this.
As he has done almost every minute over the last six months, he thinks of Billy, and his thumb unconsciously strokes along the ring of twine on his left hand. His heart lurches painfully. He misses his husband more every day, misses his smile, his sparkling eyes, his kindness and his honesty.
If Billy had not been killed, if none of the awful things that have happened since that fateful day when they captured the pirate and his daughter had taken place, Steve might still be here, outside this door. He and Billy would have helped Susan, just as he is helping her now. He doesn’t know how they would have managed it, what lies they would have told, but together they would have arranged it.
It might have been him and Billy sitting here together, perhaps holding hands as they waited. The thought makes him ache.
This baby - this baby he never thought he would have - this baby feels like the child he should have had with Billy. They could never have imagined raising a child together, but it should have been them doing it. Billy should be with him. Billy should not have died as he did, alone and unaware of the bright future that was snatched from him.
Steve touches his face; tears have fallen onto his cheeks. He can’t bear to think of everything Billy has lost.
“I’m sorry.” Nancy’s voice startles him, and he turns sharply towards her. She looks white and unhappy. “I’m sorry this is happening.”
For a moment he thinks she’s talking about Billy - and then he realizes she’s referring to Susan. She thinks he’s crying because his lover is dying.
“No one could have prevented this,” he says thickly. He is sad that Susan is dying. But it will never compare with the loss of Billy.
“I swear to you, my lord,” Nancy says urgently. “I swear I will raise this child well. I will not be - I will not be bitter, or cruel. I will do my best to love it like my own.”
Her sincerity surprises him. “Thank you,” he says, his voice uncertain.
The sounds coming from Susan’s room are reaching a crescendo. Screams, wails, the doctor’s voice urging her onward - Steve flinches away from the cacophony. He wishes he could be anywhere other than here. By the sea, perhaps, and wrapped in Billy’s arms. He can’t bear the pain, the uselessness—
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the noises cease.
Silence spreads through the hall for a long moment. Then - high, thin, shrill - floating out towards him - the cry of an infant.
Steve’s heart stops.
The door opens, and Doctor Clark steps noiselessly out. “You can come in now,” he says softly. He looks between Steve and Nancy. He looks haggard, a little sweaty. “You can both come in.”
From inside the bedroom, the baby cries out again, and Steve feels his heart leaping. That’s Billy’s sibling in there - his last little connection to his husband. A living piece of his beloved, here for him to love and look after. Chest throbbing, he goes into the room.
The curtains are drawn, leaving Susan shrouded in half-darkness against the whistling of the wind outside the window. Steve has watched her deteriorate over the past few months, but she looks worse now than she ever has. She’s gaunt, almost skeletal in her thinness, her bones jutting out of her skin at every visible point. She looks so delicate, so fragile, that Steve is afraid she might break like porcelain if he touches her.
But there’s a smile on her thin pale face, a smile directed solely towards the tiny red-faced infant squawling in her arms.
She looks up when he enters the room, her brow damp with sweat and her eyes red-rimmed and heavy - but still, that lovely smile curving her lips. “Steve,” she sighs, all formality forgotten. She looks back down at her child, her face softening still further. “Come and meet her.”
“Her?” Steve says.
“Your daughter,” Susan replies.
He moves hesitantly to her side. She’s so thin, so frail in comparison with the baby, the little girl Susan has named as his daughter. The little creature is robust and sturdy, with plump cheeks and a downy covering of reddish hair plastered damply to her head. Her tiny hands are in fists, wheeling around as she cries.
Susan touches one pink little cheek. “Shh, my love,” she says faintly, and as if hearing her, the child settles. “Shh, now.”
“She’s beautiful,” Steve says. He sits on the edge of the bed, moved by some emotion he can barely name as he looks down at the baby. He’s dimly aware of Nancy standing by the door - but this moment is not about his wife. He gazes down at his child, heart constricting as her mother soothes her.
His child - for she is his. No matter what the truth of her parentage might be, she feels like his. Steve feels a claim over her spreading through him, a fierce love unlike anything he’s ever known before. This is the baby he ought to have raised with his husband, but left alone he’ll still do his best by her. He’ll love her and protect her as a father ought to.
“My little girl,” Susan says softly. Her voice catches. She looks so very unwell.
“What will you call her?” Steve asks.
Susan glances at him, eyes warm and soft. “Maxine,” she says. “Call her Maxine - oh—” She’s fading, and his heart is breaking. She sinks into the pillows, wordlessly holding the baby out to him with shaking arms, and Steve reaches for the child automatically. “Tell her I love her one day,” Susan whispers, as Steve takes Maxine. “Tell her - tell her—”
“I’ll tell her,” he says. Maxine cries a little as she’s taken from her mother’s embrace. “I’ll tell her—”
But Susan does not hear him. Susan is dead, and Steve cradles the newborn little girl against his chest and feels more alone than he did on the day he found out his husband was dead.
The next hours and days pass in a haze, as though Steve is wandering through a living nightmare from which there is no escape. He hadn’t realized how much Susan’s benign presence in his home alleviated his pain and grief after losing Billy. She gave him someone else to care for, even if she was a stranger.
Now she’s gone, and he’s left alone with a tiny orphaned baby and his ghost-like wife.
His only solace is Maxine, the child he has determinedly claimed as his own. She’s a precious little thing, with her bright blue eyes that remind Steve so much of her brother. He spends hours at a time cradling her in his arms, gazing down at her with his heart in pieces and his mind full of thoughts of Billy.
“I will protect you,” he whispers to her. “You never need doubt that you are loved.”
Nancy, he can tell, is doing her best. It seems that motherhood does not come naturally to her; she’s awkward with the baby, uncomfortable singing sweet nothings in Maxine’s ears, always looking around to see if anyone is nearby, as if someone might step forward to tell her she’s doing it wrong. But still she tries. She holds Maxine whenever Steve cannot, and looks to him for an example of how to be a parent, as though he might know what to do better than she does.
“I know I am not her,” she says to him one evening, when they’re both sitting in front of the fire and Maxine is upstairs being fed by her wetnurse. “I know you will never feel for me what you felt for her.”
She’s talking about Susan - but it’s easy to imagine that it’s Billy she means. “No,” Steve says cautiously.
“Truth be told, I have always had a fear of childbirth,” Nancy goes on. She isn’t looking at him, gazing instead into the flames. It’s too hot for a fire, but the doctor said it would be good for the baby. “I never desired children, though I knew it would be my duty as a wife.”
“We will say that the birth was bad,” Steve says hesitantly. “We will say that there will be no more children.”
She nods. “I know,” she says. She turns to look at him, her eyes large and round - and wet. “I’m sorry I married you,” she says. “I’m sorry I allowed my mother to manipulate you. You could have been with her.”
“She would have died either way,” Steve says heavily. His Billy - executed. Dead. His finger touches his ring, and he turns his face away from his wife. He would have died either way. It’s the truth, and he’s too weary and too sad to be angry with Nancy anymore. “I forgive you.”
Nancy inhales sharply. When he glances at her, he sees tears spilling onto her face. “Thank you,” she says in a trembling voice. He nods, and hastily looks away again.
They don’t speak of it after that. What is there to say? He’s forgiven her, but they aren’t friends. She’s tied to him through a marriage that neither of them really chose, and now they must raise a stranger’s baby together as best they can. They can be allies, but they will never really be partners.
Maxine is introduced to the world two weeks after her birth, and Nancy plays the part of the delighted mother well enough to convince her visitors. Steve is only on edge once, when Lady Wheeler comes to see her granddaughter, but for all her slyness and conniving ways Nancy’s mother is too foolish to see when she is being manipulated. She coos over the baby like everyone else, unable to see Billy’s eyes gazing back at her from that tiny face.
Steve had not really given a thought to how difficult parenthood might be to balance with his work and his investigations into the governor, but now that Maxine is here he finds that he’s run ragged by it. She cries at all hours of the day and night, whether because she is hungry or tired or lonely. She demands attention, and seems content only when she is pressed against his chest, her little cheek nestled in his collarbone. Steve is a slave to her needs.
“You will spoil her,” Nancy says, though he can see she’s amused.
“I want to spoil her,” he replies, and catches his breath as Maxine yawns into his neck.
It’s the truth. No one but Billy has ever captured his heart the way his daughter has. When he’s near her he feels himself calming, his heart buoyant in spite of the weight of despair that has mired it down ever since his beloved was killed. He will never recover from that blow, never be the innocent boy he was before it happened - but having Maxine makes living feel possible.
He’s fascinated by everything she does, every little movement and babbling sound. He loves to watch her when she’s sleeping, humming discordantly to her as he rocks her crib through the night. He even loves to see the society ladies bending over her and calling her precious, because she deserves to be recognized. The world should know how wonderful she is, just as he does.
“Your mother loved you,” he murmurs to her when he’s holding her. He won’t be able to tell her when she’s old enough to understand. Better for her that she never knows - but he promised Susan he would tell her. “Your mother died loving you, my sweetheart. Your mother loved you, and so do I.”
And he does. He loves her - he loves her so much. He loves her so much that his heart feels as though it might burst from the fullness of loving her.
As for his other endeavors - he has not forgotten. He spoke to Susan at length before she died, in case she might have information to give him about Governor Hargrove. She gave him a few promising threads from which evidence might be gleaned, but it’s a slow process. Steve continues to move slowly, to speak to men who might be involved, to gain their trust. He strikes up a friendship with Lord Kline, and invites him and his wife to dinner when Maxine is a few months old. He inquires delicately about the servants who work at the governor’s offices. He has his horse shoed at the same smithy the governor uses, and buys a succession of hats at the same milliner’s, in case any of them can be squeezed for a droplet of information.
It’s painstaking work, with no real hope of success. But still Steve tries. What else can he do?
He raises Billy’s sister, and he meticulously collects what evidence he can in hopes of one day clearing Billy’s name. He writes to Jane Hopper in Algiers, and sends her money even when she swears she does not need it, because Billy asked him to protect her. Everything he does, he does for Billy.
Steve and Nancy have reached a new accord, and it is satisfactory enough for the most part. She cares for Maxine to the best of her ability, although anyone can see that she finds it difficult, and the baby is more comfortable in the arms of her father. She manages the household efficiently, and hosts every kind of social gathering flawlessly. When Steve expresses a wish to become closer to certain families such as the Klines, she smoothly directs her attentions to Kline’s wife to ease his passage.
In short, she’s everything a devoted wife ought to be - except for devoted, or a wife. They do not touch. They do not share a bed. They certainly do not share a heart. But Nancy proves herself an adept partner in business, and in return Steve is as warm to her as he’s able to be.
He will never trust her. But he stops punishing her for his own pain, and they find some semblance of contentment together. It is more than he could have hoped for.
More - and yet also less, for Steve knows what it feels like to have a real partner in life, someone for whom he could feel real love and trust, not this thin facsimile of a marriage. His heart may be full of love for his daughter, but some part of it has been cracked in two when his only love was taken for him, and it can never be repaired. He is playacting at his life, an automaton without any real depth of feeling, and only Maxine can bring him out of it. Only Maxine, never Nancy.
When Maxine is three years old, Nancy hesitantly suggests hiring a governess for her. “You have your work, and I am no teacher,” she says. “I would like her to have every opportunity she can in life.” She pauses, eyes dropping to her lap. “Life is hard for a woman,” she murmurs.
“I agree,” Steve says courteously. He and Nancy have taken to having their discussions in his study, in the armchairs by the window. It seems to signify the transactional nature of their relationship somehow. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, she’s still very young,” Nancy says. “She has had no permanent nursemaid since Nanny retired.”
Nanny was a large grandmotherly woman who cared for Maxine for the first two years of her life. Maxine cried for days when she went away, breaking Steve’s heart anew, but she was getting too tired and old for such demanding work. Since then they’ve only had temporary nursemaids, nobody for Maxine to become attached to.
“If I could be home more, we would not need anybody,” Steve says regretfully.
Nancy smiles briefly. “You must work,” she says. “Maxine understands that, or she will, when she is old enough.”
Maxine’s first word was papa. Steve cried when she said it to him, her little freckled face turned up towards him with a chubby-cheeked smile. He says, “I’d give it all up in a heartbeat for her if I could.”
“I know,” Nancy says peaceably. “But in the meantime, I think perhaps we need a nursemaid with some educational ability. Someone to guide Maxine as she grows, to be a constant in her life. May I send out inquiries?”
“Of course,” Steve says, all politeness. She nods, and that is their business complete.
That night he meets Jonathan, walking with him in the garden as he always does. They’ve become… if not friends, then something akin to it, in the past few years. Jonathan is the only soul alive who knows of Steve’s quest to clear Billy’s name, even if he doesn’t know why it matters so much to him. He has faithfully taken letters back and forth between Marseille and Algiers, and his quiet peaceful demeanor makes Steve feel calm when he is at his most agitated.
“Have you told Michael and Jane about Maxine?” Jonathan asks as they walk. The moonlight is gleaming above their heads, and everyone but Steve is in bed. “She is his niece, after all.”
Steve shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve mentioned her,” he says uncomfortably. Maxine is not Michael Wheeler’s niece - but he can’t tell Jonathan that. “I don’t want to cause him pain, when he cannot come home to meet her.”
“Of course,” Jonathan says. They walk on a few paces without speaking. Jonathan says: “She is well, then, your daughter?”
“Well and thriving,” Steve says warmly, a familiar note of pride entering his voice. He can’t help himself whenever Maxine is mentioned. “I regret every moment I spend away at sea, but coming home to her… Life affords no better pleasure.”
Jonathan smiles. “You are fortunate,” he says.
Steve casts him a curious look. “Have you never considered marrying, or having children?”
Jonathan laughs. “You forget that just because you were married and a father by twenty-one, does not mean I am past my prime at twenty-four,” he says, gently teasing. His face takes on a faraway expression. “One day, perhaps… but at present, I am content.”
“You have no one special in your life?” Steve presses.
Jonathan’s face twists. “I have my mother and brother,” he says. “They are special enough. I have only ever met one woman who made me think otherwise, but she is… unavailable.”
“Forgive me, I did not mean to pry,” Steve says awkwardly.
Jonathan shakes his head with a smile. “No, no,” he says. “I am well. I am well. Are you making progress on your… other business?”
“A little, slowly,” Steve says tiredly. “I spent some hours in conversation with Lord Kline’s last valet a few weeks ago, which provided some illumination on a particular line of inquiry I had been wondering about.”
“The insurance companies,” Jonathan guesses, and Steve nods.
“The valet overheard snatches of intrigue, but not enough to be conclusive,” he says. “It is weary work.”
Jonathan looks at him sympathetically. “No one would blame you if you decided you could not do it,” he says quietly. “You have a family now, your daughter to think of. It is not for you to dig out every piece of corruption in Marseille.”
“It is for me to do,” Steve says firmly. He runs his fingers through his hair, swallowing down a sob as he thinks, for the thousandth time, of Billy. He touches his ring. “I made a vow,” he says. “I intend to stick to it.”
Chapter 20: vingt (1821)
Notes:
Whoops, I forgot it was Thursday again! Not that anyone should be shocked at this point. The only real surprise is that I've managed to last twenty chapters with no Robin!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Harrington stands motionless in the graveyard, his wife and daughter still and silent by his side, as they all three watch his father’s body being lowered into the ground. It’s a cloudy, cool afternoon in April, and seagulls wheel overhead, crying out into the sky. Harrington makes no sound at all.
His mother died eight months ago, and now his father is gone too, and at the age of twenty-six he has inherited all his family’s fortune and titles. He’s one of the richest and most powerful men in Marseille. Lady Wheeler, he thinks abstractedly, must be kicking her heels in glee.
“Papa,” Maxine whispers to him, as the coffin reaches the bottom of the empty grave. “Papa, carry?”
“Not now, Maxine,” Nancy murmurs, and the little girl subsides.
There are no tears on Harrington’s face. He wonders what it means that he has not cried for his father. He didn’t cry for his mother either. There is only one death in the world he has truly mourned, and it is as though all his grief was sucked out of him then and now there is only numbness.
They were not bad parents. They raised him with all the advantages a man could hope for: the best education, suitable friendships, a superior position in society. He had every material possession he could desire. They supported his every endeavor.
But for all that, they were distant. They knew nothing of his life, his inner world, his secret pain. He couldn’t talk to them honestly about anything important.
Now he never will.
The funeral was interminable, and the wake is even more so. Harrington must move between small clusters of well-dressed mourners, accepting their insincere sympathies, making all the right responses in return. He’s so tired of society, tired of always playing a part, of having nobody with whom he can really be truthful.
At last his well-wishers depart, and he’s left alone in his home, with just his family and staff for company. It won’t be his home for much longer. As elegant and luxurious as the house is, he’ll be expected to move to the Harrington family mansion now that his father is dead. It’s three times the size of his current accommodation, almost the largest home in Marseille. The thought of living there fills him with a cold dread.
“I’ll put Maxine to bed,” he tells Nancy dully. She looks impeccable in her black satin, with diamonds at her ears and around her throat. She fits perfectly into the role of countess.
She looks at him with a crease in her brow. “Steve…”
“No,” he says, though what he’s denouncing, he hardly knows. He holds out a hand to his daughter. “Come along, Maxine.”
They go upstairs together. At five years old, Maxine is old enough to understand that something terrible has happened, but she was never very close to her grandparents. The idea that she will never see them again has not upset her unduly.
She knows, however, that her beloved father is unhappy, and so she squeezes his hand as she walks by his side.
“Your mother loved you,” Steve mumbles under his breath. “Your mother - your mother loved you, Maxine.”
Maxine frowns at him. “I know, papa,” she says.
She thinks, of course, that he means Nancy. She’s getting too old now for him to keep saying it, though for these last five years it has been a constant mantra that he’s whispered in her ear at night. He promised Susan he would tell her, and he has told her.
Everyone is dead. Everyone who has ever loved anyone is gone.
He’s shaking, he realizes. His entire body is trembling, because perhaps - perhaps they did not really know him, but they were still his parents. Still two people who loved him, in their way, and who had no further agenda with him than his happiness and prosperity. There’s no one left in the world like that anymore. Everyone wants something from him.
Everyone but Maxine. Steve’s hand tightens around hers as they step into her room.
The bedtime routine goes along as it always does. There’s a relief in that, that among all the upheaval and grief something remains constant. Maxine still needs to be washed and read to and tucked into her bed, still needs him to be her father. He strokes the damp little strands of red hair out of her face as she lies sleepily nestled in her pillows looking up at him.
“You look so much like your mother,” he tells her softly.
She giggles. “No, I don’t,” she says.
But she does. Not like Nancy, of course - dark-haired and dark-eyed, she couldn’t be more different in appearance to the little girl she’s claimed as her own - but like her real mother. Like Susan. She has the same pale freckled skin and red hair.
Her eyes, though. Her eyes are all Billy. Steve sees him in her every time he looks at her.
He leaves the room clumsily, hand reaching blindly for the doorframe to steady himself. It’s been almost six years since Billy died, and though the sharp knife-edge of pain has dulled, it’s never left him. Every time he looks at his daughter - every time he touches the simple twine ring on his finger - every time he moves through these halls, or pauses to think for a moment, or simply breathes - it all comes back. Billy comes back.
His Billy. His husband. Kind and beautiful and a little wild, sizzling with youth and energy and vigor, springing to his feet with some new idea, leaning in to kiss Steve’s mouth and squeeze his hand, standing at the helm of the Mercedes with sunlight in his eyes and a dazzling smile on his lovely face—
Steve chokes on a dry sob, collapsing into the window seat that sits in the alcove of the hall opposite Maxine’s bedroom.
He presses his hands into his eyes. Sometimes it overtakes him like this - the reminder that Billy is gone. Less frequently with every year that passes - but the pain is still there, still fresh enough to burn. He lost the love of his life, his only love. He will never recover from it.
“Steve?”
Steve looks up sharply. There are few in his household who would address him so informally; even Nancy usually speaks more politely except on a few rare occasions, but it is not Nancy talking to him now. It is the only person in the house apart from Maxine in whom he has any kind of trust.
It was Nancy who hired Miss Buckley as Maxine’s new nursemaid; an irony, since Nancy does not like her and has not really liked her almost since her arrival. She’d wanted to employ someone well-educated, someone who would stay permanently and help transform Maxine from a little girl to a young lady.
Well, Robin has been permanent, and Maxine adores her. She’s cheerful and kind, quick-witted and sweet-tempered. But she’s perhaps the least ladylike woman Steve has ever met.
She’s clumsy and talks too much, with a sense of humor that frequently borders on impertinence. She seems to have no real sense of propriety, none of the demure respect a nursemaid ought to have for her employers. Her merry laughter can often be heard ringing out through the house, usually accompanied by Maxine’s high-pitched giggles. Nancy finds her brash and uncultured - but Steve is fond of her.
On the day he first met her, she bobbed an untidy curtsey with a little smile twitching the corners of her mouth, as though she was laughing at some private joke only she could understand. A week after that, she laughed aloud when she saw him trip over the stairs - he had been reading a letter while he walked, always a foolish choice - and less than a month later, she was encouraging Maxine to play little tricks on him, hiding his slippers and popping out of corners to make him jump.
“We could find a real governess,” Nancy said, so frequently that it almost became a joke between them. “We could look for someone really educated.”
“Maxine loves her,” Steve replied, and so Miss Buckley stayed.
She became Robin about six months after she came to them, two years ago now. Steve was in one of his moods, hiding away in his study so he didn’t inflict his poor temper on Maxine. Sometimes he can’t beat it away - can’t pretend. He’s overwhelmed with the poor imitation of a life he’s living, clinging to the memory of Billy, of once having been happy, with nothing left to look forward to but more years of painstakingly collecting his tiny pieces of evidence so that one day he might announce to the world that Billy Hargrove died an innocent man.
He has Maxine, of course. But sometimes - sometimes it is not enough.
Miss Buckley came to find him, coming into the room even after he pointedly ignored her knocking. “Maxine is asking after you,” she said flatly. “You must come out of here and play with her. You’re back at sea tomorrow.”
“Who are you, to tell me that?” Steve said - but his voice held none of the authority it ought to have done. He felt utterly bleak, emptied out. He missed Billy so much that his chest ached with it.
He thought she would give him some tart reply - that was her usual way, in spite of the impropriety of such a response - but instead she looked at him with a frown. Then she moved towards him, kneeling down by the chair in which he was sitting. “My lord,” she said gently. She paused. “Steve.”
It made him startle. “Miss Buckley—”
“Robin,” Robin said firmly. She put her hand on his arm. “Steve, I know I should not speak to you like this. I know I’m your servant, and it’s not my place.”
Steve laughed weakly. “You have never let that stop you before,” he pointed out.
She smiled. “No,” she said. “I have not.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “I… Perhaps I’m overstepping. But Steve, if you should ever need a friendly ear - a friendly ear,” she added a little sternly, drawing herself up, “please know that I would listen to you. I know you are in pain, though I don’t know the cause.”
“Good God,” Steve said, and without quite meaning to, he buried his face in hands, and cried.
It had been so long since someone had been so uncomplicatedly kind to him. She wanted nothing from him - he could see that. She was not trying to curry favor. She was not that sort.
Now it is two years later, and Robin knows almost everything about him. The only thing she does not know is that Billy is the person he lost, the husband whose ring Steve wears on his finger. Fear has held him back from that final secret - the fear that she might despise him if she found out his preferences. He has allowed her to believe, as Nancy believes, that Susan was the woman he loved and lost.
She steps forward, sitting beside him on the window seat. “I suppose it would be foolish to ask if you’re alright,” she says.
Steve chokes out a mirthless laugh. “I would only lie to you if you did,” he agrees.
“I’m so sorry, Steve,” Robin says gently.
He shakes his head, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I should not make such a display,” he says. “I’m not certain I even grieve for the right person. My father - my father was a good man, and I know he did his best for me - but he did not know me. We were not close.”
“I know,” Robin replies. She does know. Steve has spoken to her about his parents. Sometimes he thinks that having Robin to talk to has been the only thing keeping him going these last two years - but of course, he managed four years before her, and he would manage again without her. It seems there’s no end to the tragedies Steve has been forced to manage.
“I’m tired of being alone,” he says quietly. He wipes the errant tears away from his cheeks. “I’m tired of being unhappy.”
Robin hesitates, and then reaches out a hand to squeeze his knee. “It will get easier with time,” she says. “And in the meantime, you have me on your side.”
He nods, touching a clumsy hand to hers. “Thank you,” he says.
It’s at that moment that Nancy rounds the corner, her black dress sweeping across the carpeted floor and her hands folded neatly in front of her. She’s walking with purpose, perhaps to visit Maxine and say goodnight, and she clearly does not expect to find her husband weeping in the window seat, clasping hands with her daughter’s governess.
She stops dead, her mouth falling open as her eyes flicker swiftly between Steve and Robin. “My lord—” she begins, and then closes her mouth with a little snap.
Robin releases his hand, getting to her feet with a wary expression on her freckled face. Doubtless she’s afraid of Nancy’s reaction; after all, the scene, when viewed through another lens, could be interpreted as romantic. Steve shudders at the thought.
“Nancy,” Steve begins, with no real idea what he might say next.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Nancy says coldly. Her eyes linger on Robin’s hand. Her cheeks are a sharp scarlet. “I’ll go and kiss Maxine, and then I’ll leave you again.”
Steve stands, stepping towards her. “Robin has been a comfort to me—” he begins.
“I see that.” Her voice is pure ice.
He shakes his head. “No, not in that way—”
“I would never,” Robin says almost simultaneously, so vehemently that Steve must stifle an incongruous chuckle. “I swear it—”
Nancy looks uncertainly between them. “You owe me no explanations,” she says, though she sounds perplexed now instead of angry. Then she shakes her head, biting her lip. “I must say goodnight to Maxine.”
She departs in a flurry of black silk, and Steve and Robin are left to look guiltily at each other.
“She disliked me enough already,” Robin says with a groan, and in spite of his misery Steve finds himself smiling. “You will have to ensure I keep my position, my lord.”
“You will always have a position here, as you know very well,” he replies. He hesitates a little uncomfortably. “She does not dislike you—”
Robin shakes her head. “I am not genteel or ladylike enough for your lady wife,” she says. She does not sound unduly troubled by the fact.
“No,” Steve admits. “Perhaps not.”
Robin glances at him, hesitating. “Besides, I think she resents our friendship,” she says quietly. “I know you say you have nothing in common, that your marriage has been a sham from the beginning - but I’m sure she would prefer to be your confidante.”
“I cannot trust her,” Steve replies. He looks at Maxine’s closed bedroom door, behind which Nancy is presumably kissing her goodnight, perhaps telling her a story. His relationship with his wife is amicable enough. She’s a worthwhile ally in the business of raising a family - but he can never forget how they began. There’s too much he will never be able to tell her.
He and Nancy have become adept at sweeping uncomfortable topics under the carpet. They don’t speak again of the moment she interrupted between him and Robin, and slowly over the coming weeks their normal routine resumes. Perhaps Nancy is a shade chillier in her attitude to Robin - but then, she has never been a particularly warm mistress.
Harrington goes on with his ordinary life with the same mixture of despair and mundanity as always. He works, he sails, he commands his officers. He investigates the corruption in Marseille, assembling every tiny shred of evidence he has collected over the past six years with meticulous attention. He writes to Jane Hopper and walks with Jonathan late at night in the garden, though Jonathan is quiet and distracted, almost as poor company as Harrington himself.
He is a devoted husband in the eyes of society, attending every ball and social gathering, talking effortlessly with the other attendees, dancing and drinking and gleaning small scraps of gossip to add to his collection. He has brittle courteous discussions about mundane household matters with his wife, acquiescing to nearly every request she makes while making none of his own.
He is a father, spending every moment he can with Maxine, inhabiting her childish little world with something like relief. He listens seriously to her babbling conversation, reads to her, plays with her, often sweeps her into his arms for an embrace that she returns with delight. He relaxes only when he is with her or talking to Robin, whose conversation and advice he has come to rely on more and more.
He misses Billy every moment, touching his ring like a reflex whenever he pauses for thought. Though the pain is no longer acute in the way it was when Billy was first executed - murdered - still he feels it with every breath, like an ache deep in his belly to which he’s grown far too accustomed.
It’s been two months since his father died, since he inherited all the riches and position of the Harrington name, when he returns unexpectedly early from a business meeting in town and finds Dantes pacing agitatedly in the hall.
“My lord,” he says at once, when Harrington steps inside. Harrington can’t make out the expression on his face - something between relief and anxiety. “My lord, you are returned—”
“What has happened, Dantes?” Harrington says sharply. “Is Maxine—”
Dantes shakes his head hastily. “There is nothing amiss with Lady Maxine,” he says. “Miss Buckley has taken her out walking in the park.”
“Then what—?”
But his manservant casts his eyes away from his master. “I cannot say, sir,” he says unhappily. “I cannot - it is certainly not my place—”
Some intuition stirs within Harrington’s belly. “Where is the countess?” he asks. He’s sure he’s not imagining the relief in Dantes' eyes at the direct question.
“I believe she is upstairs in her bedchamber, my lord,” the man says quietly.
“Thank you,” Harrington replies.
He takes the stairs two at a time. He has no real idea what can have Dantes so distressed - but nonetheless he feels a sense of foreboding creeping over him. Dantes would have said if Nancy were hurt in some way, if something truly terrible had occurred. There cannot be anything really wrong. But still, Harrington is sure that he will not like what he finds in his wife’s bedchamber.
Her door is closed, and he hesitates outside it. At any other time he would knock. He has never entered Nancy’s rooms without permission, and in fact can count on one hand the number of times he has entered them at all.
But today, some instinct prevents him from knocking as he should. Harrington takes a breath, and pushes open the door.
The room is dimly lit, illuminated only by a handful of candles flickering on various tabletops. The curtains are drawn, although it isn’t yet dark out. Harrington moves quietly inside, rounding a little corner past the sitting area and towards Nancy’s bed. His heart is beating quickly and audibly in his chest.
It is as though he knows, somewhere deep inside himself, what he will find. Perhaps he always knew it, though he never had the conscious thought; when the bed comes into view, and Harrington draws to a sudden halt, he’s not aware of feeling any real surprise.
His wife is in her bed, the blankets pooled around her waist. She has her head thrown back, her dark curls cascading down her pale naked back, and her eyes are closed. Her arms are wrapped around the shoulders of a man, a man with his face buried in her neck, lips pressing indelicately to her breast. As Harrington watches, heart thumping, he hears one of them - he cannot be sure which one - utter a soft low moan.
Harrington emits a sound something like a gasp. He doesn’t mean to - but in spite of the fact that he has never loved his wife, in spite of the fact that he has never touched her as this man is touching her, in spite of all that has passed between them - it hits him like a blow.
It is a betrayal, just one more betrayal to add to the long list of betrayals that have brought his life to this point.
The pair of them turn at the sound. Nancy’s face slackens in horror, and she scrambles away from her lover - but Harrington is not looking at her. Now the shock slams into him, because he was not expecting this part of it. He did not expect to recognize the man making love to his wife.
“Jonathan,” he says quietly - and Jonathan Byers drops his head in something approaching shame.
Notes:
Hands up if you predicted this one!
Chapter 21: vingt et un (1821)
Notes:
I feel like this one is just the tiniest bit less angsty? Like, a smidgeon of hope? Maybe? Maybe not? Let me know what you think.... XD
Chapter Text
“Steve,” Nancy says shrilly - but Harrington is not listening. He’s turning, his ears ringing, whirling away from the scene in front of him. There’s something grotesque about seeing his wife naked for the first time in the arms of another man.
He can hear the pair of them scrambling to dress themselves behind him as he heads for the door, Nancy still calling his name. Jonathan, on the other hand, is silent. Harrington doesn’t know what to make of that.
Perhaps he has no right to feel wounded, like another crushing blow has been dealt to him. He has never offered his wife any of the intimacy or love she so clearly craves - and which, he’s almost certain, she would not have sought elsewhere if she could have had it from him. She tried to foster a real relationship between them in the early days of their marriage.
But she always knew what he would and would not give her. He was clear on the terms of their marriage from the first moment her mother manipulated him into it, and she chose to marry him anyway.
Theirs might have been a marriage of convenience - but they still had a tacit agreement, rules they were expected to follow. Nancy wanted a husband to propel her into high society, and Harrington has given her that. He has given her everything this sham marriage was supposed to gain her. Surely, surely she owes him her loyalty for that?
His head is aching, and he’s uncertain where his feet are taking him. He hasn’t even begun to think about the fact that it is Jonathan with whom she has betrayed him.
Jonathan is not a friend, exactly - but he is the only person in the world other than Robin who knows what Harrington is trying to do. He knows where Jane is hiding, and knows that Billy was innocent. Those hours spent sitting in the garden with him, reading Jane’s letters and conversing quietly under the silvery moonlight, have been some of the most peaceful moments Harrington has had in the last six years.
“Steve!”
Harrington turns in the doorway of Nancy’s rooms. No wonder Dantes was uncomfortable, he thinks viciously. His manservant is far too well-trained to involve himself in the intricacies of his master’s marriage, especially with all he has witnessed over the years - but he has known Harrington since he was a child. This is not a secret he would want to keep.
Nancy has dressed herself hastily, her hair still unbound and falling down her shoulders. “Steve,” she repeats. There are tears in her dark eyes. “Please, my lord - please do not walk away.”
“I am not your lord,” Harrington says harshly. The words feel as though they’re burning his lips. “I am nothing to you.”
A strange mirthless laugh bubbles unexpectedly out of his wife. “I am the one who is nothing to you!” she exclaims. “You have no idea - to live without any affection for all these years—”
Harrington lurches away from her, aware of Jonathan standing like an awkward shadow in the room beyond her. “You think I do not know how that feels?”
“You have Miss Buckley,” Nancy says, and now her voice takes on a hard, bitter note. Harrington stares at her. “I have buried my feelings for years - I have remained faithful in spite of the loneliness I have felt - but when I saw her touch you after your father’s funeral, I realized I was the only one.”
For several long seconds, Harrington can’t gather himself enough to speak. He can only stare at her, at the defiant set of her chin, her mouth trembling a little. He puts out a hand a little blindly, propping himself up against the doorframe.
“You are mistaken,” he says at last, and his voice emerges so icily that it startles even himself. “You are mistaken, my lady. Miss Buckley is my friend, nothing more. I have never betrayed you.”
Her mouth works silently, her eyes large and round. “You have never loved me,” she says at last.
“No,” Harrington acknowledges. “I told you I would not. You seemed to consider the marriage worthwhile, nonetheless.”
Tears are beginning to fall down her face. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her so overcome. “I have been so lonely,” she says quietly. “I have felt so alone.”
“You chose it,” Harrington says ruthlessly. “You knew what our life together would be. I warned you.”
Nancy makes a small desperate sound, and Jonathan suddenly appears by her side, one arm sliding around her shoulders. She stands rigidly in his embrace, clearly unwilling to accept comfort from him in front of her husband - but clearly in desperate want of it nonetheless. Harrington turns away once more. Let her seek solace in the arms of her lover; it should be of no consequence to him.
His mind feels shattered into a thousand pieces, but his heart is untouched. He has never loved his wife. The betrayal he feels is nothing more than an unfairly disrupted business dealing. It hurts as much as it does only because Harrington has already lost his heart many times over.
“You said years,” he says without turning around. “How long has this attachment between you existed?”
He can feel their joint hesitation behind him. Now that he thinks about it, he can’t understand how Nancy and Jonathan even crossed paths. It’s not as though they run in the same social circles.
“I met your wife one evening after we had conducted our usual business, three years ago now,” Jonathan says at last. His voice is very quiet and even, but Harrington can hear the layer of guilt beneath it. “I am sorry I never told you. There was nothing untoward in it, not then.”
I have only ever met one woman who made me think otherwise, but she is unavailable. Harrington remembers Jonathan speaking those words, out there in the garden. That was perhaps two years ago. He turns back slowly to look at them both. Has it really been going on so long?
“I was unhappy,” Nancy says clearly. “I have been so very unhappy, Steve. You know it, but you do not care.”
His throat sticks together when he tries to speak. “It is not… it is not that I do not care,” he says unsteadily. “I have no capacity to help you. I never have. I told you when your mother arranged this marriage that I could not be a husband to you. You have no idea the pain I have been through.”
“I know you lost the woman you truly loved,” Nancy says. She bites her lip, glancing at Jonathan. “I know you blame my mother for separating you from her.”
“You know nothing of your mother’s machinations!” Harrington bites out angrily. He’s aware of Jonathan watching them both, aware that between the two of them, Nancy and Jonathan have enough information to uncover the truth.
Indeed, he sees Jonathan exhaling slowly, as if this has answered some question in his mind. Perhaps the question of why Harrington has not told his wife that he knows where her brother is, that he is the one who helped him escape with his lady love six years ago.
Nancy says desperately: “That isn’t fair—”
“You wanted this marriage!” Harrington exclaims, his voice rising. “You wanted the advantages I could provide you, and you did not care what it did to me, as long as you had them!”
“I know!” she shouts back. Her face is flushed scarlet. “I made a mistake! You forgave me for it after Maxine was born. Don’t throw it in my face again - do you think I don’t regret my choices? I should never have gone along with my mother’s plans. I have known that for years - but what can I do? Must we both be unhappy and unloved for the rest of our days, because I made the wrong decision when I was very young?”
He shakes his head angrily at her. “Yes! Yes, if that is what it takes! What do you think the world would say, if they discovered your infidelity - and with a nobody fisherman! You would be ruined. Maxine would be ruined. Did you consider her at all when you made this foolhardy decision?”
“She is my daughter,” Nancy says crisply, her chin jutting in the air. Her eyes flicker towards Jonathan, and Harrington understands what she is silently telling him: she has not betrayed this confidence to her lover. That, at least, brings him some relief. The fewer people know of Maxine’s true parentage the better. “I do consider her. You know I always consider her.”
“This could damn her future,” Harrington says coldly. “If society were to discover what you have done - they could question her parentage. What would it do to her prospects if she was known as the bastard child of a fisherman?”
That brings Nancy up short. Of course, since she is not Maxine’s true mother, she clearly has not thought about the way her infidelity might be taken if she were to be found out. Her mouth quivers, and her eyes fill with fresh tears.
“I am sorry,” she says miserably. “I did not mean - I fell in love.” She hangs her head. “I thought you had found solace in Miss Buckley. It made me reckless. I thought that if you could have comfort in another, so could I.”
“The fault is mine,” Jonathan adds, speaking for the first time in several minutes. “I was the one who confessed my feelings to the countess. She rejected me at first, out of loyalty to you. I should have left her alone after that.”
Nancy turns to him. “You did leave me alone,” she says. “I sought you out. Don’t try to mitigate my part in this.”
It makes Harrington’s heart contract, to see the obvious affection between them. He takes a deep, unsteady breath, fingers finding the twine ring on his left hand. He misses Billy so much that he aches with it.
“I have not told your wife our business,” Jonathan says, looking at Harrington. “I know she has secrets with you that she has not shared with me. We neither of us have betrayed your confidence, and we will not. I know you must be angry with me—”
“What right have I to be angry with you?” Harrington spits. He looks away. “We’re not friends, you and I.”
Jonathan winces at that, but says nothing. Harrington pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking hard. It’s a relief at least to know that neither one of them has told the other what they should not. Jonathan still believes that Nancy is Maxine’s mother, and Nancy has no idea that Steve has been sending money to her brother and his wife for years. How long that will last, he’s unsure - but then, Jonathan and Nancy have apparently been friendly for three years at least, and they haven’t betrayed those secrets yet.
He takes another shuddering breath, longing for his husband.
“You will never be able to be together openly,” he says.
“What?” Nancy says.
Harrington turns back to the pair of them. “You will never be able to be together openly,” he says again. “You will always be bound to secrecy.”
“Steve,” Nancy says softly.
He ignores her. There’s a piercing pain in his chest, as though he’s being stabbed by a very thin blade right in the heart. “Do not flaunt your affair in front of me. I don’t want to know what you do together. We will not sit together at dinner as though we’re all friends. Do nothing that might embarrass me or hurt Maxine. I will not stand for that.”
“I would not,” his wife protests.
Again, he ignores her. He looks at Jonathan. “Our business is too important to conclude over this, but from now on we will keep it as brief as possible. We will discuss nothing that is not essential. Use it as an opportunity to visit my wife, if you like, but expect no further conversation from me.”
“Steve,” Jonathan says, looking distressed. He hesitates. “My lord,” he amends. “You say we aren’t friends, and I know I’ve done wrong, but please, don’t be hasty—”
“We work together,” Harrington says coldly. “That’s all. Whatever semblance of trust existed between us is gone - and that goes for both of you,” he adds, and Nancy emits a dry sob. “I never trusted either of you fully, and I was right not to. You may do as you please, as long as you’re discreet, but do not trouble me with any of it.”
Nancy bursts out: “Why must you do this? Why shut everyone out? We could have had something over these years - friendship, at least!”
“I lost my friend!” Harrington bellows. His volume is elevated without warning, finally goaded into fury. “You have no idea - I lost the only person I have ever cared for! I lost the only person who mattered - my true partner - I have lost everything—”
Nancy is crying openly. “Oh, Steve…”
“You know nothing of loneliness,” Harrington says, pain cracking through him, his finger touching his ring. “I never wanted your friendship. I never wanted to marry you! I thought we had found some kind of alliance - I thought you were somebody I could trust—” his gaze finds Jonathan, and the other man looks unhappily away “—but I was mistaken. I have no one. Since I lost my love, thanks to your plotting with your mother, I have had nothing, and now the half-life I had scraped together is gone too. I have no friends. I have no one.”
It pours out of him like acid, burning his throat, and he has to hold back his sobs. His Billy, his husband - the only person who truly understood him, who would never betray him, in whom he could unreservedly trust - is gone. He will never return. Harrington will alone forever.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy cries. “I never wanted to hurt you - I was just unhappy - I’m sorry, Steve—”
Harrington forces himself to breathe, gulping in air. He’s never seen his wife so affected, and he knows she’s being sincere. It’s not as though he wants her misery to accompany his - but the lies sting him in a way he can’t forget.
“I hope you will be happy now,” he says, voice still rough with emotion but no longer raised. “If you want my blessing for this affair, you have it. Do as you will. Be happy. Someone ought to be, I suppose.”
“Steve,” Jonathan says. They’ve both of them said his name far too many times.
“You owe me nothing,” Harrington says quietly. “Neither of you owe me your loyalty. It was foolish of me to expect it. Do as you will,” he says again. He shakes his head, tears pricking his eyes. “Be happy. Just leave me out of it.”
He turns and leaves, blinded by grief and misery, and strides hastily away before either of them can call him back.
Dantes is waiting unobtrusively in the front hall, his hands folded behind his back and his face turned studiously away from the stairs as Harrington comes rushing down them. He was not speaking quietly in the doorway to Nancy’s rooms - but he trusts Dantes. He’s sure the man knows everything that has ever happened in this house.
“Dantes,” he calls, and the manservant turns towards him. “When Miss Buckley returns with Maxine - send her to my study, will you?” He hesitates. “You may need to occupy the child. I do not know if the countess is… if she will be available to do so.”
“Of course, sir,” Dantes says quietly, bowing his head. “It would be my pleasure.”
Harrington is sure he means it. Maxine is universally adored by everyone in the household.
He walks as quickly as he can without actually running, heading into his study and closing the door behind him with no small relief. His head is swimming with unspent emotion, and it’s hard to unpick exactly where it’s coming from. There have been too many changes - too much has happened - he feels so alone. So, so alone.
Closing his eyes in pure misery, he sinks down onto the floor, clutching the hand bearing Billy’s ring to his heart. What he said upstairs to Nancy was true. He has no one. He can trust no one.
No one, perhaps, except for Robin. Her presence in his life is an unexpected pleasure - a platonic pleasure, whatever his wife might think. She provides a friendly, nonjudgmental ear, and he feels so exhausted with grief right now that he’s longing for it. Nancy and Jonathan, though they did not know everything, nevertheless represented a kind of alliance, and now it feels as though they have been whisked away from him.
Left hand against his chest, Steve buries his face into the palm of his right, sobbing aloud. He’s lost everyone he’s ever cared about, everyone he thought he could trust. He misses Billy with every particle of his body. His thoughts are scattered, his heart breaking.
There’s a tap at the door, and then it swings quietly open, and Robin stands at the threshold. Steve looks up, eyes wet with tears.
“Good God, Steve, what happened?” Robin exclaims. She closes the door behind her, darting swiftly over to him and kneeling beside him. “I’m here,” she murmurs nonsensically, and her slender arms move to embrace him. “You’re not alone.”
That only makes Steve sob harder, because it isn’t true. He is alone. There’s not a soul alive in the world who knows the full truth of what he’s going through. His head drops onto her shoulder, and he weeps aloud.
“I’m here,” Robin says again. She pats his head. “Oh, Steve, it’s alright. It will be alright.”
“No,” Steve cries. “It won’t - it’s not—”
She says nothing for a moment, stroking his back as he cries. “What happened, Steve?” she asks at last.
“He’s dead,” Steve says, and suddenly he knows he can’t hold it in for a moment more. He must tell someone, cannot spend another second in his ghastly solitude. “He’s dead, Robin - Billy is dead—”
“Your friend,” she says cautiously. He’s told her a little about Billy, of course, though nowhere near enough. Only that he was a dear friend, as close as a brother, and he was innocent of the crimes for which he was executed. She knows he works to clear Billy’s name. She does not know the whole reason why.
“My husband,” Steve says firmly, and she stills in his arms. He draws away from her, unwilling to meet her eyes. “That is who he was to me, and my God, if it means I am a sinner, if I am condemned - then let me be condemned. My husband died, and I was forced to marry my countess because her mother knew what he was to me.”
Robin’s eyes are very wide. “Steve—”
“Maxine is not my daughter,” he goes on, determined to get it all out before she can say anything. “I told you she was the illegitimate child of my lost love, but that was not true. She shares a father with my Billy, my husband. The governor cast out her mother, and I was determined to help her for my love’s sake. I loved him.” He pauses, biting his lip to hold back fresh tears. “I love him still. I will always love him.”
“Steve, you do not need to—”
“If this disgusts you, so be it,” Steve says. Tears are still flooding his face. “I have told no one the truth until now. This ring—” here he holds up his left hand, indicating the twist of twine on the fourth finger “—was given to me by my love before he died, and he left this world with its twin on his hand. I am not ashamed of loving him. I will never be ashamed of loving him, so if you cannot stand it, if you are disgusted by me, I will live with that, but I couldn’t go another moment without someone knowing the truth.”
There’s a long, long silence after he finishes speaking.
Robin is still embracing him, and to his surprise, she doesn’t pull away. She says slowly, tremulously: “Steve, I am not disgusted by you.”
Steve buries his face in his hands, suddenly exhausted. “No?”
“No,” she says. She hesitates. “Steve - if we are being truthful today, I should tell you - I will never love a man.” Another, longer pause. “Just as you will never love a woman, I will never love a man.”
Slowly, Steve lifts his head, looking incredulously into her troubled blue eyes. “You—”
“Yes,” Robin says. She’s biting her lip.
“Oh, God,” Steve says, a sudden desperate relief coursing through him - and flings his arms around her, crushing her into him.
The truth, he thinks, that old adage—the truth will set him free.
Chapter 22: vingt-deux (1831)
Notes:
Just as a reminder: if you are confused over timelines, the year each chapter is set is in the chapter name! We do go back and forth a bit...
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“We’ll be arriving in Marseille within the hour, captain,” Henderson says, standing in the doorway of Harrington’s cabin. He likes to sit in here when he’s not needed on deck, to remind himself of the man who used to occupy it. It’s an old pain now, and after all these years he can almost take pleasure in the memories. “Shall I fetch your coat for you?”
“Good God, not my coat,” Harrington groans. “The heat is torturous today.”
Henderson laughs, picking up the coat and stepping forward to hand it to his captain. He’s a good lad, good company as well as diligent in his duties. “You’ll be home in time for your daughter’s celebrations,” he says with an air of diffidence.
Now it’s Harrington’s turn to smile. He knows Private Henderson admires his daughter; indeed, there are few young men in Marseille who do not. Maxine has grown into a beautiful young woman, vivacious and intelligent, quick to laugh and proficient on the dance floor. Of course they all admire her.
In six weeks it will be her sixteenth birthday, and she really will be a woman grown. Harrington is glad to be so close to Marseille. The voyage was long and troubled, and there were moments when he thought he would miss her birthday - but now, as Henderson says, it is certain he will be home in time.
She’s waiting for him at the docks when they finally put into port, waving up at him with Robin at her side as he calls out orders and has the Mercedes docked. Harrington catches her out of the corner of his eye, hiding his smile behind his captain’s demeanor.
Maxine, of course, is not remotely fazed by his stern expression. “Father!” she calls. If Nancy were here, she’d be scolding her for her unladylike behavior - but Nancy is not here, and Robin looks just as pleased to see him as Maxine does. “Father!”
Steve sweeps down the gangplank - and pulls his daughter into a tight embrace. It’s been weeks since he last saw her. “Maxine,” he breathes into her hair.
“I thought you would not return in time,” she says, arms around him. “We’ve walked down to the docks every day for a week without a sign of you. I thought you would miss my birthday.”
“I would never miss your birthday,” Steve declares.
Maxine beams at him. “That’s what Robin said.”
Steve glances at Robin, standing a respectful distance away with her hands folded demurely in front of her. He’s missed her, his closest and most trustworthy friend, but he won’t be able to express it until they’re behind closed doors. It would not be seemly to embrace his daughter’s companion in the way he’d like to.
“Robin is a wise woman,” he says to Maxine, “but you must never tell her I said so, or I shall never hear the end of it.”
Maxine giggles, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm as they begin to walk away from the hustle and bustle of shiphands swarming onto the Mercedes to begin the onerous process of decommissioning her. One of the perks of wearing the captain’s epaulets is that Steve no longer has to involve himself in these tasks. “I think she already knows,” Maxine says.
“You may be right,” Steve replies with a theatrical sigh, and Maxine laughs.
“She’s often right,” Robin says sweetly, “except when in disagreement with me, and then she is foolish.”
Steve smiles, shaking his head. Robin’s relationship with his daughter borders on improper at times, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s as devoted to Maxine as he is himself, and that very impropriety allows Maxine a chance of freedom in a society which is otherwise too constricting for a girl of her age. She’s close to the woman she thinks is her mother, but Steve knows she’s unable to speak openly to Nancy the way she can with Robin.
“I’m glad you’re home, father, because now I might be able to go to Paris!” Maxine is saying, and Steve’s attention snaps to his daughter. “Mother said I could not go without your permission even if you were not here to give it, which I consider to be most unfair, but you’re here now.”
“Paris?” he asks.
She smiles at him. “To buy a new dress for my birthday ball,” she says. “Mother wants to take me. She says it is a rite of passage to have a new dress for my sixteenth birthday.”
Steve is surprised. “Have you developed an interest in shopping since I went away?”
Maxine laughs. “No,” she admits. “But it’s Paris, father! Mother said she would take me to see the sights while we’re there. I want to see the Musée du Louvre. Mother says it’s a shame I’ve never left Marseille, but now I’m almost a young lady—”
“Your mother certainly has plenty to say on the subject,” Steve says with more acidity than he means to.
His daughter gives him a little sideways glance. He and Nancy have done their best to protect her from the true nature of their relationship, but he supposes that it was inevitable that she would become aware of it as she grew up. She’s spoken a little to Robin on the subject, though it does not appear to trouble her unduly. Many of her friends have parents who married by arrangement rather than for love.
“Will you allow me to go?” she asks.
Steve shakes off the residual irritation. Nancy has every right to speak to the child she’s raised as her own, and she’s done the right thing in waiting for his permission before making the arrangements, even if she’s made it somewhat difficult for him to say no. “Of course you can go,” he says warmly. “When do you leave?”
“In two days,” Maxine replies. She leans up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, thank you! I’ll be back within the month, and I can tell you all about Paris. My friend Eleanor went last winter, and it was all she could talk about for weeks afterward.” She pauses, wrinkling her nose. “But Eleanor is more interested in fashion than I am,” she admits.
She chatters on, with Steve and Robin occasionally contributing to the conversation as they walk back to the Harrington mansion. They ought perhaps to take a carriage - but it is a fine July day, and Maxine is fond of walking. There is almost nothing Steve would not do for his daughter’s enjoyment.
Once she throws her head back in unbridled laughter, and Steve feels his heart contract, his thumb finding the worn string on his finger automatically. He bites down on the sudden burst of pain, and smiles along with Maxine’s amusement.
She’s just so like her brother, though she’ll never know it. They hardly look alike - Maxine is fair and red-headed like her mother, her skin scattered with freckles and liable to burn when she forgets her parasol, which happens with some frequency. Billy was tanned and blonde. But they have the same bright lively blue eyes, and that laugh - Steve has heard it a thousand times in his dreams. It’s exactly the same.
It’s more than just laughter, however. They’re alike in temperament too. Maxine has the same innate sense of fairness, the same stubborn set to her mouth when she’s determined to have her own way. She teases Steve with almost the same frequency as Billy ever did, as quick-witted and daring as he was. She’s brave like him, clever and funny, sometimes hot-tempered.
Steve Harrington is not known for his philosophy, but if ever he wanted to debate Lockean theory, he would point to his daughter. He has not raised her to be like her brother.
After sixteen years as her father, he loves Maxine for herself, not merely as the sister of the man he married. But he can’t deny that watching her animatedly speaking to Robin, her pale hands gesticulating in just the manner Billy once had, fills him with a bittersweet emotion he can barely identify. It’s not quite pain, for he wouldn’t want her any other way - but it hurts, all the same.
Billy has been gone for so long now that the memories blur together. Sometimes Steve can’t recall the sound of his voice, can’t close his eyes as he once could to remember the feel of his husband’s hand on his own. In another five years, Billy will have been dead longer than he was alive. Steve is dreading that day.
All the days of my life, my love, he thinks, touching the ring. It’s been with him so long now he can scarcely remember what his hand looks like without it.
The rest of the day is mellow enough. Steve puts his darker thoughts aside in favor of unreservedly enjoying the time with his daughter, particularly since she’ll be leaving for Paris soon. He’s found ways of being joyful, over the years. Robin helps with that, as does Maxine, though she doesn’t know how hard he finds it.
His wife sits composedly opposite him at supper that evening, talking calmly about the arrangements for her trip with Maxine. Harrington hasn’t seen her in several weeks, but their reunion was polite at best. He didn’t miss her, and she’s well past pretending to have felt any concern at his absence.
It took a while for even a civil relationship to recover after he discovered her love affair with Jonathan Byers ten years ago. Fair or not, it felt like a betrayal, and he could barely look at her without anger rising up inside him. For several months he would not even allow her in a room with him, forcing her to dine alone for every meal, and refusing to attend social gatherings together.
But the hostility faded, as hostility usually does. Harrington must admit that he is not so cruel as to wish his own pain and loneliness on anyone else, and eventually he and Nancy managed to settle into some semblance of civility. He would never trust her as he was beginning to do when Maxine was very young, but they could work together once more. They could appear in public every inch the high society couple.
He knows she has maintained her relationship with Byers all these years. It must be love, because what other explanation could there be for his ability to remain content with the secrecy and pain such a romance must inspire? They are not even like Harrington and Billy once were, for they can’t even be seen together publicly. Harrington knows very little about the arrangements they’ve made in order to keep seeing one another, and that’s how he prefers it.
Presumably when Harrington is away, Byers comes to the house - although he must do so only very late at night, because Maxine has no idea of her mother’s infidelity. Harrington was very clear that Nancy’s happiness could never come at the expense of her daughter’s peace of mind.
It’s all long in the past now, the initial melodrama of his discovery. Harrington has found his own form of equilibrium, and if it’s not the life he thought he would have, not the happiness he was once capable of feeling - it’s enough. It has to be enough.
After all, he has no other choice.
He and Nancy have their customary business-like conference in his study, after Maxine has gone to bed. She goes over the accounts and holdings she’s been managing in his absence; she has quite the head for figures, and there is nothing in Harrington’s financial domain that he hides from her. She’s kept meticulous record of any noteworthy occurrences, and she tells him about various upcoming social engagements he’ll need to attend.
The most important of these, of course, is Maxine’s sixteenth birthday celebrations. They’re holding a ball in her honor, as grandly spectacular as any Marseille has ever seen, and the arrangements seem endless. Nancy, of course, has done an admirable job with them.
“The fireworks we ordered will be arriving next week,” she explains, looking through her notes. “Maxine and I attended a tasting for the menu while you were away. We could not wait, I’m afraid.”
“As long as Maxine is satisfied, I am satisfied,” Harrington says politely.
Nancy nods. “She was very pleased,” she replies. “I think the trip to Paris will be good for her. She’s had her head wrapped up in these celebrations too much lately.”
“I thought the trip was to buy her a dress,” Harrington says.
“Well, there’s nowhere better than Paris for the most fashionable clothes, but you know as well as I do that Maxine has no interest in expensive dresses,” Nancy says, her mouth twitching in a movement that could almost be a smile. “I thought she would enjoy it, and I’d like to spend some time with her. She goes on so many excursions with you.”
Harrington glances at her, surprised. “Do you resent it?” he asks curiously.
“No, of course not,” Nancy says evenly. “She’s your daughter.”
“Few daughters are as close to their fathers as I am with Maxine,” Harrington says. He and Robin have discussed this before. It would be easy to say that his loyalty to Billy makes him cling tighter to Maxine, but it’s not true. He’s sure he’d be the same if she was his own.
Nancy looks sideways at him. “I was not close to my own father,” she says slowly. He says nothing. It’s rare for her to volunteer personal information like this. “I was not encouraged to develop a more familiar relationship with him. He was certainly uninterested enough in me. But after he died, I regretted that we were not closer. I don’t think affection for your family can ever be a bad thing.”
“I don’t know if I could be different with her, anyway,” Harrington says.
Nancy nods her head. “I would not want you to be,” she says. She hesitates. “But I would like to be closer to her as well, even if perhaps you think I have no right to be.”
“You have every right to be,” Harrington says. “You are her mother.”
“Thank you,” Nancy says, and then they don’t speak of it anymore.
There are various pieces of business he must see to now that he has returned, but the only other one of note is his meeting with Jonathan Byers. It was once difficult for Harrington to meet with him in the familiar way, knowing that once they had exchanged letters, Byers would depart for the house and a clandestine meeting with the countess - but as with everything else, he’s grown accustomed to it over the years.
They have never recovered the trust that existed between them before Harrington learned of the affair, but they’re cordial enough. They sit in silence together while Harrington reads the latest missive from Jane, and never mention a word to each other about the woman they share.
Harrington doesn’t talk to Byers about his quest to clear Billy’s name anymore. He trusts that Byers won’t pass along information to Nancy - it’s been ten years, and neither have betrayed those secrets to the other - but he no longer feels comfortable confiding in Byers. He has Robin for that now.
He’s sure Byers regrets the loss of intimacy between them, but presumably his relationship with Nancy is worth it.
It’s not as though the mission has moved very quickly over the years. Harrington has gathered a fair amount of evidence by now, sixteen years after Billy’s death, but most of it is circumstantial at best. Without a witness to definitively point the finger at Governor Hargrove, none of it will stand up in a court of law.
Nevertheless, Harrington will not stop until he’s successful or dead. He swore an oath, and he means to keep it.
Jane and Michael Wheeler seem safe and content enough, at any rate. They’ve had a difficult time over the last year or so; Harrington was able to send warning of the French invasion into Algiers, but they still had to scramble out of the country in a hurry before the troops arrived. Byers took them out in the dead of night, and for several heartstopping days Harrington had no word of them.
He was terrified he’d lost them, but Byers returned, with a letter from Jane and the news that the couple were settled in Naples. Harrington was the one to suggest Sicily as a viable alternative. He did not think anywhere in the African continent was safe from French invasion.
They’ve been living in Naples for a while now, attempting to learn the language and find a new circle of friends after so many years in Algeria. Still, they are alive, and that’s really all Harrington can do for them.
Jane has always been thankful to him in her letters, but a part of Harrington will always feel as though he hasn’t done enough for her. Another part of him wishes he’d left with them that night - but then he wouldn’t have Maxine, and that thought is intolerable.
Once his business is concluded, Steve spends every moment he can with his daughter until she’s off on her trip with her mother. She’s excited to go to Paris, and so he pushes down his inherent anxiety at the idea. It always worries him when she’s out of his sight, but he will not allow his own paranoia to hold her back.
“I’ll write to you, father,” she says, throwing her arms around him outside the house. “I’ll have so much to tell you about! And then when I’m back, it will be my birthday, and you can see me in the new dress that my mother will no doubt force me to buy.”
“I look forward to it,” Steve says, amused.
He’s glad she’s excited for her trip. He can’t fault Nancy for her treatment of Maxine; she’s not a natural mother, and it’s clear that it isn’t a role she relishes - but she has never wavered on the promise she made when Maxine was born. She has treated Billy’s sister as her own child.
Maxine clambers into the carriage, and Steve and Robin wave to her as she and Nancy depart. He tries unsuccessfully to banish the melancholy that instantly creeps over him.
“She’ll be home soon enough,” Robin says, linking her arm with his as they go back inside the house. She knows him well enough to know his feelings.
“I know,” he replies. He glances over his shoulder, watching the carriage disappear down the wide sweeping street. “But I will miss her every moment. I will fear for her every moment.”
Robin squeezes his arm. “There’s nothing to fear,” she says gently. “Losing her brother does not mean you will lose her too.”
“I know,” he says again - but still, it’s as though a vice is clamped around his heart, making it stutter and jump with irrational anxiety. He hates partings. The final goodbye he had with Billy still haunts him, the words they spoke to one another with no idea that they would be the last.
“All will be well,” Robin says. “She is with her mother. You know the countess will protect her.”
Steve nods slowly, dragging his thoughts away from the unhappy place to which they’ve descended. “She is probably more fearful than I am,” he says with a snort. “Leaving me here alone with you - I’m sure that every time you and I have the opportunity to be alone together, she thinks we’re rekindling the love affair she’s so sure we’ve been having.”
Robin laughs. They’re in his study by now, and she settles herself in the armchair in front of the fireplace with ease. Without Maxine to care for, she has no real responsibilities in the house. Steve is glad of that; it means he can keep her at his side, a worthy distraction from Maxine’s absence.
“It would be hypocritical in the extreme if she were to fear such a thing,” she points out. “Besides, you play the martyr too well for her to believe you to be in love.”
Steve rolls his eyes, sinking into the chair beside hers. “Your charm and sensitivity is as intact as ever, I see.”
“Someone needs to jog you out of your perpetual misery once in a while,” Robin replies cheerfully, and he laughs unwillingly.
The days without his daughter pass slowly, but not unbearably. Steve always has plenty of work with which to occupy himself, and he takes advantage of the sudden peace and quiet in his home to whittle away at it. He goes to the races with Lord Kline a week after Maxine has gone away, and manages to gather a little more intelligence to add to his copious records. Kline has been a profitable source of information over the years. He’s too foolish to know when he is being manipulated.
On the tenth night Steve lies awake, stroking the ring on his finger. He remembers the beautiful face of the man who gave it to him, alight with youth and passion. So innocent, so ignorant of the world’s cruelties, though he hadn’t seemed so at the time.
Steve chokes down a sob. Sixteen years have passed since his love was taken from him, and sometimes it seems he’s grown used to the loss - and then at other times, the pain is as fresh as it was the day he discovered it.
It’s at that moment that a loud insistent knocking comes ringing through the house.
Steve springs to his feet in an instant. It’s late, past four - any visitor who would knock like that, at this hour, cannot be bearing good news. His heart is thudding in his chest as he races out of his room and down the stairs.
Dantes, faithful Dantes, is already at the door, but he turns at Steve’s approach, his eyes wide. “An express, sir,” he says.
Behind him, Robin has appeared on the stairs, looking young and fearful in her nightdress. Half the staff are awake by now. Steve leaps down the remaining steps, snatching the express from Dantes' hand and tearing it open.
His eyes scan the page, his chest tight.
Then he wheels around to stare up at Robin. “You said—” His voice is choked.
“What? Steve?” She sounds frightened, her blue eyes very wide.
“You said she would be safe!” Steve gasps, and then suddenly he’s sobbing, because somehow he knew it. He knew it when he watched Maxine climb into that carriage, with all the same carefree innocence her brother once had. He felt it.
The express flutters from his fingers, bearing its terrible message to the ground.
“What’s happened?” Robin asks urgently.
Steve just looks at her, his heart wrenched out for a second time. “Maxine has been taken,” he says. “Maxine has been kidnapped - and Nancy has no idea where she is.”
Notes:
I promise I will stop torturing Steve someday.... but today is not that day.
Chapter 23: vingt-trois (1831)
Notes:
I think a couple of people MIGHT have been waiting for this one....
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Steve is in agony. He’s in torment. All the pain he ever felt when Billy was executed - all that helpless desperate anguish and grief - it all comes flooding back, so sharp and so acute that he realizes he’d forgotten the horror of it. It’s a waking nightmare, a pain so great that to rip his heart out of his chest with his bare hands would be less torturous.
In some ways, it’s worse than losing Billy. At least then there was nothing he could do but endure - there was no battle to fight, no hope of reclaiming his love. But now - Nancy writes in despair that Maxine has been taken, not killed.
The torment of not knowing, Steve discovers, is the worst kind of torment.
“I must get to Paris at once,” he says, when he has found his voice again. “I must - Nancy does not - I—”
“Steve,” Robin says. She’s at his side, clutching his arm. Her eyes are wide with fear; she loves Maxine at least as much as he does. “Steve, breathe - tell me what happened—”
Steve casts about for the express, that little piece of paper bearing such destructive news. It’s on the ground, and he swoops down to scoop it up in his hand. “Here,” he says, his voice shaking. “Here, read it - Robin, I don’t know what to do!”
Robin takes the slip of paper from his trembling fingers, and perhaps for the benefit of Dantes and the other household staff, all of whom love Maxine dearly, reads aloud.
“‘To my lord husband,’” she begins. “‘Maxine has been taken. I do not know who has kidnapped her or what demands they will make. I am in despair. We were walking home from an evening soiree at the home of the Lord and Lady Benson - accompanied, of course, but there are revelries in the city for the summer festival and we were separated from our guardian.’
‘I am certain the kidnappers used the heavy crowds to draw Maxine away. I became lost in the throngs, and a woman in a mask knocked me down. When I found my feet again, she was gone. Several onlookers had observed our daughter fighting against three or four attackers as they carried her away, but were unable to assist her due to the number of people on the streets.’
‘This attack must have been planned carefully, and it is this which gives me hope, for surely demands will follow and Maxine will be returned safely when they have been satisfied. I have returned to the apartments where we are staying to await communications from the kidnappers.’
‘I am sending this letter by express and wish to beg you to remain in Marseille, for it is possible that the demands will come to you there. Perhaps this is unlikely, but it is certain that these kidnappers took the opportunity to strike when they knew we were not under your protection, so they must know where you are. I am surrounded by friends, and though my fear and despair is very great, I remain hopeful that this nightmare will be ended soon.’
‘Perhaps I am in error. Perhaps you ought to come to me here in Paris as I know you will wish to do. In truth, I don’t know what is best. I have already failed once.’”
There is an empty, bitter silence as Robin comes to the end of the message.
Steve grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” he says. He is wracked with despair, unable to think, unable to breathe. “Do I remain here as the countess asks? All I want to do is ride to Paris and tear every building apart, brick by brick, until I find my daughter!”
“I know,” Robin says. She’s crying too, tears tracking down her pale face. “I feel the same, Steve.”
“But perhaps she is right,” he says. He’s talking to himself as much as he is to her. “Perhaps the demands will come here. After all, the kidnappers could not have known Nancy would be able to commission an express so quickly. They must know that Maxine’s main residence is here in Marseille. This certainly has the air of a carefully planned crime, if Nancy is correct in her assertion that the attackers deliberately used the festivities to separate Maxine from her guardians.”
He lets out a sob, unable to bear even speaking the words.
The worst part of it all is the knowledge that whatever he does, he is several days too late. Even using the express route, changing horses every four or five hours and messengers every day, the letter took four days to arrive. It will take him the same time again, perhaps longer, to ride to Paris. Even if he remains in Marseille, he will not hear anything until it is long past.
Nancy has been handling this horrific event alone for four days, and he has only just heard of it. Perhaps she has already had demands from the kidnappers. Perhaps Maxine has been found. Perhaps she is—
“I could remain here, and receive any demands,” Robin offers, and Steve gratefully stops the unthinkable idea from forming further. “I would send you an express directly, if any came.”
“You may be assured, sir, that all of us will do whatever it takes to recover the young mistress,” Dantes agrees in his quiet polite tones.
Steve considers this fretfully. “But if there should be a deadline? If they refuse to deal with anyone but me?”
“Delay a day, then,” Robin suggests. She’s mopping her eyes on her sleeve, clearly attempting to remain calm in the face of his greater distress. “Or even just a few hours. Surely these cowardly attackers must know that you will hear of your daughter’s disappearance by then. They cannot delay their demands longer than that.”
He nods, the movement jerky. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, that is logical - though it doesn’t satisfy my need to do something, anything! To wait here, to know nothing - it’s unbearable!”
She touches his arm. “Just a few hours,” she repeats. “Your staff will ready your horse so that you may leave as soon as you are satisfied that no demands will be made here, and in the meantime perhaps you might free up some funds, in case those demands are financial.”
“Yes,” Steve says, seizing on the task like a lifeline. “Yes, of course - I hadn’t thought of that. I will write to the bank, and to my wife. We will arrange things so that a payment may be made in haste if necessary.”
“Maxine will be returned safely to your side,” Robin says firmly. “She is strong and brave, and these people must know your influence. They would not harm her. We must have hope, Steve.”
He looks at her hopelessly. “I have not trusted to hope for sixteen years,” he says - and there is nothing, it seems, that she can say to that.
The next few hours are a kind of frenzied agony. Steve can scarcely think, scarcely breathe, but he moves like a whirlwind from one activity to another. Robin has to force him to dress himself, which he obeys only because it will not do to meet with his bank manager in his nightclothes. The man is none too pleased to be roused from his bed in the small hours, but he knows as well as anyone that the richest man in Marseille is not to be argued with.
Steve tries to maintain his professional composure, but it’s almost impossible in the face of his abject fear and distress at his daughter’s disappearance. He’s brusque almost to the point of aggression in his meeting with the bank manager, ignoring all queries as to the wisdom of removing such a large fund from his accounts and dismissing the man with little civility when finally the business is done.
Then he must wait - wait for his instructions to be followed, wait for Nancy to receive the letter he sent her outlining his plans, wait for demands from these unknown attackers. It’s interminable.
Grudgingly, with no other recourse open to him, he sends a discreet message to Jonathan Byers. He has no idea if Nancy will have communicated with him herself - in her desperation she will want comfort, he’s certain - but after such a lengthy affair, Steve supposes his wife has the right to have her lover informed.
“I think that is a very kind action,” Robin says gently, when he tells her what he’s done.
He paces back and forth across his study, wringing his hands. Without a task to complete he can hardly bear to stay at home. He knows his horse is ready for him, that fresh mounts have been made ready for him at strategic points along the way - but it’s still a journey of several days, and he’s loath to leave his home in case a letter might arrive.
Once he leaves - no messenger would be able to catch him. He might miss some essential missive, and then still more time would be wasted. There seems to be no good answer—
“My lord!”
For the first time ever, as far as Steve can recall, Dantes is raising his voice. He has always been the epitome of quiet dignified service - but now his face is flushed, and he enters Steve’s study without knocking. Steve springs to his feet.
“What is it, Dantes?” he asks sharply.
The manservant is panting, clearly having jogged across the house. “Another express, my lord,” he says breathlessly. “It has just arrived. The messenger is in the entry hall.”
“Show me!” Steve exclaims, and together they stride swiftly out of the study and along the corridor. Steve’s heart is beating quickly. This letter might be the anticipated demands from the attackers. Certainly it’s still too early in the day for an unconnected missive.
Sure enough, the messenger waits patiently in the hall, with Robin standing beside him almost hopping with her impatience. “He is here, he is here!” she snaps at the messenger as Steve comes into the room. “Quick, give him the letter!”
“Here, sir,” says the messenger, apparently doing his best to ignore her. He holds out a fresh piece of folded paper, and Steve snatches it from his hand immediately.
He opens it, and begins to read aloud, knowing that Robin - and possibly Dantes, though he won’t betray it - will hardly be able to bear to wait. “‘To my lord husband,’” he begins, and then glances up at them. “It is from the countess,” he says.
“So soon,” Robin murmurs. Steve feels a stab of fear in his heart. She must have sent this second letter mere hours after the first. For there to have been news so quickly - she will have had to make decisions alone. He was not there to take action.
There will be time to despair over that later. He resumes: “‘I write in hopes that you have not yet left Marseille, for then your agony will only last as long as mine. Our daughter has been returned’—Good God!” Steve breaks off, suddenly collapsing against a nearby table, and indeed Robin has also let out a cry at the unexpectedly good news.
Returned! He can admit that he had not expected such relief. He thought he would hear that she was dead, taken from him just as her brother was, with him just as helpless.
“‘Our daughter had been returned,’” he repeats, his voice shaking with unspent emotion. “‘Be assured that she is safe and well, praise be to all the gods of men! I can scarce write for my relief. Though they made threats against her, these cowardly kidnappers did nothing worse to Maxine than tie her to a post in some underground dungeon. She is a little shaken, but you know her as well as I - she is a fighter. She has not broken.’”
“Of course she has not,” Robin says unsteadily. “Didn’t I say so?”
Steve takes a slow breath. Even now, he’s hardly able to believe that all can be so easily resolved. “‘It seems the attack was designed as a bid for ransom, but the plan was only just enacted when rescue came,’” he reads on. “‘I had thought that the onlookers who saw her taken were unable to follow, but it seems that one man sprang into action without delay, and actually followed the kidnappers to their hovel. Single-handedly he fought them off and freed our daughter, and returned her to me once he had established where she was staying.’”
“Thank God, there are still some heroes in the world,” Robin says. “Someone to watch over Maxine when you could not - a guardian angel!”
“Thank God,” Steve echoes. His heart is still throbbing painfully. This man, whoever he was - he saved Maxine. He is quite possibly the reason she is still alive. Steve reveres this man.
Robin asks: “Is there any more?”
“Yes, a little,” Steve says. He glances back at the letter. It goes on: “‘I met briefly with the gentleman, though of course I was in so much distress that I was hardly able to greet him appropriately. His name is the Count of Monte Cristo, and he has invited both Maxine and myself to join him for breakfast tomorrow morning. I am eager to attend and thank him properly, for I’ll admit I barely thought to do so when Maxine returned.’
‘I think we will return to Marseille after we have dined with Maxine’s rescuer. I know you will be desperate to see her, and I think she will feel the same when she wakes. She is exhausted from her ordeal, but otherwise well.’
‘I hope you have not been in too much distress, though I know that is a vain wish. We will return in five or six days, and you will be reunited with our beloved child then.’”
There’s a short silence after Steve finishes speaking. He scarcely knows how to feel; relief and leftover despair course through him in tandem, and his pulse is jumping. He says slowly, trying to breathe evenly, “The Count of Monte Cristo…”
“Have you heard of the gentleman before?” Robin asks.
Steve shakes his head. “No, but I hope I will soon have the opportunity to meet him myself. It seems… it seems intolerable that I should not be there with my wife and daughter to thank him for the service he has done for our family.”
“I’m sure the countess will invite him to meet you,” Robin says. “It will be a matter of honor to host him, will it not? He must be a very great man indeed.”
“To have gone so bravely into this den of kidnappers and fought them off alone! Yes, he must be a man of tremendous honor,” Steve agrees. His heart is aching. It has been a long, long time since he came across such a man. Tears prick his eyes. “Good God, I need to see Maxine!”
Robin touches his arm. “It will not be long,” she says. “This letter can only precede them by a day or two, and you know now that she is safe.”
“I won’t rest easy until she is home,” Steve says with certainty.
He’s right in that. The next two days before Nancy and Maxine arrive are utterly interminable, and Steve is unable to concentrate on anything but his mounting impatience. Though he did not spend very long in the state of torment which plagued him when he thought Maxine might be as lost to him as her brother, it was still enough to make him utterly desperate to have her within reach once more. He needs to see her so badly that he’s almost sick with it.
At last, at last, the carriage is seen entering the city. Steve resists the urge to ride out to meet it; it will not bring Maxine back to him any sooner, and then he will have to waste time dismounting his horse when she reaches the house. Instead he waits outside the front door, heels stamping in impatience.
Robin is at his elbow, neck craning to see the carriage arrive. She’s been just as eager as he, though with less liberty to show it.
The moment the carriage arrives, Steve is running to it. The door opens, and Maxine springs out, throwing herself into his arms with a muted cry. “Father!”
Steve crushes her into an embrace, her hair falling out of its elaborate styling and into his mouth in their joint enthusiasm. It’s a long, long time before he feels able to release her. He came so close to losing her forever, and his relief that she’s still here is beyond description.
Her eyes are damp when he finally sets her down. “Oh, I missed you,” she sobs, and hugs him again.
“I missed you so much,” he replies. He’s aware of Nancy hovering nearby. She’s clearly just as unwilling to let Maxine out of her sight as he is. “I thought - when I received your mother’s letter—”
“I was only afraid for a moment,” Maxine says, waving away the entire event as though it’s nothing. “They were not very impressive, and the Count of Monte Cristo came to my aid so quickly, I hardly had time to be frightened.”
Steve throws an arm around her shoulders, and they begin to walk back to the house. Robin is waiting by the door, ready to draw Maxine into her own embrace, and for a while there’s a shuffle of greetings and tears and moving luggage from one place to another.
At last, however, they are all sitting in the lounge, Steve and his wife and daughter, with Robin perched unobtrusively on a stool by the unlit fire. As Maxine’s companion, she has the right to be there - and even if she did not Steve would not force her to go, not under these circumstances.
Dantes serves the tea himself, clearly anxious in his own way to reassure himself that Maxine is safely home. Steve waits until she’s on her second biscuit before reaching for her hand and saying: “You’ve been so very brave, my darling girl.”
“It was not me, not really,” she replies, though she closes her fingers tightly around his hand. “The Count of Monte Cristo was the brave one.”
“He certainly sounds like a hero,” Steve says with emotion. “I wish I could express my gratitude towards him myself! If you had been harmed…” He shakes his head hastily. “I don’t want to think about it.”
She leans into him. “I was not harmed,” she says reassuringly. Then she sits up again, visibly brightening. “And you can thank him! He’s coming to Marseille. He has a house here, he says! I invited him to my birthday celebrations, for I knew you’d want to meet him yourself.”
“Your… your birthday celebrations?” Steve repeats blankly. He’d forgotten about her birthday, forgotten that in just three short weeks the house will be filled with all of Marseille society, ready to welcome Maxine into the fold.
“Of course,” Maxine says gaily. Then she pauses. “You don’t… you don’t expect me to put off my birthday because of this?”
Steve shakes his head quickly. “No, no, of course not,” he says. “I just hadn’t thought of it.”
“At first he did not think he could come - he’s been planning to return to Marseille for a while, he said, but he didn’t know if he could conclude his business in Paris in time for my party,” Maxine goes on. “But I so wanted him to be here, after such a rescue, and my mother helped me to persuade him.”
“He is gallant as well as heroic,” Nancy observes quietly, a rare praise from her. “I knew you would want to see him as soon as possible, my lord, to add your gratitude to my own.”
Maxine is beaming. “He seems the very best of men,” she says. “Kind, and intelligent, and so thoughtful - he asked me so many questions about my life and interests! He’s obviously well-read, and he was polite to his servants.” This last will always recommend anyone to Maxine; given her close companionship with Robin, she values anyone who gives consideration to the lower classes. “I think you will like him, father.”
“After the service he has done for me and my family, he could be the village idiot and I would like him,” Steve says.
“He’s the wealthiest man I ever saw,” Maxine adds thoughtfully. “He has a house in Marseille, and one in Paris, and more in Rome and Zurich! It seems almost too much - to be so wealthy, so kind, so brave and so clever, all in one man.”
With the Count of Monte Cristo thus described, it seems that the time cannot pass quickly enough before Steve has the opportunity of meeting him. He spends several days wondering what possible thanks he could give such a man - the man who rescued his daughter, a debt that can never be repaid. To even attempt gratitude seems somehow tawdry.
“I doubt he wants anything from you,” Robin says, when he expresses this. “He sounds like a man of honor. Would you not have done the same, if you had been there, if it had been someone else’s daughter?”
“I was not there,” Steve says, “and it was my daughter. I shudder to think what could have happened.”
Robin pats his shoulder. “Then don’t think of it,” she says sympathetically. “Maxine is home and well, and you will have the chance to thank her rescuer soon enough.”
At last, after far too long, the day of the celebrations arrives. All week there have been people coming in and out of the house, preparing decorations, moving furniture around, cleaning every corner - and now the activities reach a height. Food is being prepared, musicians setting up their instruments in the ballroom, servants changing into their best livery. Maxine can barely sit still, rushing from place to place to see to all the arrangements until Nancy sends her to her room to put on her new dress.
Harrington is not really in the mood to celebrate, still caught in the dread of Maxine’s kidnapping in spite of her safe return - but his daughter’s excitement is contagious, and he’s able to smile as she emerges at last, a vision in blue silk with her hair falling in gentle curls on her shoulders.
“Happy birthday, my darling girl,” he says, embracing her, and she smiles radiantly at him.
The guests begin to arrive, the music of the string quartet strumming delicately in the background, and for a long time Harrington is caught up in the rush of greetings, of moving gracefully from guest to guest in the way to which he has become accustomed, speaking lightly of inane topics. The news of Maxine’s ordeal has spread, and everyone he meets wants to know more about it. Harrington shakes off the questions with as much adroitness as he’s able.
He catches glimpses of Maxine from time to time: drinking champagne, laughing with her friends, sometimes dancing. He even sees her dancing with Private Henderson, which makes him smile. Harrington himself takes to the floor with his wife, and with a few other society ladies. He’ll dance with Maxine later.
The chatter and the music blend together into a cacophony of sound that has Harrington wincing with a headache before an hour has passed. He longs for the quiet of his study, the solace of Robin’s reassuring voice - but Robin is not in attendance this evening, and he must continue to smile and speak blandly to these many people whose company he will never desire.
“Father!” It is, of course, Maxine’s voice, and Harrington turns with a genuine smile towards the sound of it. “Father, come and meet the Count of Monte Cristo!”
That has Harrington’s heart quickening. He’s been longing to meet the man who rescued his daughter; he strides swiftly to where Maxine is standing beside her mother. There is a man with them, a man with his back to Harrington, though he can see a richly embroidered coat and a head of blonde curls that reach to his shoulders.
As he approaches, he hears Nancy say cordially: “My dear sir, please allow me to introduce my husband, Count Harrington.” She gestures to Harrington. “Husband - this is the Count of Monte Cristo, who has performed such a service for our family that we may never repay him.”
“Count,” Harrington says eagerly, reaching the little group - and the man turns towards him, moving slowly, carefully. “I am so very pleased to—”
He stops. Stops speaking, stops walking. Stops breathing.
The man standing in front of him is not the Count of Monte Cristo.
The man standing in front of him - is Billy Hargrove.
Notes:
dun dun DUNNNNNNNN!
Chapter 24: vingt-quatre (1828)
Notes:
Okay LOOK you guys should have expected this.... PLEASE DON'T BE MAD!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hopper finds him when he’s been absent from the fire for too long, finds him crumpled in a tight little ball by the water, firelight from the torches flickering in his face. He comes to sit beside Billy, touching his shoulder with a gentle hand. He does not remind Billy that he had already expressed doubts about Steve’s loyalty, and for that Billy is profoundly grateful.
After a long moment of silence, the pirate says quietly: “I will not tell you to be strong. You have spent too long in the pursuit of strength.”
“I will be strong again,” Billy says. His voice is cracked and raw; he can barely lift his head from the sand. He has cried so many tears that his eyes feel swollen, though that is hardly new, after all the years of imprisonment.
“I know you will,” Hopper says.
Billy muffles a sob into his fist. “I will have my vengeance,” he says. “If I must add one more name to the list I carry in my heart, then so be it. All those who have betrayed me will live to regret it.”
“They shall,” Hopper agrees. “Anyone who would betray you is a fool and a coward as well as a villain.”
Slowly, Billy pushes himself upright, wiping his tears away with his hands. It calms him to have Hopper nearby, though his chest is still tight with pain. Even now, even having heard the evidence of his husband’s betrayal, he cannot quite bring himself to believe it. His thumb touches the well-worn ring on his finger, kept there as a symbol of the unshakeable love he thought existed between himself and Steve. Can such a thing be so easily falsified?
Steve is married. He is married to Lady Wheeler’s daughter, the child of the woman who colluded with Billy’s treacherous father to send him to the Chateau d’If like a dog. Perhaps he does not know of her villainy - but even if he does not, he still married. He, who swore he would never love another!
What has been joined together, let no man put asunder. He looked into Billy’s eyes and said those words as if he meant them, and Billy believed him.
He married, and he has had a daughter - a daughter who must have been conceived before the wedding, which means she must have been conceived before Billy was sent away. He chokes back a cry. How could he have been so deceived?
Billy is shaking, though whether with rage or despair, he can’t be certain. With a sudden violent gesture, he moves to tear the useless piece of twine from his finger - but at the last moment, he can’t bring himself to do it. He stares down at his hand, fingers trembling.
“You’ve worn it a long time,” Hopper says quietly, observing him. “I have a knife here, if you want to cut it away.”
“Yes,” Billy says, but when the pirate passes the knife to him, he makes no move to cut the string.
It’s as though he can’t bring himself to do it, to remove this last shred of Steve Harrington’s love from his hand. Steve did love him; he cannot believe that every moment between them was false. Perhaps his love waned with time, but Steve did love him once, did put the ring on his finger. The rings were Billy’s idea, but Steve suggested saying the words first.
That cannot all have been a lie. Surely, surely it cannot have been a lie.
“I have held onto the thought of him for so long,” Billy murmurs, gazing down at the ring. “Before you came into my cell, the memory of him was all that sustained me. It was the thought of him that pulled me out of my madness after our first failed escape attempt.”
“Then I thank him for that,” Hopper says. “I thank him for giving you some form of hope, however distant, and I am grateful that you never learned the truth while it still had the capacity to hold you back.”
Billy nods slowly. His eyes are still on his ring, but now a sudden, deep fury is rising within him. “I will kill him,” he says, quiet but certain. “This betrayal is worse almost than that of my own father, and I must see him suffer for it. It is the only way I will survive this pain.”
“He deserves no less,” Hopper agrees.
Once more Billy raises the knife, ready to slice the ring away from his finger - and once more he lowers his hand without making the cut. He can’t do it, he realizes. He can’t betray his vow, as much as his husband did so first.
“I swore an oath,” he says softly. He laughs, the sound bitter. “I swore - it’s strange to think what was promised! I swore I’d never marry another, but now that I think back on it, Steve made no such vow.”
He thinks of Steve’s face, young and joyful and open, the way Billy has remembered it a thousand times before. He was lying in bed with the sheets pooled around his supple waist, his eyes alight with a passion Billy did not think to doubt. I love you, I love you, I love you, he said - and Billy believed him. How could he not?
Steve never vowed, as Billy did, that he would marry no other. It was implied with every word - but he did not make that promise.
“We said the wedding vows together,” he says, as much to himself as to Hopper. “Steve… Harrington… he promised himself to me for all the days of his life. I remember it so clearly… but not me. I did not make such a foolish vow. I only said - I said - until death do us part.”
Hopper cocks his head to one side, clearly understanding this subtle nuance of language. “Whose death?” he asks.
“It will not be mine,” Billy says fiercely. He looks at Hopper for the first time, holding out the knife as he shakes his head. “Take this for now! I will not cut away my ring. I made a vow to wear it until death parts us, and that is exactly what I will do! I will wear the ring still, and every time I look at it I will be reminded that I do not break my promises. I have not betrayed my love.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “And one day,” he goes on with grim determination, “I will see my lover die, and I will know my oath is complete. That is the day I will remove my ring.”
For several minutes, Hopper says nothing. Billy wonders what he’s thinking, if he believes in Billy’s newfound ferocity against his love. Truth be told, Billy doesn’t know if he’s capable of ending Steve Harrington’s life. Even now, at the height of his desperate rage and shock, the thought of his husband’s death makes his heart cry out in despair. He has loved Steve all his life.
No, perhaps he does not yet have it in him to kill Steve - Harrington, he must remember to think of him only in formal terms - but still, the sentiment remains. He will get his revenge on all those who have wronged him, and he will not remove his ring while his vow is still intact.
Harrington might break his promises, but Billy will not.
He wonders if Hopper understands all this - and perhaps understands the deeper truth which Billy is shrinking away from. He will not remove the ring because he swore a vow - but also, because he doesn’t want to lose this talisman of his love, even if the love itself has evaporated.
Probably the pirate understands everything; he’s always seen too clearly into Billy’s heart. He’s too kind, however, to say so. Instead he puts an arm carefully around Billy’s sore back, and draws him close, and for a long while they sit there in silence together.
Billy has had the idea that he would begin on his quest for vengeance at once, but in fact it is several weeks before he can really gather his thoughts together enough even to think about it. He’s exhausted, both mentally and physically, and every time he attempts to draw his mind to the situation at hand, it shatters away into pieces.
“There’s no rush,” Hopper says, when Billy voices his frustration. “We have spent thirteen years in suffering, Billy. Now is the time for recovery.”
Recovery is a slow process. Billy finds that a deep weariness has spread throughout his body, and suddenly he’s scarcely able to lift himself from one place to another. He feels like a very old man, or an invalid bound to his bed. He spends his days sitting by the fire, staring into the flames and barely moving unless it is to eat or bathe.
He enjoys bathing. One bath could never be enough to help him to feel truly clean, after more than a decade without washing, and now he bathes every day, scrubbing his skin with soap and sponge until it stings. He doesn’t even have to draw the baths himself, for it seems Tommy Hagan has taken the life debt he now owes to Billy very seriously indeed. He is Billy’s constant companion, bringing him food and water, drawing his baths, and dressing his wounds each day.
“You owe me nothing,” Billy says tiredly, when he has been there a week. Tommy is combing through his wet curls, careful to avoid the still-healing whip marks on his shoulders. “You do not need to help me.”
“You spared my life when you could have killed me,” Tommy says, not for the first time.
Billy closes his weary eyes. “I didn’t do it to have you as my servant,” he says.
Tommy snorts. “That is good, since I’m not your servant,” he says. He pauses, letting Billy’s damp hair fall from his hands. “After all you’ve suffered, do you not think you deserve a little kindness?”
There’s no answer Billy can make to that, and he’s too exhausted to try and formulate one. But he begins to let himself take comfort in Tommy’s care and companionship, and they take to talking of inconsequential things in the evenings after supper. Tommy tells him of some of the crew’s exploits over the years, and how he managed to seduce his captain’s daughter.
“She is far too good a woman for me,” he tells Billy with a smile. “I’ve never known anyone so beautiful, and yet so vicious. I knew I could not live without her from the moment I saw her.”
“I hope you’re not talking about me,” Carol Perkins says in her clear, ringing voice from the other side of the fire - but she flashes a swift imperious smile in Billy’s direction.
The pirates, in spite of their fearsome appearance and attitude towards the world, are all kind and solicitous towards Billy and Hopper. Not one of them asks why Billy is so melancholy, or asks him to help with any of their many tasks and activities throughout each day. They stop what they’re doing to speak to him if he’s in the mood to talk, and leave him alone to rest and gaze into the fire if he is not. Billy’s chest aches under the weight of such kindness.
He’s finding it hard to adjust to the freedom he’s been longing for. The pleasure of bathing, of being able to walk where he wants to, of looking out at the vast sky whenever he would like - it’s glorious, but it’s also overwhelming. There are always so many people around, so much noise and hustle and bustle. To his horror, Billy sometimes finds himself thinking about the quiet and peace of his lonely cell.
Harrington’s betrayal cuts through him anew every time he catches sight of the ring on his finger. It seems that not a moment passes without fresh pain washing through him when he remembers that his love, his husband, went against all the promises he made and wed another. The heartache is like a physical weight pressing down on him.
He wishes he could understand it, wishes he knew exactly how much of their courtship was real and how much was a lie. How much of Lady Wheeler’s treachery Harrington knew about before he married her daughter.
It doesn’t matter, he supposes. It’s a betrayal either way - but still, he often wakes in the night wracked with sobs at the raw loss.
Over time, however, things begin to improve. The last whip-marks Brenner left on him heal, leaving another layer of criss-crossing white scars on his back that ache when he moves too suddenly. Billy begins to find that he’s bored of sitting around to no purpose, and asks Tommy to train with him as he and Hopper used to do. They spar in the mornings, and often the other pirates watch or even join in.
Someone digs out an old chess board after Tommy reveals he doesn’t know how to play, and Billy teaches him and Carol by turns. Carol picks it up the quickest, and before long can beat Billy every time. It makes him smile - which makes him realize that it’s possible for him to smile again.
As Hopper said - recovery is possible.
Now Billy takes to joining the crew when they go out on the water, and that is the best feeling of all. It’s been so many years since he sailed, since he stood at the prow of a ship with the wind whipping through his hair and the dazzling sky above him touching the crest of the ocean at horizon’s furthest point. He sheds some tears out there, back where he belongs, but if anyone notices it they say nothing about it.
It’s been six months since they freed themselves from the terror of the Chateau d’If when Hopper approaches Billy one morning after breakfast. Billy is sitting by the fire talking to Tommy, still holding a piece of bread in his hands. He can’t quite bring himself to be without food these days, always stashing some morsel in his pockets even when he’s only just eaten.
“Billy,” Hopper says, and Tommy slides away without a word. Hopper intimidates him, but more than that, he looks serious this morning.
Billy gets to his feet hesitantly. “Has something happened?” he asks.
“No, no,” Hopper says with a smile. “I’d like you to accompany me on an outing, that’s all.”
He’ll never turn down an opportunity to spend more time with Hopper. Billy likes the pirates, particularly Tommy and Carol, and he’ll always be grateful for their hospitality - but nobody knows him or understands him the way Hopper does. Although he’s glad to have a proper home, more people but one to talk to, it’s Hopper to whom he retreats when social demands fatigue him.
Hopper is as good as a father to him, and Billy would follow him anywhere. He falls into step with him without another word.
There’s a little rowboat waiting for them at the docks of the outer cave, bobbing slightly on the dark water beneath. Billy climbs into it, noting the supplies stashed away under the seats as Hopper unwinds the rope tethering the boat to the jetty. Wherever they’re going, it’s not going to be a short trip.
“Where are we going?” he asks. He doesn’t attempt to pick up an oar; he knows Hopper won’t allow him to row.
Sure enough, Hopper gathers up both paddles and begins rowing them towards the entrance of the cave. “You’ll see,” he says. He gives Billy a strangely significant look. “Even these walls have ears,” he says quietly.
That makes Billy frown, but he says nothing more until they’ve navigated the narrow passage out of the cave. Hopper rows silently, his strong arms moving as he scans the horizon. The sun is shining, sparkling off the surface of the water. For the thousandth time since their escape, Billy feels his heart contract at the sight. He went without it for so long.
He wishes it did not remind him of Harrington - but in spite of all his deep sense of betrayal, his pain, his quest for vengeance, he still hasn’t quite managed to let go of his love for the man he still calls husband. Briefly he touches the twine looped around his finger. How many times did they stand at the helm of the Mercedes together, looking out on this very ocean with their elbows brushing?
Too many to count - but Billy reminds himself again that it was a lie. Perhaps at the beginning Steve’s smiles and expressions of love were genuine, but in the end he chose fortune and consequence and a wife over the life he had with Billy.
Billy looks away from Hopper, blinking away the sudden tears springing to his eyes.
He’s aware that Hopper is watching him, but the old pirate says nothing. He knows the source of Billy’s distress; they don’t need to rehash it. Hopper knows, as Billy has declared, that one day Steve Harrington will die at Billy’s hand - a hand adorned still with a ring, because Billy Hargrove does not break his vows. Every time the pain lances through him, it only renews his determination to have his revenge.
They row half the afternoon before Hopper finally allows Billy his turn at the oars. He’s far too protective over Billy, as though they really are father and son - although, of course, Billy was never treated so gently by his own father.
“Will you tell me where we’re going now?” he asks Hopper at last, when the sky is beginning to darken and the moon is half-risen above them. “Or will we sail all night in secrecy?”
Hopper laughs. “Not quite all night,” he says. “A little further starboard - beyond this collection of rocks—”
Billy navigates successfully around the rocks. “Well, old man?”
“Allow me my secrets, child!” Hopper exclaims, and Billy laughs unwillingly.
They eat from the package of supplies Hopper brought aboard when night has completely fallen, though Hopper still has a hand on the oars. Wherever it is he’s so mysteriously bringing Billy, it’s far off the coast of Marseille. Billy isn’t certain he even knows where they are anymore, although under usual circumstances his sense of direction is excellent. His skills are rusted after the long years of imprisonment.
“Sleep if you like,” Hopper says, when Billy begins to blink and yawn under the starlight. “We’ve a few hours to go yet.”
Billy complies, sinking into the bottom of the boat and shutting his eyes, one finger reaching to tug absent-mindedly at the curls behind his ear. Perhaps it makes him weak, but he cannot help but enjoy the sensation of being cared for by a parental figure like Hopper. Even in his previous life, only Harrington ever cared if he was hungry or tired or cold or lonely - and Billy will not think of Harrington, not now. It soothes something in him to have Hopper watching over him like this.
When he next opens his eyes, it’s to find Hopper gently shaking him awake, the boat moored rather incongruously by a large squat rock about the size of a carriage. Half the night has passed; Billy can see the first fingers of a pink and gold dawn beginning to creep along the horizon.
He sits up and looks around. At first glance, he has no idea where they are. The nearest land is a coastline so far away to the east that it’s hazy and indistinct, offering no protection from the buffeting of the waves. Fortunately, the weather has been kind to them. Billy can see nothing of note, nothing to make sense of why Hopper might have brought him here to this lonely rock.
“We’ve arrived?” he asks.
“We have,” Hopper says. He smiles, his broad face softening. “I’ll draw you a map, so you can find this place again.”
Billy blinks the weariness away. “Why should I need to?” he says cautiously.
“I’ll show you,” Hopper says. “Take your boots off - you’ll need to swim.”
Still yawning, Billy obeys. They leave their boots in the little boat, and then slip into the inky water. It’s a shock of cold that brings him to full alertness, though Billy can’t bring himself to mind it. He loves to be in the ocean, no matter how cold and dangerous it might be.
Hopper keeps a hand on the edge of the rock as he swims around it, and Billy follows suit. Suddenly, he dives beneath the waves - and doesn’t resurface.
For a moment, Billy just bobs alone in the dark ocean, staring at the spot where Hopper was a moment ago. His heart is beating far too quickly - but Hopper swam away deliberately. Billy is certain of it. He takes a deep breath, and dives beneath the surface of the water.
At once, he realizes where Hopper has gone. There’s a chasm in the rock face under the water, wide enough to be immediately visible once his head is submerged, but low down enough that he couldn’t see it from the surface. He kicks his way through the hole, into the center of the rock - which is apparently less of a rock and more of a cave.
Once inside, Billy swims back to the surface - and finds himself in a small, dimly-lit cavern, stretching on for further than he might have imagined from the outside. Hopper has already hauled himself out of the water, perching on one of a collection of rocky outcroppings jutting from the edge of the cave, and grinning delightedly at Billy’s obvious surprise.
“I discovered this place entirely by accident,” he informs Billy. “It was shortly after I fled Marseille, after I was framed for piracy. There was a storm, and the boat I was in was dashed against this rock. Luckily I was able to repair it, but I waited out the storm in here. No one but me knows this cavern exists. I have never told a soul.”
Billy pulls himself out of the water, sitting on another rock. “Why not?” he asks curiously.
Hopper smiles grimly. “I recognized at once that it would make an ideal hiding spot,” he says. He looks sideways at Billy. “I never thought I’d show this place to anyone.”
“But you’re showing me,” Billy says slowly. His chest feels tight, as it always does when Hopper reaffirms their close relationship. “I… thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Hopper says. “That will come after I’ve shown you the rest.”
Billy frowns. “The rest?”
Hopper gives him a pensive look. “You’ve never asked me about the Hawkins treasure,” he observes. “In all the years we’ve known each other - everything we’ve shared - you’ve never asked if the rumors are true. If I did find it, and secrete it away.”
“I had no business asking such a question,” Billy says cautiously. He bites his lip. “Besides - I’ve never been sure whether or not to believe the fabled Hawkins treasure even exists. Enough gold to purchase a city - it seems like a myth, a fairytale.”
“Ah, but it is not a fairytale,” Hopper says. “It’s real, my boy - and I did find it.” He pauses. “I found it, and I hid it here.”
Billy goes very still. “Here?”
“Dive down under the water again,” Hopper tells him. “There’s enough light now that dawn is rising. Go that way—” he points to the other end of the cave “—and swim down.”
For a moment, Billy does nothing. His heart is pounding. He cannot quite believe what Hopper is telling him - sharing so freely a piece of information that most men would kill for.
Then, silently, he slips back into the water and plunges back into the depths.
At the end of the cave where Hopper indicated, there’s another hole in the rock wall under the water. Billy swims through it, kicking down until his head feels tight with the pressure. Thin fingers of light trail through the water, illuminating his path as he swims deeper and deeper.
And then he sees it, and stops swimming.
Lying on the sand at the bottom of the ocean just in front of him, there’s a large wooden chest, banded with iron and locked with a sizable padlock. But it’s not just one chest. No, as Billy looks out across the seabed he sees more.
More chests, piled on top of one another at the bottom of the sea, hidden away in this isolated place where no one would ever think to look. There are scores of them, jumbled on top of one another, perhaps as many as a hundred - or perhaps even more.
Good God, one chest of this size filled with gold would be enough to buy a ship! And here Billy is confronted with tens and tens of them, enough to buy an entire fleet - an army - a dozen palaces. There’s nothing a man could not do, with this kind of wealth.
He spends too long underwater, staring at the endless chests of gold. His air begins to run out, and suddenly he must turn and swim rapidly back to the surface, and to Hopper. He breaks out into the cavern with a deep gasp, flailing a little in the water.
Hopper looks amused. “A pretty thing it would be if you drowned before I could give you your share,” he observes.
Billy heaves himself out of the water again. “My share?” he asks, breathing heavily.
“You are my son, or as good as,” Hopper says, and Billy’s chest constricts again. “I have no need of this fortune. I never have - I have made my own way. I’ll retain a few chests, enough to buy myself a ship, and to pay my friends to crew it with me - but the rest belongs to you and Jane.” He sighs heavily. “No ship will ever be the Astraea, but no matter!”
Billy looks at him, feeling slow and stupid, unable to process what Hopper is saying. “Why do you need a ship?”
“Billy,” Hopper says gently. “You know I cannot stay with the pirates forever. I must find my daughter, even if it takes me a lifetime to do it. And I know well enough that you cannot accompany me, as much as I might wish it. You have your own quest to begin.”
It’s true, Billy realizes. He’s been naive to think that he and Hopper will never be parted again. They each have their own journeys: he towards vengeance, and Hopper towards Jane. Each noble, but impossible to undertake together.
Still, he cannot help but rail against it. “But—”
“Billy,” Hopper says again. “I will always be a father to you. I will always come for you, should you need me. But I must find my daughter. I must. If I thought I could persuade you to come with me, I’d be on my knees begging for it - but I know it cannot be. Can it?”
Billy swallows. “No,” he says quietly.
Hopper nods, eyes a little sad. “As I thought,” he says. “But with half the Hawkins fortune… There is nothing you could not accomplish. You can have your revenge, in whatever form that might take. You can have a life. That is the gift I wish to give to you.”
“It’s too much,” Billy says, his voice shaking. “You cannot - you should not—”
“Nothing would give me greater happiness,” Hopper says sincerely. “Please, my son. Allow me to give you this, as a parting gift. I will be on my way soon now - I cannot delay any longer. I must find Jane. But I would see you protected. I would see you fulfilled, happy - and I do not think that can happen until you’ve taken your revenge.”
“No,” Billy says. He touches his eyes; his fingers come away damp with tears. “No, it cannot.”
Hopper reaches out, hand curling around Billy’s wrist. “Well, then,” he says. “Take the money, Billy. Seek your vengeance. And then - once you have had it - go and find a life, my son. Find the happiness you deserve. Let this wealth give you the life that was stolen from you.”
“Hopper—” Billy says, his voice choked.
“You are my son,” Hopper says fiercely. “You deserve the world - and I will do all I can to give it to you.”
Notes:
I know, I KNOW, I left it on a cliffhanger and you wanna see them together, but in all fairness this fic is tagged for Heavy Angst, I am cruel, I'M SORRY I love you guys XD
Chapter 25: vingt-cinq (1828-1829)
Notes:
I've gone too long without a lil Hellcheer!
Chapter Text
She is not Mercedes. That is Billy’s first thought when he sees her - but then, no ship will ever live up to the memory of the one he has lost. How could it? All his brightest and most treasured memories took place aboard that ship. She is as dear to him as any lover, and now she is lost to him forever. It does no good to dwell on his thoughts of her.
But this ship is still a good ship, proudly seaworthy, ready for a new captain. Billy paces her boards, touching the ship’s wheel meditatively. She is not Mercedes, but she is a good ship.
“Will you have her, my lord?” Munson asks.
He’s an odd individual, this young man of dubious origin who was recommended to him through Andrew Perkins. Constantly moving, shifting from foot to foot and eyes flickering around when he speaks, Billy felt uneasy when they first met. But Perkins assured him that his uncle often has dealings with the pirates, and can be trusted.
“She’s a good ship,” Billy says cautiously.
“She is,” Munson agrees.
Billy frowns at him. “Why are you selling her?” he asks bluntly. “You could make a good living with a ship like this.”
“I have no tie to her,” Munson says restlessly. “I tried gathering a crew and sailing her, but I’ve no head for captaincy. My thoughts are far too scattered for leadership, and I prefer to avoid responsibility where I can!” He grins, sudden and unexpected. He has an oddly attractive smile. “If you’re looking for a first mate…”
“He has a first mate,” Tommy says firmly.
Billy had not really expected Tommy’s loyalty to remain so steady, in spite of their close friendship back at the pirate hideout. After all, Tommy is newly married; Billy thought he’d want to remain with Carol, with his family. But when Billy declared his intention of buying a ship and leaving the pirates to enact his revenge, Tommy was quick to join his company.
As it turns out, Billy did not need to concern himself about Carol. She is here with him too, because in her own words - where Tommy goes she goes, in order to save him from himself.
He told them both the full story that day, leaving out nothing. They had shown him they could be trusted. They listened in silence until Billy had finished speaking, and then Tommy said: “I’ll kill them all myself, if you ask it of me. Your father the governor may present a slight challenge—”
“I will kill the governor,” Carol interrupted. She smiled sweetly. “No one would suspect a woman, more fools them. I will kill the governor, and you may kill Lady Wheeler and Captain Harrington.”
“We could accomplish it in a matter of days,” Tommy said earnestly. “Then you have your gold, your vengeance, your freedom - the rest of your life is ahead of you.”
But Billy shook his head. “No,” he said. “That is not enough for me.”
Tommy frowned at him. “What more could you want?” he asked.
“It is not enough that they should merely die,” Billy said. “I do not want them merely dead - first I want them disgraced. I want their names irrevocably dragged through the mud. I want them to know the shame and the heartache of their whole world crashing down around them, and to know there is nothing they can do about it. And when the moment of their deaths finally does come, I want them to see my face at the other end of a sword, and to know that it was I who killed them, I who did not forget, who returned for my vengeance.”
He clenched his fists in his lap. “It is not enough that they should die,” he says again. “I want them to suffer.”
Carol and Tommy exchanged a glance. “How will you do it?” Tommy asked.
“I have some ideas,” Billy said. He paused. “Is it too much for you? I would not blame you if you wished to stay out of it.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Carol said crisply, and in spite of himself Billy’s mouth flickered into a smile.
So now he is here, with both of them at his side, attempting to buy a ship as the first stage of his plan. After all, he cannot very well establish himself as a great lord without a ship.
“Still, you’ll need a crew,” Munson is saying, and Billy drags himself back to the present moment. He bows unsteadily. “And I know the ship well.”
“You have just told me you prefer to avoid responsibility,” Billy says skeptically.
Munson laughs, dancing from foot to foot. “I do, I do, but I can follow orders,” he says. “I am not much of a fighter, but I can sail a ship like this one, and maintain her too.” He shrugs. “I’ll find work elsewhere if you’d rather crew her with familiar men - and women!” he adds, bowing a little to Carol.
“Andy Perkins has vouched for you,” Billy says. “He says you can be trusted.”
“I hope so,” Munson says, unusually sincere. “I may be foolhardy and strange, but I hope no one has ever called me disloyal.”
Billy nods slowly. “Working for me will not be like working on any other ship,” he warns. “I look to surround myself with loyal servants on my travels. I am working to establish myself in society. You would need to pass at times as a gentleman’s attendant.”
“I like an interesting life,” Munson says. He looks thoughtfully at Billy. “I think you’d give me that.”
Billy barks out a life. “Yes,” he agrees. “Life at my side will certainly never be dull.”
So Edward Munson joins his crew, the first newcomer but not the last. It takes time for Billy to build up his retinue. He has no intention of telling anyone but Tommy and Carol the full extent of his history and plans, but still they must be people he trusts. His secrets are closely guarded.
He must, too, relearn how to be a gentleman, after years of no practice. Tommy is dubious when he explains this part of his scheme, although Carol understands it at once.
“You mean to re-enter society,” she says shrewdly. “You mean to take your rightful place as a lord of Marseille, to use such a position to enact your revenge on those who have wronged you.”
“But will they not recognize you?” Tommy asks.
Billy has thought of this, but he thinks it unlikely. “It has been almost fourteen years since anyone has seen me, and they all think me lost,” he says. “Perhaps some might notice the resemblance, but I look very different now than I did then. My hair was short, my face younger and rounder. I did not have hair on my face.”
“I can hardly imagine it,” Tommy says dryly, and Billy laughs unwillingly.
It’s true that his appearance has changed immeasurably. He’s much leaner than he was at twenty, his muscles corded and strong, absent of the youthful plumpness he once had. And he fancies there’s something in his face - something dark and knowing, a result of the innocence lost over the years. He has lines etched into his skin, scars on more than just his back.
Besides, even if anyone does see the likeness, they’re not likely to think anything of it. He’ll be wealthy, the wealthiest man in all of France, and he well knows that anyone can be bought. They’ll believe whatever he tells them to believe, because he’ll be so rich that all of society will want his favor.
He thinks fiercely of Harrington - his Harrington. Will Harrington know him?
But he will not think of Harrington. In spite of everything, in spite of all the countless times he’s reminded himself of Harrington’s treachery, his falseness, the thought of his husband still brings a sharp aching pain to Billy’s heart. Foolish, ridiculous - but still he misses Harrington.
Whenever his thoughts bring him back to Harrington - whenever he torments himself in remembering the sweetness of their time together, the love he’d thought they shared, the warmth in Harrington’s eyes when he put the twine ring on Billy’s finger - he forces himself instead to think over everything he plans to do. All the torture he will inflict on those who did the same to him.
He buys a house in Rome first. He must come to Marseille well-established, known throughout Europe as a tremendously wealthy man, of good breeding and society. Tommy makes the arrangements for him, meeting with lawyers and house agents as Billy’s representative, and hiring a full staff to work for him there.
“They will want to know your name,” he tells Billy. “What will you call yourself, now that you are such a great lord?”
Truthfully, Billy has no idea. He’s standing in the captain’s cabin of his new ship, Tommy and Carol at his side. He called her Vengeance; after Mercedes, there could be no other name.
He glances at a map of Europe pinned to the wall. There are so many small islands that no one has ever heard of or been to - one of them can stand to have a great lord named for them. And if he’s beginning in Tuscany, it ought to be a Tuscan name.
“Monte Cristo,” he says, turning back to Tommy. He smiles, and although it does not quite reach his eyes, still he finds some satisfaction in it. “Tell them that the Count of Monte Cristo seeks to find a home worthy of him in Rome.”
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” Tommy repeats. “It suits you. My lord,” he adds sardonically.
So he purchases a palatial home in Rome, and for the first time he must test out his new persona. He buys clothes fit for a king, several carriages, furniture imported from Sicily, and for three months he lives in his new house and pretends to be the Count of Monte Cristo.
He’s not sure what he expects from the experiment. Of course, there’s no danger in Rome; no one knows Billy Hargrove in Tuscany, and his Tuscan, while a little rusty, is perfectly adequate to ingratiate him into society. Money talks, as Billy had known it would, and it’s almost no time at all until he has a whole host of new acquaintances ready to claim connection with him.
It has been years since he slept in a proper bed, let alone attended a ball or a soiree. But if they find him a little odd… well, the very rich are allowed their eccentricities.
Billy dances, he flirts, he entertains. He tells gently amusing stories at his own expense. He smokes cigars with gentlemen in dimly lit clubs, and kisses the jeweled fingers of ladies in elegant ballrooms. He drops hints about his antecedents and mentions invented histories. He conducts business, investing some of his newfound wealth into a variety of schemes so that he starts to accumulate even more of it. At every opportunity he demonstrates his riches, throwing extravagant parties and throwing money into every scheme suggested to him, no matter how foolhardy.
The Count of Monte Cristo will have a reputation of wealth, of extravagance, of entertainment. He will be established in society, known as an interesting and well-educated man, charming and suave. He turns down no invitation, and takes an interest in everybody he meets. The Count of Monte Cristo is everyone’s friend, and everyone wants him as theirs.
It’s an exhausting routine, especially after so many years with so little company. But whenever Billy tires, whenever he thinks that he’d rather have an evening to himself than attend yet another ball or luncheon, he reminds himself of all the wrongs that have been done to him. He thinks of the justice that must be meted out to those who have betrayed him, and he goes on.
“You’re good at this,” Eddie tells him, after another party. They’re on first-name terms now; as he told Billy when he sold him Vengeance, he’s a loyal friend. Billy confided the whole sorry tale of his life to him within a month, in spite of his intention to keep it a secret.
“To tell the truth, it is a constant struggle,” Billy says. They’re in his lavish bedroom, Eddie quietly tidying away Billy’s clothes as he gets ready for bed. Billy is winding the hair behind his ear around one finger, taking what relief he can from the habitual motion. “I would much rather be alone.”
Eddie watches him. “Then why not be alone?” he asks.
“It is all part of the plan,” Billy says, yawning. He tugs off his shirt, and Eddie moves forward to take it from him.
“The plan for vengeance,” Eddie says.
Billy nods. “Only then will I be at peace.”
“Are you certain of that?” Eddie asks quietly.
Billy glances sharply at him. “What do you mean by that?” he asks.
Eddie stands hesitatingly in front of him, holding Billy’s shirt. He bites his lip, and then sits on the bed beside Billy, laying the shirt down. “Perhaps it is not my place to say this,” he begins.
“It would not be, if I really were a great lord and you my servant,” Billy says with a snort. “Even then, however, I doubt that would stop you.”
“True, true,” Eddie says, smiling faintly. Then he pauses, frowning. “You’ve had a hard life, Billy. I understand your desire for revenge. But I worry for you. I worry that that desire is eating you up from the inside, preventing you from getting the happy life you deserve.”
Unaccountably, Billy feels a lump in his throat. He swallows it down. “I’ll have my happy life when I’ve had my revenge,” he says unsteadily.
“So you say,” Eddie says. “Believe me, I would not try to prevent you from enacting your vengeance, in spite of my usual distaste for bloodshed. No one has earned death as your father the governor has earned it. It would… it would only bring me heartache if this quest for revenge took over your life to such an extent that you could never be happy again.”
Billy says nothing for a minute or two, warring with himself. There’s a part of him which recognizes the truth of what Eddie is saying - but he can’t give up. Not now. He must have his revenge. He will not
Perhaps Eddie recognizes the resolve in his face, because he laughs a little. “At least consider it,” he says. “Make sure you do not get yourself trapped in this cycle of pain and anger. One day, you must allow yourself to be free of it, to let it go.”
“I will try,” Billy says, with an effort.
“That’s all I ask,” Eddie says. He pauses, eyes narrowing a little as he considers Billy. “Perhaps you need to find some pleasure in your life,” he says. “True pleasure, something you truly enjoy, to balance out all these things you do not enjoy.”
Billy is surprised. “I scarcely know what brings me pleasure anymore,” he admits. “It has been too long since I had any.”
Eddie nods slowly - and then, before Billy can blink, he leans forward, and his mouth touches Billy’s own.
For a moment, Billy allows the kiss. Eddie’s mouth is soft, and as they kiss, he reaches out a hand to touch Billy’s arm. It’s been a long, long time since Billy was kissed, since he felt the touch of a lover. His heart lurches in his chest; he’d almost thought himself beyond every romantic sensation.
But the pleasure only lasts a moment. Then his muscles lock, his mind clouding over, every cell in his body rejecting Eddie’s touch. He pulls sharply away.
Eddie doesn’t look unhappy. “No?” he asks gently.
“I cannot,” Billy says, his voice stuttering over the words. “I - I cannot. I…”
“Captain Harrington,” Eddie says knowingly.
Billy drops his head. Ridiculous to be so affected - to still feel, after all this time, after all the betrayal, that he belongs to Steve and no other - but he does feel it. “He is my husband,” he says. “He may have forsaken those vows, but I… I cannot. Not until his death, or mine. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive,” Eddie says. “You must not mistake me, Billy - although I have love for you as a friend—”
“I understand,” Billy says quickly. He knew that even as the kiss was occurring. Eddie is a loyal friend, as close to him as Tommy or Hopper, but what they have is no romance. Had he allowed the kiss to develop into something further, it would only have been a simple expression of pleasure, with no deeper feelings attached.
Eddie pats his arm, and then gathers up the discarded shirt once more. “I’ll leave you to your rest,” he says, and slips away.
The time in Rome passes quickly enough, and from there they move onto Florence. This time, Billy arrives with connections, friends and acquaintances in Rome to recommend him to his new society set. The experience is much the same as in Rome. He attends balls and functions, parties and gatherings, conducts business with the lords and flirts dazzlingly with their ladies. He splashes his wealth about, collecting friends like jewels.
It becomes rather like a dream after a while. Billy’s life is a blur, a whirlwind of activity and socialization, shallow pleasure and gentle small talk taking all precedent. His skin buzzes and aches with the falseness with which he must surround himself. He must lie again and again, pretend to be someone he is not, and for all the glamor and riches he finds himself sobbing each night into his pillow.
Only his nearest companions can comfort him. Tommy, Carol and Eddie - Billy trusts no one but them. They are the ones who provide genuine connection, an honest conversation after hours of deception within society. They know, as no one else does, that he sleeps on the floor beside his bed each night, unable to stomach the softness of his mattress after so many years in a cell. They are the only people who understand the truth of who he is.
He knows they wish he would give it all up - take Vengeance and flee to some far-off land, abandon his revenge, be happy in a new life. Perhaps they are right. Billy is afraid of a new life. What would it look like, to let go of the boiling hate that has sustained him for so long?
No, he will not give it up. He must have his vengeance. After they are dead and ruined, all those who have wronged him, then perhaps he will find some semblance of peace - but not before. Not before.
Disaster almost strikes before he leaves Florence for Genoa. For a while Billy has been befriending the young Duchess Cunningham, the only daughter of one of the richest men in the city - and, since his untimely death, perhaps the wealthiest woman in Tuscany. She’s a sweet young woman, and no one in Florence is better connected, but for Billy her main attraction comes from the engagement ring on her left hand.
He’s been beset by eager young women since his arrival in Rome all those months ago, and in spite of all his preparations, it’s a complication he didn’t anticipate. It reminds him painfully of Harrington teasing him all those years ago - for an eligible well-bred man with a fortune like his will always be a target, whether he’s twenty or thirty-four.
Every unattached young lady in Tuscany has made her bid for him, it seems, and so Billy has deliberately formed friendships with the attached ones. Duchess Cunningham, he must admit, is genuinely good company. Soft-hearted and innocent, and yet strangely uninterested in all the machinations and disingenuity of her rank - Billy finds that he does not mind spending time with her as much as he might anyone else.
She introduces him to her betrothed, a rather stupid young man by the name of Lord Carver, with admittedly little enthusiasm for the match. Billy, playing his usual role, extends every courtesy to Carver, and soon enough the pair feel themselves to be his particular friends. He sees them often, for bridge parties and afternoon tea and long meandering walks through the city, and soon Carver forgets any jealousy he might previously have felt when the duchess visits the Count of Monte Cristo without him.
That is his undoing, as Billy discovers when one afternoon he walks into his drawing room to find Duchess Cunningham hastily disentangling herself from his manservant Edward Munson.
She blushes very prettily, pulling up her dress where it has slipped down her shoulders. “My lord—” she begins in some confusion.
“For God’s sake, Munson,” Billy says with a sigh. Eddie is one of his dearest friends - but Tommy often calls him a liability, and he’s not far wrong. “How long has this been going on?”
Eddie is unrepentant. “A few weeks,” he says.
“I ought to have known you would cause me trouble, from the moment you told me you didn’t have the head to captain your own ship,” Billy says irritably.
Eddie shrugs. “It’s love,” he says simply, and Billy feels a pang somewhere deep in his chest. To be so certain - the way he himself was once certain—
“It’s true, my lord,” the duchess says quietly. “We love each other, and we will be married. I know this must be a shock, my lord—”
“Oh, don’t call me that,” Billy says. “I’m no lord, not anymore!” He glances at Eddie. “You’ve not told her, then?”
Eddie shakes his head. “I would not betray you,” he says. He pauses. “But I would trust her with my life.”
“Well, this will upset the apple cart,” Billy says, sighing again. He can’t bring himself to be really angry, although doubtless Tommy will disagree. He himself is the perfect companion and attendant; he has always found Eddie’s more lackadaisical attitude frustrating. “You will have to go on to Genoa at once, and marry there. Lord Carver will throw up every objection in the world, and I don’t mean to have my own reputation smeared.”
Duchess Cunningham looks somewhat bewildered. “You will keep Eddie in your service?” she asks hesitantly.
“I told you he would,” Eddie says.
“Of course, though I won’t protect you from Tommy’s wrath,” Billy warns, and Eddie laughs. “Fortunately the house in Genoa is ready for occupancy. We will have to make you a minor lord traveling alongside me, I think. That will be enough scandal to contend with.”
Eddie grins at him. “A minor lord! How I rise in the world!”
“You speak as though it were easy,” Duchess Cunningham says with a frown.
“Of course it’s easy,” Billy says flippantly. “You have only just come into your riches, so perhaps you haven’t learned it yet - but when you have the wealth we have, all things are easy. Lord Carver may huff and puff, but he will not follow us to Greece. If we play it carefully, he will not even know you are under my protection. You two will go ahead, and I will follow in a month or two. Then I will meet you by chance, married to the lover you scandalously abandoned Carver for, and I will invite you to join my retinue as a tribute to the friendship we established here in Florence.”
She stares at him, perhaps disturbed by the ease with which he arranges her life for her - but after all, when he is so very wealthy, what doors are barred to him?
Chapter 26: vingt-six (1831)
Notes:
The thick plottens! I've been VERY excited to post this one... too bad AO3 decided to have a shut-down at exactly my moment of anticipation. Anyway, have some plotty things and more First Meetings...
Chapter Text
It has been three years since Billy and Hopper escaped from the Chateau d’If, and for all that time, Billy has felt as though he were treading water. It has not been difficult to play the part of the Count of Monte Cristo, to laugh and dance and spend his money and ingratiate himself with all the highest echelons of society all over Europe - but it has all led him here, to this moment.
At last, his plans have reached their peak. At last, he is back in France.
It’s Paris, not Marseille. The Count of Monte Cristo could not very well spend his first months in France anywhere other than the capital city, and Billy wants to be well-established before he finally descends on his final destination.
At least, that’s what he tells himself, and anyone else who asks. The truth is, the thought of Marseille terrifies him.
Marseille was once his home. He thought he’d live out all his days there, victoriously sailing the fastest and most beautiful ship in the world for his father’s navy, carefree and surrounded by friends. He had it all back then: a shining career, wealth, privilege, and a husband who loved him. He wanted for nothing, and Marseille was the center of it all. Marseille was his entire world.
Now, of course, everything is different.
In some ways, he has more now than he did then. More wealth, certainly; a home in every major city in Europe, with jewels and servants and every extravagance attached to them. He has friendships the like of which he could never have imagined in his youth, people who know him, who understand him in a way he once thought only one man could.
His circle has expanded still further in the last couple of years. Tommy, of course, is his first mate, his most loyal attendant, sworn to serve him until death, and there is no one Billy relies upon more. With him comes Carol, her caustic tongue sometimes stinging but always truthful. She would never admit it, but she cares for Billy, and he for her.
Then there’s Eddie, who travels with him now as Lord Munson after all the trouble in Florence. He’s a gentler soul than the rest, more likely to invoke Billy’s conscience. His wife - once Duchess Cunningham, now Lady Munson, although more informally Chrissy - is as much a friend to Billy as she ever was in Tuscany. She knows the full tale of his history by now, and of all his companions, her ear is the most sympathetic.
Time has brought more company, more trust. He picked up Lucille Williams in Genoa, a pirate girl of few words but unflinching loyalty. Other than himself, Billy thinks perhaps no one in the world understands ships the way Lucille does; if he ever recovers his beloved Mercedes as he intends, she’ll captain Vengeance in his stead. In Zurich he met Lucas Sinclair, a disillusioned former soldier - good enough to fight for France in wartime, as he bitterly explained to Billy, but abandoned and exiled when peace came because of the color of his skin.
Truth be told, there was a time when Billy would have behaved similarly, back when he was the innocent captain of Marseille. But age and experience have taught him better, and it’s not long before Sinclair and the sister he works so hard to provide for are on-board the Vengeance, the full tale of Billy’s misfortunes known to them both. They’re the youngest members of Billy’s crew; Lucas Sinclair is just seventeen, and his sister a handful of years younger still.
He’s never known such friendship. In the privileged echelons of society to which Billy was born - and which he now occupies under his assumed identity - no one ever truly confides in one another the way he can confide in his crew. Everything is always hidden behind a layer of pretense, every conversation sparkling with lies like false jewels, no value at all.
It never mattered when he was a boy of twenty, because he had Harrington. Harrington fulfilled every need for honesty, for friendship and companionship and true unconditional love.
But Billy will not think of Harrington. He will not allow his mind to linger on memories of his husband, of his smile, the touch of his hands, the way his hair was always tossed back from his face, his eyes sparkling—
It was a lie, every piece of it. And it has been so long now that Billy barely remembers it anyway. That’s what he tells himself, and he’ll keep saying it until he believes it.
He’s in Paris now, anyway. This is where all his plans will finally come to a head. He’s been drawing the strands together for months now, making discreet inquiries into the involved parties, laying the groundwork so that when he’s ready, he might move - and now here he is. He’s ready to move.
After a great deal of deliberation, he’s decided to begin with Steve. Begin with him, and end with him too, because out of all the betrayals, Steve’s is the one which burns the most. The thought of Steve married to another is more painful even than the knowledge that his father deliberately sent him to the Chateau d’If - and it’s worse still when he remembers who Steve married.
So he’ll begin with Steve, and Steve’s torment will last the longest before he’s finally released from it with a thrust of Billy’s sword. And Billy knows just where to begin, just where to stab to wound the deepest.
He had Tommy purchase the house in Marseille almost a year ago now, though he himself has never visited it. He wanted everything ready. He knows Tommy has seen Steve from a distance, both because some surveillance has been necessary and out of curiosity. Billy will not ask. He doesn’t want to know.
Yet he must know.
He learns that Steve’s young daughter will visit Paris with her mother shortly before her sixteenth birthday, and the opportunity seems so perfect that Billy leaps into action at once. They will be in town for the summer festival. He will not waste the chance he’s been given.
“What will you do to the girl?” Eddie asks quietly, when all his crew are gathered in the opulent drawing room of Billy’s Parisian mansion and he is explaining his plans to them.
“I ought to strangle her and send her broken body to her father in a casket,” Billy says viciously. His chest tightens when he thinks of Steve’s daughter. She was conceived before Billy was sent away. “She is his future, and I ought to steal her from him as he stole my future from me.”
For a moment, no one speaks. Then Chrissy says hesitantly: “But… but you would not - an innocent girl—”
“No,” Billy says. He’s certain he’s not imagining the collective sigh of relief across the room. He shakes his head. “Do you really think so little of me? I would not injure an innocent. But I will use her to begin his torment.”
He glares around the room, as though daring any of them to disagree. But none of them do.
He’s been in Paris five months by the time Countess Harrington and her daughter arrive in the city, making himself known in society as he has done in all the places he’s lived over the last three years. For the first seven days of their visit, he does nothing. He only observes quietly from the shadows. It’s easy to do, with the summer festival ongoing; Paris is a blur of color and revelry, and crowds throng every street and fill every ballroom.
Billy has no wish to meet the countess and her daughter before the allotted time, but still he wants to see them - to see the family Steve chose over him.
It happens at a party on the seventh night at the home of Lord and Lady Benson. It’s a raucous gathering, everyone adorned with brightly-colored masks and gaudy costumes, music playing in every room, the air humming with chatter and laughter and the stamping of feet and clapping of hands. Bodies press together in lively dance while fans flutter and bows scrape across their instruments. In short, it’s mayhem.
Billy has on a richly embroidered black cloak and a glittering mask to hide his face. He waits on the stairs, talking distractedly to Eddie and Chrissy with his eyes on the door, waiting for the arrival of the most important guests of all.
“They will come,” Eddie says quietly in his ear. “They will come.”
Billy is too distracted to answer - because the door has opened, and they are here.
First comes the countess, lowering the hood of her deep blue cloak with small hands encased in delicate ivory silk. Billy watches in sick fascination as she smiles at her hostess, fingers unfastening the cloak’s ties at her neck. His stomach clenches painfully, for even though he’s never learned to look at women the way he once looked at this woman’s husband, he can appreciate her striking beauty.
Dark glossy curls, clasped back from her slender white face with gold jeweled pins, gleam under the chandelier above her head. Her neck is long, delicate, adorned with a heavy collar of diamonds and sapphires. She has eyes like a storm, gray-blue and tempestuous and fringed with long dark lashes. Some of the women at the Benson soiree are made up so heavily that it’s difficult to see where their real face begins, but not Countess Harrington. She’s dusted with the lightest sheen of powder, her cheeks and lips only faintly rouged.
She needs no paint to emphasize her beauty. Billy stands on the stairs and watches her with a desperate hunger he can barely understand - because this woman, with all her exquisite feminine grace and loveliness, has managed what he could not manage. She has kept Steve Harrington.
As he watches, she lifts a blue silk mask to her face, tying it on with long golden ribbons. A lustrous white ostrich feather springs from one corner of the mask, and she disappears behind it. She could be anyone now. But she’s not just anyone. She is the woman who married Billy’s husband.
“My lord,” Eddie says softly behind him, and Billy comes back to himself with a start. He’s clenching the bannister so tightly that his knuckles have gone white.
Eddie and Chrissy both look concerned behind their masks, and Billy forces himself to breathe. “I am well,” he says untruthfully. “I’m well.”
They know it isn’t true, but they say nothing. Billy turns back to the hall below, watching as the countess moves away in a rustle of blue silk. There behind her is her daughter - his real target of the evening.
She doesn’t look much like either of her parents, it must be said. Tall for her age, Maxine Harrington is pretty enough - but she has none of her mother’s sophisticated beauty and elegance, none of her father’s easy Grecian attractiveness. Both the Harrington parents are like sculptures, like paintings - but their daughter is far too lively for that description.
Even though she’s only just arrived, she’s already laughing at something, her blue eyes sparkling with merriment. There’s something extraordinarily alive about her appearance, her face dancing with movement and vitality as she throws back her head in amusement. For some reason, it makes Billy catch his breath.
Where the countess is statuesque, as if she had been carved out of marble - her daughter is radiant, almost effervescent. In spite of her unfashionable red hair, the wash of freckles marring her otherwise lovely face, Billy has no doubt that she’s surrounded by admirers wherever she goes. There’s something magnetic about her, something which draws the eye.
It brings a lump to his throat. Steve chose to be married to his countess rather than to be married to him, and perhaps this is why. He could never have given Steve this lovely, bright child who glows like a miniature sun in the room.
“Come on,” he says shortly to Eddie and Chrissy, and for the rest of the evening they hide away, barely speaking to anyone but each other. Billy can’t bear to look at the countess and her daughter - and conveniently, it would upset his plans if they saw him.
The night wears on interminably, and by the end of it Billy’s nerves are alight, his skin prickling and his face aching behind his mask. At last, however, Eddie spots Countess Harrington and her daughter taking their leave, chaperoned by another family to protect them. They’re staying so close by that a carriage would be ridiculous, just a matter of streets - which is, of course, why Billy picked this particular night to strike.
Outside the revelries of the festival are still in full swing. Crowds stream past, waving banners and dancing in the streets, and the gentleman Countess Harrington has appointed as a chaperone is clearly having trouble keeping the ladies together. Billy slips along behind them like a ghost. There are so many people that it’s easy to become lost in the crowd.
He left Eddie and Chrissy at the party. Now it’s just him, stealing between the throngs of people lining the streets, taking advantage of the celebrations. A laughing figure in black with a brightly colored mask dances between the countess and her daughter, separating their linked arms. It’s Erica Sinclair, Billy knows - but his quarry has no idea that there’s a plan behind the movement. Erica shoves forcefully into the countess, toppling her to the ground in an instant, and then lightly dashes away again.
Now, on the corner of the street as it curves onto the main road, Maxine Harrington is suddenly alone. Her mother is only a step away, getting to her feet once more with an exclamation on her lips, but it’s a step too far.
Another figure darts out from behind a cart selling apple cider and wine, and before the girl can catch up with her group, he flings his arms around her waist. Tommy. Countess Harrington turns, alarmed, as her daughter lets out a shriek - but too late, because now Carol, Lucas and Lucille have rushed out as well, all of them disguised in black with masks hiding their faces, and they have Maxine surrounded.
Billy’s crew is amazingly efficient. They hustle the girl away even as her mother screams out her name, holding her arms to stop her from fighting. The countess sobs desperately, running after the masked figures - but too late. They’re gone before she can understand what has happened.
“Maxine!” she screams hoarsely. “Maxine!”
But the streets are so loud, so full of cheers and chanting - no one heeds her cries, and her gentleman chaperone realizes too late that something is amiss.
Billy turns away, down a silent alley off the main road. He has the advantage of knowing where the masked kidnappers are going, so there’s no need to rush. He’ll let the countess fret, let her send a message to her husband, let them fear the worst. Let Steve Harrington feel just a fraction of the suffering his betrayal brought Billy.
The girl is a fighter, he must admit. He can hear her angry shrieks from fifty feet away, and as he draws closer he sees her gamely lashing out with kicks and wild swings of her fists whenever she has the opportunity. Of course, she’s no match for the four members of Billy’s crew who bear her away to a secret basement lair, too far from the crowds for anyone to see where they went.
Erica Sinclair catches up with him as he reaches the entrance to the hideout, pulling the bejeweled mask off her face as she reaches his side. “It sounds like she’s giving them hell,” she observes.
Billy glances towards the dark little alleyway leading to the basement. He can hear Maxine Harrington grunting and panting, presumably muffled by someone’s hand across her mouth. “She’s no shrinking violet,” he admits.
“Perhaps she’ll give my brother an injury,” Erica says brightly. She’s a vicious little thing, particularly where her brother is concerned. Billy rolls his eyes and she laughs softly and turns away, to return to the mansion. She’s only a child herself; Billy doesn’t want her too near any of these proceedings.
Silently, he moves along the alleyway. It’s shrouded in darkness, though there’s flickering torchlight coming from the arched entrance at the end of it. Billy presses himself flat against the wall and peers around the corner into the room. He doesn’t want the girl to see him, not yet.
Inside, the scene is much as he expected it to be. The room is small and dimly lit, with a low sagging ceiling and - crucially, from Billy’s point of view - a single wooden pillar in the center of it, holding up the upper floors. Tommy and the rest of the crew have efficiently bound Maxine Harrington to the pillar, her hands tied behind her back and a gag in her mouth.
Even bound and kidnapped, presumably afraid, there’s an odd energy humming around the girl. Her scarlet curls make a haystack around her head, her dress is dirty and torn around the hem, she’s clearly unable to move - but still her blue eyes burn with a fire Billy had not expected. If looks could kill, every person in the room would have fallen at her feet by now.
Tommy, Carol, Lucas and Lucille have taken off their colorful masks, revealing second masks underneath - these ones simple black cloth to hide their faces. It seems unlikely that the girl will recognize any of her attackers later, but Billy isn’t willing to risk it.
As he waits in the shadows, one of the masked figures turns just fractionally, meeting his gaze where he hides in the alley. It’s Tommy, of course. Billy gives him the tiniest nod, and Tommy returns it before springing into action.
“Remove the gag,” he instructs, deliberately lowering his voice into a rough snarl.
It won’t be Carol who obeys. Even for a scheme such as this one, Carol will never, ever follow an order given by her husband on principle. Judging by his size, Billy thinks it’s Lucas Sinclair who moves to untie the cloth covering Maxine’s mouth - and nearly loses a finger for his trouble.
The girl grinds her teeth together as Lucas springs away again, shaking his hand where she bit him. “Come closer, and I’ll bite you again!” she taunts.
“She’s a feisty one!” Tommy exclaims.
Maxine strains against her bindings like she wants to claw out his eyes. “I’m no weakling!” she says. “My father taught me to fight. Give me a sword and I’ll show you, if you’re not too cowardly!”
Billy feels an unwilling admiration creep through him. My father taught me to fight - of course he did! Of course Steve Harrington would not allow his child to go through life unable to defend herself merely because of an accident of gender. But even Steve Harrington never had this kind of fighting spirit, taunting and inflamed.
No - oddly, the girl reminds Billy a little of himself, when he was young and foolish just as she is. He shakes away the feeling. Ridiculous to even contemplate a similarity! She is Steve Harrington’s daughter, and he - he is Steve Harrington’s sworn enemy.
“I could fight you.” This is Carol speaking, and although she’s modulating her voice somewhat, it’s still clear she’s a woman. “And I’d win, you stupid girl! But we are not here to fight.”
“Cowards!” Maxine says contemptuously.
Tommy laughs. Billy is fairly sure his amusement is genuine, and in spite of himself he shares it. He expected tears and pleas, not this passionate righteous fire.
“How much will your father pay for your safe return, I wonder?” Tommy asks. He’s back in character now. “How much is your life worth to him?”
“She’s only a daughter,” Lucas says uncertainly. He’s not as skilled in deception as the others, and his delivery is a shade more wooden - but Billy doubts the girl will notice. “How - how much will any man pay for a daughter?”
Maxine lets out a furiously indignant sound. “Shame on you, for thinking I have any less worth than a son would!”
“She’s the count’s only child,” Carol counters. “I think he’d pay any amount of gold for her release.”
“Well, we shall soon find out,” Tommy says. He moves a little closer to the girl, taking out a long curved knife from some hidden fold of his cloak. “How shall we tell him, I wonder? Shall I cut off your ear, little girl, and send it to your father as proof of your capture?”
Far from cringing in fear, Maxine lunges towards him as best as she’s able while restrained in the ropes binding her. “Do your worst!” she spits.
“Perhaps I shall!” Tommy hisses - but, of course, he will not.
Billy springs out of his hiding place, just as they planned he would at the mention of cutting off the girl’s ear. His sword is already drawn, and he whirls into action with a cry. It’s a beautiful little dance, choreographed and rehearsed between them all ahead of time. First he knocks Tommy’s knife from his hand with a ring of steel, and then he spins to attack Lucille, now armed with twin machetes.
She’s a good fighter, and she concedes very little even when play-acting. It takes all Billy’s concentration to parry the blows besetting him from all sides. He’s certain that at least three of his four attackers are enjoying themselves, perhaps a little more than they ought to be. Carol’s eyes glitter behind her mask.
He only amends the preconceived plan a little. He had meant to release Maxine from her bonds halfway through the fight, so she could crumple to the ground and watch adoringly as he rescued her - but after her defiant declarations, he’s a little afraid she could actually do some damage to his crew. So she remains bound until the four would-be kidnappers finally retreat down the little alleyway in apparent defeat.
“Go after them!” Maxine shouts, which ought not to be the surprise that it is. “Leave me - go and kill them all!”
“You bloodthirsty child,” Billy says approvingly. He slices a knife through the ropes at the girl’s ankles. “They’ll be long gone by now. Are you hurt, my lady?”
He releases her wrists as he speaks, and with a little gasp, Maxine steps away from the pillar. She rubs her wrists. “I’m not hurt,” she says, though a slight tremor has entered her voice. Delayed shock, perhaps. She turns wide blue eyes on him. “You - you saved me!”
Billy waves away her sudden burst of gratitude. “I think in another minute you would have burst your bonds and saved yourself!” he says, and he almost means it. “You were very brave. May I ask your name, my lady?”
“Maxine Harrington,” the girl says. She hesitates, biting her lip. She looks very young suddenly. “And you, my lord?”
“Me?” Billy asks gently.
The girl nods sincerely. “You saved my life,” she says. “May I not know your name?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” Billy says.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” Maxine repeats. She smiles unexpectedly. It’s a dazzlingly lovely smile. “You have my gratitude, sir,” she says. “I owe you my life. I owe you everything.”
Billy shakes his head. “It was nothing,” he says - and tries to ignore the sudden spear of guilt lancing through his heart.
Chapter 27: vingt-sept (1831)
Notes:
We're back, and on the correct day, no less! I am genuinely so starry-eyed and melty over the lovely comments I had last week. You guys are incredibly sweet, thank you so much!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Maxine is so turned around that she has no idea how to get back to her lodgings, which fits nicely into Billy’s plans. He escorts her solicitously to his own carriage - driven by the very man who threatened not fifteen minutes earlier to cut off her ear, but she is not to know it - and takes her back to his own home.
“I keep a house here in Paris,” he says carelessly. “We will send word to the Bensons - you were there, were you not? I thought I saw you at the soiree.”
“Yes,” Maxine says, a little shakily. The reality of her kidnapping seems to be settling in now. Billy swallows down another spike of guilt. “Yes - they will know where my mother is staying. Forgive me - you’ll think me a foolish girl for not remembering—”
Billy pats her hand gently. “Not in the least,” he says. “You have been through an ordeal, my lady, and besides, you are in an unfamiliar city. We will locate your mother, and soon you’ll be reunited with her. She must be very worried about you.”
“I hope she hasn’t sent word to my father already,” the girl says anxiously. “He’s in Marseille, where we live. He’ll be so afraid for me.”
“Marseille! What a city!” Billy says, delighted that she’s left him such an opening. “I have a house there too - I’ll be returning in a few months. Of all the places I’ve lived, I think Marseille must be my favorite. Your father must be a man of discerning taste, my lady.”
Maxine smiles warmly. “He is,” she says. “He’s truly the best man in the world. I know it’s unusual for a girl of my age to boast of a deep bond with her father, but I have always been fortunate in that regard. He is clever and kind and affectionate, and there’s no one in the world I love better.”
For a few moments, Billy is unable to speak, emotion rising up in his throat like bile. I’m joined to you, Billy. I love you, and that can never be cast aside. He has never forgotten those words, as much as he would like to.
But they were lies, and this bright sweet young girl is the proof of it. He works to control himself. “You are fortunate indeed,” he says lightly. “Few can boast of such a father.”
“What’s your father like?” Maxine asks innocently.
Which father shall he describe? His true father, Billy decides, the father he has fiercely claimed. “Happily, I am also one of that few,” he says. “My father is a good and honest man, and he has protected me a hundred times over.”
“As you have protected me tonight,” the girl says eagerly. “Truly, sir - I cannot thank you enough. I don’t know what I would have done without your intervention.”
He shakes his head. Her gratitude is part of his plan - yet it makes him uncomfortable. She was never in any real danger, because he orchestrated the entire event. It was easy to plan from a distance, but now, with this smiling grateful child before him…
But he cannot allow himself to be held back by sentiment. Steve’s daughter will not suffer by his hand. He will spare her, because unlike his treacherous enemies he does not strike the innocent. He will spare Maxine Harrington, and she ought to be grateful for it, after all her father and grandmother and probably mother too have done—
She will not feel grateful, when he has ruined and killed half her family. But she should blame her father for that pain, not Billy. He won’t think of it.
They reach his home soon enough, and Tommy holds open the carriage door for them both. Billy nods to him distractedly as he passes, Maxine on his arm. “Thank you, Hagan,” he says. He’s aware of the girl glancing at him as he speaks, but his mind is already racing forward.
“Hagan will send word to the Bensons at once, and find out where your mother is staying,” he tells Maxine. “We will reunite you with her as soon as possible. In the meantime, come inside! You can meet my companions, and tell them all about your bravery.”
“I wasn’t so very brave,” Maxine says, blushing crimson - but he can see she’s pleased.
Eddie and Chrissy are sitting together in the drawing room, talking quietly and sipping whiskey, but they get to their feet solicitously when Billy ushers Maxine inside. Eddie says jovially: “Monte Cristo! We were beginning to fear you’d never return!”
Billy barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. Eddie enjoys the act of being a lord far too much. “This is Lady Harrington, Munson,” he says. “You must be very kind to her. She has had something of a shock.”
“Oh, my dear,” Chrissy says warmly. She, unlike Eddie and Billy, is not acting whatsoever. “Come and sit down, won’t you?”
“Lady Munson,” Billy tells Maxine, who curtsies prettily. “She and her husband are traveling with me.”
Maxine allows herself to be guided into an armchair by the fireplace. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance,” she says. She glances fleetingly at Billy. “I’m pleased to meet any friend of the count’s! He has just rescued me from the most abhorrent gang of criminals.”
“An abhorrent gang of criminals!” Eddie repeats, delighted by the description. He glances up at Tommy, who has just come into the room bearing a tray. Their gentle rivalry has only deepened since Eddie took on his pretended lordship. “Do you hear that, Hagan?”
“Indeed, my lord,” Tommy says icily. He puts down his tray on the coffee table. “Wine, my lady?” he asks Maxine.
Eddie, of course, has not finished playing. “What ruffians and louts your master must have had to deal with!” he exclaims. “What thugs and scoundrels, to attack such a lovely young lady! One cannot countenance such delinquency. Is it not so, Hagan?”
Billy is sure Tommy is gritting his teeth. “Certainly, sir,” he says. He pours Maxine a glass of wine. “I am sure you yourself have many rousing tales to tell the young lady of your own bravery in dealing with such villains.”
“Thank you, Hagan,” Billy says hastily, because Eddie is opening his mouth to riposte, and once the two of them begin, there’s no stopping them. “I’ll pour the rest myself.”
“Of course, my lord,” Tommy says coolly, and backs out of the room. Billy sighs, glaring at Eddie. That will take some smoothing over; Tommy hates to be excluded from things.
Maxine watches his departure interestedly. “He’s not much like our butler at home,” she observes childishly.
For no reason at all, Billy’s heart catches in his chest. “Your butler?” he inquires.
“Dantes,” Maxine says with a shrug. She lifts her glass to her lips. “He’s very old, but my father says he’ll live forever.”
Dantes. A name Billy has not heard in sixteen years, and truthfully, a man he has never thought of in all that time either. Why should he? Dantes is just a servant - but he’s still a reminder of an old life. How many times did Billy genially pass Dantes his hat and coat before disappearing upstairs with Steve?
“Yes, we had a man like that when I was a child,” Chrissy is saying, filling in the space Billy has left open, and the conversation flows away from the sticky moment quite easily.
He asks Maxine questions while they wait for the Bensons to respond, even though, of course, in reality Billy knows exactly where her mother is. She’s a clever, sharp-witted girl, and he finds to his consternation that he’s actually enjoying the conversation with her. She readily talks about the sights she’s seen thus far in Paris, the museums and architecture, the culture and landmarks. She speaks intelligently of music and literature and politics, and isn’t afraid to share her opinions.
“You must have had quite the education,” Billy says at last. He smiles insincerely, his heart beating too fast. “I’m barely able to keep up with you!” He’s well aware that Eddie, without the advantages of a formal education, was left behind half an hour ago.
“My father always encourages me to read and discuss what I’ve read,” Maxine replies with a smile.
Chrissy leans forward, eyes flickering towards Billy momentarily. “That’s unusual, with a daughter,” she says. She adds regretfully: “My own father was not so open-minded.”
“I know,” Maxine says. “I’m very lucky. My father always says I should not be disadvantaged for having been born a woman.”
What a thing for Steve Harrington to have said! It disconcerts Billy more than he can understand to realize the ways in which his husband has not changed over the years. He has lied, he has betrayed his love, he has chosen a wife and child and career over the vows he made once as a boy of twenty - he ought to be different in every conceivable way, but of course that cannot be so. Of course he will be the same as he was in some ways, and this is one of them.
“Tell me about your father,” Billy says encouragingly, when he can speak.
“He’s captain of the navy in Marseille,” Maxine says proudly. “He’s one of the most important men in the city, besides the governor himself. I don’t like the governor,” she adds, perhaps emboldened by the wine. “I don’t think my father likes him either, but you must not tell my mother I said so! She’s very proper and respectable.”
Billy can’t imagine Steve Harrington married to a proper and respectable sort of wife. “They sound like a most proper and respectable pair,” he says disingenuously.
Maxine giggles. “My father isn’t very proper at all,” she says. “At least, he always behaves as he should in society, but at home he’s different. He talks to me about everything. I don’t think he much likes his work, but he’s very good at it.”
“A captain who doesn’t like to sail?” Eddie exclaims. “That’s certainly unusual.”
“Oh, no!” Maxine says at once. “He loves to be on the water. He told me once that it’s the only time he ever truly feels at home.” It’s not heartbreak, what’s happening now to Billy. His heart has already been broken irretrievably - and yet somehow it still feels like heartbreak. “He likes to sail for pleasure, that’s all.”
The door opens before Billy can make a reply, and Tommy comes into the room. He bows his head in a perfunctory manner. “A letter from the Bensons, my lord,” he says.
“At last!” Billy says, springing to his feet. He takes the missive and scans it quickly. “They would not consent to provide your mother’s address - well, I understand that, after these events! They have sent word to her, and she will come here to fetch you.”
So he will meet the countess herself before the night is through. His throat is tight just thinking of it.
“Oh, thank you!” Maxine is in raptures once again. “I hate to think of the concern I’ve caused her. She must have written to my father by now. He will be so worried!”
“You have caused no concern,” Chrissy says sharply, and Maxine looks gratified.
She’s remarkably unselfconscious, chattering away as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Billy tries to remember if he was so carefree at her age. Probably, he thinks - but it was so long ago, and so many terrible things have happened to him since, that he can’t remember.
She’s evidently had every advantage of education and society that her father could give her. Billy swallows down the tightness in his throat.
Some thirty minutes later, there comes a light tap at the door. Billy calls out an assent, and Tommy pushes it open with a short bow. “Countess Harrington, my lord,” he says.
Billy is on his feet at once - but of course, under the circumstances Maxine does not stand on ceremony. She jumps up and rushes forward with a desperate cry. “Mother!”
Perhaps she is not so unaffected as she appears. Billy remembers with a sharp and painful breath as she flings herself into her mother’s arms that she’s very young still.
“Oh, Maxine, my dearest child—” The countess seems to be similarly overcome, though she masters herself much more quickly. She’s still wearing the blue silk from earlier, though her pale face is drawn and weary. She cups her daughter’s face in one hand. “Are you well - are you hurt?”
“Nothing happened,” the girl says reassuringly. “The men who took me didn’t hurt me. I didn’t think much of them anyway,” she adds, and Eddie chokes on a laugh that he hastily turns into a cough. Behind the countess, Tommy is looking flushed and irritable. “They only tied me to a post and told me they wanted ransom for me, but then the Count of Monte Cristo rescued me most heroically.”
Countess Harrington looks up and meets Billy’s eyes for the first time. “The Count of Monte Cristo,” she repeats hesitatingly.
“At your service, my lady,” Billy says with a smile. “I am very glad to be in a position to return your daughter to your care. She was very brave.”
“I… I thank you, my lord.” The countess seems somewhat dazed, which is perhaps understandable under the circumstances. “If you had not been there—”
He shakes his head, as if to dismiss such an awful thought. “I happened to see the whole event take place,” he says. “I did only what any man would do, I assure you.”
“Yes,” the countess says distractedly. She swallows. She looks, Billy thinks, unused to the emotions she’s currently experiencing. “I… You have my… my gratitude, sir.”
“You are in distress, my lady,” Billy says gently. “Small wonder! You must take your daughter home and rest, now that all is well and she is safely by your side once more. But I hope you might both join me tomorrow morning for breakfast?”
Maxine says eagerly: “I would like that! May we, mother?”
“Of course,” her mother says. She smiles faintly. “Forgive me, my lord - my manners are not what they should be. You cannot imagine the fear I have felt over these last few hours - but we should be very glad to dine with you tomorrow.”
They take their leave. Billy’s mouth is dry, his heart thumping. After all these years of thinking and plotting, it seems almost alien to think that his plans are at last coming to fruition - and yet here he is. He has met Steve Harrington’s wife and daughter, inserted himself into their lives without arousing the least suspicion. Everything has gone exactly as he might have wished it.
Still, somehow he feels desperately sad, and more alone than he has felt since his escape from the Chateau d’If. He retires that night without a word to his companions, though he’s unable to sleep. Instead he lies on the floor beside his bed for hours - he’s never quite recovered from that habit - staring sightlessly at the ceiling, twisting the little piece of hair behind his ear around in his fingers.
The morning is an interesting one. Billy is able to observe the familial dynamic between Countess Harrington and her daughter; he’s surprised to see how utterly different they are from one another. He’s tried not to think too deeply about the personality of the woman Steve chose over him, but he still did not expect the countess.
She’s a very measured and circumspect kind of woman, in direct contrast with her vivacious daughter. Billy has the impression that not a word leaves her lips without careful consideration, and at times she almost seems perplexed by Maxine’s lively manners, as though she’s unable to fathom such ease and artlessness.
She thanks Billy properly for his part in rescuing her daughter from the ruffians who took her, which he waves away adroitly. Today she’s wearing an expensive gown of green satin and a string of pearls worth a small fortune around her slender white neck, sitting upright in Billy’s dining room with a teacup held daintily between her delicate fingers. Billy tries hard not to stare.
“Truly,” she says sincerely, “I am indebted to you. My husband will feel the same, once he learns of your heroism.”
“I did only what any man would do,” Billy says for the third time. He spears a piece of melon on his fork and puts it in his mouth, eyes on the countess. She sips her tea serenely. He wonders what she’s thinking.
Maxine says gaily: “He will want to meet you, and thank you himself!”
“He has no need to thank me,” Billy says with a smile, although his heart is beating again. “You would have saved yourself, my lady! I have never seen a young woman so brave.”
“Fussing and crying is for children,” the girl says stridently, and Billy hides a smile behind his napkin. She presses on, “Please, my lord - you said you were due to visit your home in Marseille soon anyway. Will you not come sooner, and meet my father?” She glances swiftly at her mother. “You could attend my birthday celebrations!”
Billy takes a sip of his lemon water, pretending to think about it. “I don’t know…” he says. “I have some business to take care of here in Paris, and I should not like to intrude on a family occasion—”
“You would not be intruding!” Maxine bursts out at once. “I’m turning sixteen - it’s a proper ball, with plenty of people in attendance. Please, my lord - it is a matter of honor. You must allow my father and I to thank you in full for what you have done for me.”
“My daughter is quite right,” Countess Harrington says quietly. “We would be honored if you would join us for the celebrations, my lord. My husband, I know, will be very anxious to meet you, and I am no less eager to host you myself.”
This is, of course, exactly what Billy has been aiming towards, but he pretends to prevaricate a few minutes more before finally accepting. “Very well,” he says. “I will conclude my business in Paris early. After all, is not Marseille the best and brightest of all the cities in Europe?”
“It is, it is!” Maxine exclaims delightedly. “Thank you, sir. I look forward to hosting you then.”
Breakfast thus concluded, Countess Harrington and her daughter take their leave. Billy bends to kiss the countess’s hand before she goes, and she gives him a tight, controlled smile and nods her elegant head. So passive, so reserved! He can barely make her out at all, as cool as stone as she allows Carol to assist with her cloak.
After they have gone, Billy walks into the drawing room to join his crew, shaking his head slowly. He can see that his companions are watching him, but they say nothing, and at last he bursts out: “What can Steve see in that woman? How can she make him happy?”
Tommy and Eddie exchange glances, for once on the same side. “She is certainly very different from you,” Tommy says carefully.
“She’s nothing like me!” Billy exclaims. “Where is the joy, the laughter, the passion? Steve - Steve is warm, like the sun. I never knew anyone so joyful and pleased with the world. I never knew anyone who laughed like he did—”
He stops abruptly. It’s been a long, long time since he allowed himself to recall Steve Harrington’s laugh.
“Perhaps she has better humor in private moments,” Chrissy offers doubtfully.
Billy makes a scornful noise. “I have never seen someone so careful in everything they say and do,” he says flatly. “Her mouth looks as though it never learned how to smile. How could Steve love a woman like that without all his joy and spirit suffocating and dying?”
“It’s been a long time,” Lucas says, dark eyes flickering around at the others. He’s always slightly more nervous than anyone else to offer an opinion. “Perhaps his tastes have changed.”
“They must have done,” Billy says heavily, and sits down in a nearby armchair, his chest aching. “I don’t understand it. I don’t - I don’t see how he could have what he had with me, all the love and passion and enthusiasm for life we shared, and choose that instead. Ice over fire, darkness over light - how could that be his preference?”
He hunches over in his seat. Tears are leaking from his eyes, and he presses the heels of his hands hard into them to wipe them away.
“Is it possible that he does not love her?” Chrissy asks hesitantly. “That there is more to the story than you know?”
“Perhaps he married her out of obligation because of the child,” Carol suggests.
Billy nods slowly. The motion feels sluggish and difficult, as though he’s controlling his movements from somewhere very far away. “Perhaps,” he says. “I have thought it over again and again, trying to understand why he betrayed me. Trying to explain it away. Perhaps he did marry her because of the child. Perhaps he didn’t know the extent of her mother’s plots against me. Perhaps he was deceived.”
“But?” Eddie says shrewdly.
Billy wipes his eyes wearily one last time. “The girl was conceived before I was sent away,” he says. “There is no getting around that fact. However much he knew of my father’s treachery, however little love there might be between him and his countess, he conceived a child and still told me he loved me. He let me—” his voice wavers, but he plows on “—he let me agree to become his husband in all but law, knowing all the while that he had been unfaithful. He swore vows to me, and knew he had already broken them.”
The words hang painfully in the air. For several long moments, no one says a word.
“He will pay for it,” Carol says at last.
Billy nods, very slowly. “Yes,” he says. “He will pay for it.”
Notes:
I know, I know, I'm setting myself up for you all to yell at me again but I can't help myself!
Chapter 28: vingt-huit (1831)
Notes:
Okay I have kept you guys waiting a WHILE for this and for that I apologise! I am a day late because I've been away, but I'm BACK and this thing that has been building for a minute is finally happening, so... enjoy!
Chapter Text
Billy is fashionably late for the party. This is by design, of course; there will be plenty of people here tonight who knew him in his old life, and he wants to establish himself in his new identity when they’re all in a crowd, distracted and drinking champagne together. In a smaller group, there’s more risk that some eagle-eyed observer might draw a likeness between the Count of Monte Cristo and the governor’s disgraced son William Hargrove. Besides, it’s terribly dull to be among the earliest guests to a party, and the Count of Monte Cristo is never dull.
“That’s the reason, is it?” Tommy said, when he was ushering Billy into his carriage before they left. “So delaying the moment of meeting Harrington has nothing to do with it?”
Billy paused in the act of stepping into the coach. “Servants,” he said irritably, “ought not to speak out of turn.” Tommy only laughed, and reluctantly Billy rolled his eyes and half-smiled. It’s not as though his friend was wrong.
It has been strange indeed, returning to Marseille. Billy has been preparing for this moment for three years - but he couldn’t really prepare himself for the shock of seeing the same streets, the buildings, the exquisite ships moored at the dock in the bay. He grew up in this city, and yet after sixteen years away from it, he’s a stranger here in more ways than one.
He deliberately arrived only a day before the date of Maxine Harrington’s sixteenth birthday celebrations. After the years spent building his identity and connections across Europe, he was certain that his reputation preceded him - but he didn’t want to risk an invitation to any other ball or gathering before this one. This is the only one that matters.
On the first evening after his arrival, he and Eddie took a long walk through the streets of Marseille, Billy’s smart shoes and cane tapping along the cobbled pavement as he walked. He didn’t have any particular destination in mind. He just wanted to see what it felt like, to be a welcome visitor in the city that abandoned him as a young man. He tipped his hat to the handful of people he saw, and received polite but distant salutations in return.
He felt utterly unknown, in a place where once it seemed the whole world knew his name. It left him icy-cold inside.
Eventually he found himself outside his old townhouse, standing behind the enormous ornate barred gate and staring up at the beautifully proportioned building. He had already made discreet inquiries: the house was sold less than a year after Billy was sent away, with the governor pocketing the proceeds. It should not matter, and yet still it stings.
He has a thousand memories in that house. It was not as much his as Mercedes always felt like his, and the loss of it doesn’t burn like the loss of his ship burns - but it was still his house. It belonged to him, bought and paid for from the proceeds of his work. He lived in it and managed it, and it was taken from him like everything else. Like his ship, his friends, his captain’s epaulets - his life.
Afterwards he walked past the governor’s offices, wondering if his father was still inside. It was late, but Governor Hargrove often burned the midnight oil. He didn’t let himself pause. There were too many people about who might wonder why, and besides, he was in no mood to allow his grief to win this evening.
His final stop was by the water. For an hour or more, he stood at the harbor winding his hair around his fingers and staring out at the inky waves, eyes traveling across the boats that were illuminated only by starlight. The moon was tucked away behind a bank of clouds, conveniently preventing anyone but Eddie from seeing the tears on Billy’s face.
This was once his home. This view - the ocean, the ships, the city - was once his favorite in all the world. Now it was full of ghosts.
Eddie remained by his side and didn’t say a single word, and at last Billy turned back for home.
And now he’s here, in a large expensive carriage drawn by two smartly attired black horses and driven by his own personal manservant from his mansion to Harrington’s. He’s here, and the mask that he allowed to slip last night as he walked through his hometown must now be fastened back onto his face, as tightly as possible. Here he can only be the Count of Monte Cristo. There is no room for Billy Hargrove at this party.
He hears the celebrations before he sees them. The air sings with violins and flutes, a stunning crescendo of music that soars out of the open windows of Harrington’s home, along with a stream of warm yellow light inviting him inside. The gates are open, and Tommy drives straight in, passing several distinguished-looking people clutching champagne flutes and talking loudly to one another.
Billy is barely aware of the other guests. He’s too busy staring up at the house he once knew as well as his own, a house he deliberately avoided visiting in his late-night roaming the day before. How many times has he walked through these very gates? At least a thousand, and he thought he’d do it many more thousands of times.
But Harrington chose. He had Billy - Billy’s hand closes momentarily over the ring, still wrapped securely around the third finger of his left hand - and he chose instead the cool alabaster woman Billy met a few weeks ago in all her expensive finery and tight-lipped propriety.
The carriage comes to a halt. Billy waits inside, heart beating too quickly. After a long moment, the door opens, and Tommy extends a hand to guide him out.
Billy swallows, picking up his gloves from the seat beside him and tugging them on. His cane - smartly polished ebony, a thousand miles away from anything he might have wielded in his old life - rests against his knee, and he picks that up as well with a flourish. Breathing deeply, he steps out of the carriage, briefly putting his hand in Tommy’s to help him.
Tommy gives his hand a quick squeeze before releasing him. Somewhat fortified, Billy straightens up, lifting his chin proudly. He will not falter, not now.
He’s wearing his most imposing and impressive set of clothes: a dark fur-lined cloak, a deep navy velvet coat with a design of golden embroidery picked out onto it, a silk shirt, and a cravat of blue silk with gold detailing. His hair tumbles onto his shoulders in carefully styled curls, and he’s wearing just the slightest touch of kohl to darken his eyes - both as a further layer of disguise, and because it suits him.
No one suits the role more than he does. No one is more admired, more welcomed, more perfectly poised to sail gloriously through the evening. He cannot be beaten, cannot be frightened. This party belongs to him.
Hand clenching around the head of the cane, Billy stands tall, looking up at the ornate facade before him. A red carpet leads the way to the entrance, and with one last glance at Tommy, he marches forward - and towards Steve Harrington.
The door opens as he approaches, and Billy strides through it without looking around, tucking his cane under his arm. He’s determined to seem completely at ease, without a trace of recognition in his face. He steps into the wide and beautiful entrance hall, filled with throngs of people all talking and laughing together. He barely sees them.
He won’t think of it, won’t remember. Steve walking beside him, holding his hand as they came into the house - Steve’s hands cupping his face, leaning in for a daring kiss before the door was even closed - Steve racing him across the gleaming marble floor towards the stairs—
In the Chateau d’If, he had nothing to do but burn the memories into his mind like a brand. He had no opportunity of replacing such thoughts with newer and better experiences, as Steve must have done. Billy clenches his fists by his sides. He will forget, one day. When his revenge is done, and everyone who wronged him is dead.
“Your cloak, sir?” The voice is quiet, deferential, and Billy has to force himself not to startle at the sound of it. He knows that voice.
Maxine mentioned Dantes, so Billy isn’t surprised to see the old butler, quietly standing by the door as he always used to do. Of course, he’s not really old - perhaps in his early sixties, his hair more gray than black now, but still the same diligent and stalwart presence in Harrington’s home.
Billy unlaces his cloak at his throat, allowing Dantes to remove it from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says absently, glancing over his shoulder towards the manservant as he peels off his gloves.
There’s a fractional pause, so brief that Billy could almost think he’s imagining it - but he’s certain Dantes has seen the likeness. For a single second, he’s frozen in place. Then he bows his head, and turns to pass the cloak and gloves to a waiting maidservant. He says nothing at all. The first test is passed.
“Champagne, my lord?” asks a nearby waiter, and Billy accepts a delicate flute. He looks around the hall, wishing he had accepted Eddie and Chrissy’s offer of company. It’s easier to arrive at a party with friends in attendance - but he had to do this alone. No one can save him tonight.
There are more than a few people in attendance that he recognizes. It gives him a little jolt every time - there a friend of his father’s, red-faced and chortling merrily at some joke - there a naval officer he trained with, talking earnestly to his pretty little wife - there a well-known elderly widow who Billy would have thought to be dead by now. Sixteen years older perhaps, but otherwise the society of Marseille is unchanged.
Only he is different.
He sips his champagne, gazing around at the crowds of familiar faces. He meets several interested returning glances, but not one of them bears any recognition. He has sufficiently changed. They no longer know him.
Good God - he’ll need more drink than this, to get through this night.
“Count!” Billy looks up sharply at the delighted exclamation, along with several other guests. It’s Maxine, calling to him from the top of the stairs, clearly heedless of any sense of propriety. Once again, Billy finds himself concealing a smile. Damn the girl - he doesn’t want to like her.
He raises his glass to her, and she grins back at him. She’s wearing a stunning gown of pale blue silk and lace, bringing out the color of her eyes, and her red hair falls in gentle curls onto her shoulders. As she bounds down the stairs, her little white shoes clattering on the marble flooring, Billy finds himself thinking that she’s a daughter any man would be proud of.
Swiftly he pushes the feeling aside. He’ll orphan her before he’s done; he can’t afford to feel any kind of affinity with her.
“My lady,” he says when she reaches him. He bows his head elegantly, and she bobs a pretty little curtsey.
“I’m so glad to see you,” Maxine says happily. “I’ve been telling my friends all about you, and of course my father is so eager to meet you. Have you only recently arrived in Marseille?”
He’s nearly bowled over by her childish enthusiasm. “That’s right,” he says. “I told you I had business in Paris - I did what I could to complete it early, but I only arrived last night. I was glad not to have to send my excuses.”
“I would have been very disappointed,” Maxine says.
Billy smiles faintly. “I could never disappoint you, my lady,” he says politely.
“Here is my mother,” Maxine says, turning slightly, and indeed the countess is gliding across the room towards them, a vision in maroon satin. Billy bows courteously to her, and she favors him with a tight smile.
“Good evening, your grace,” she says, her voice as graciously composed as ever. “We are honored to welcome you.”
Billy reaches for her hand, and brushes his lips against her knuckles. “Your home is beautiful, my lady,” he says. “I am delighted to be here.”
She glances around the elegant hall as though seeing it for the first time; he’s certain he sees a trace of discomfort in her face before the cool mask of society returns to it. “Thank you,” she says. “I hope your journey from Paris was not too arduous?”
“No, indeed,” he replies, but before he can fall into the conventional small talk in the way he’s by now so accustomed to, Maxine lets out an excitable little sound beside him.
“My father!” she exclaims. “I know he is very anxious to meet you - may I call him over?”
What a question to be asked! Billy’s mouth is very dry, his heart thudding so loudly that it’s a wonder the girl and her mother can’t hear it even over the music and chatter of the party. Sixteen years - for sixteen years he’s dreamed of this meeting, imagined how it might go - and even though the nature of his fantasies has changed since he discovered the truth, he still feels fear and desperate anticipation in equal measures.
“Of course, my lady,” he says, and only long practice keeps his voice even. “I would be very pleased to meet him.”
Maxine smiles, and without further ado she calls over Billy’s shoulder: “Father! Father, come and meet the Count of Monte Cristo!”
Billy forces himself not to turn around. He will not meet Steve’s - Harrington’s - eyes from a distance. He will not allow his once-husband to see him until they are standing face to face.
With his thumb, he touches the faded twine still faithfully stitched around his wedding finger.
Countess Harrington is speaking, and he forces himself to listen to what she’s saying. Forces himself to stand still, to remain with his back to the man whose footsteps he can hear approaching behind him. “—please allow me to introduce my husband, Count Harrington,” she says, and Billy tries to turn his face into something resembling polite interest. “Husband - this is the Count of Monte Cristo, who has performed such a service for our family that we may never repay him.”
“Count,” says a voice, and now Billy can’t help himself - he begins to turn towards it, because that voice - he has dreamed of that voice. He has heard it over and over again in his head, and now—
He turns, and there in front of him, as though they had never been apart, is Steve Harrington.
There he is. There he is, and for a moment the whole world stops, as though no one is in the room but Billy and Steve.
“I am so very pleased to—” Steve is saying, but then he stops too, and they look at each other, Billy and Steve. They look at each other, and Billy’s eyes are wide and swimming, as though he’s drinking Steve in.
He ought to look older. Billy knows that. But somehow Steve seems just the same, as though in this version of himself he holds all the versions Billy remembers.
There’s the child who played with Billy in the streets of Marseille, splashing through the shallows with a hoop and stick, laughing and kicking sand at him. There’s the boy of fourteen who raced with him up to the basilica, dared him to climb every tree in sight, and then cradled his head and wept over him when he fell.
There’s the young man who stood by Billy’s side as they manned their first ship together, who made love to him in the captain’s cabin, who kissed him with fire in his eyes and laughed at every inane word that came out of Billy’s mouth. There’s the man who swore to love no one else, who promised himself to Billy for all the days of his life, who put the ring on Billy’s finger that still remains there sixteen years later.
He’s not the same man, not anymore. He is older, for all that Billy stares at him and seems to see all the ghosts of the past. But in that moment, all thoughts of revenge - everything he knows of Steve’s treachery - all of it is gone. Only Steve remains.
What does he see, when he looks at Billy?
“Count Harrington,” Billy says throatily, barely aware of the words slipping out of his mouth.
Steve’s mouth works silently, but he says nothing. His brown eyes are blown wide, his whole body frozen. Even after all these years, Billy notices abstractedly that he still arranges his hair in the same careless manner, tendrils falling behind his ears and around his face. There are one or two threads of gray among them.
There are lines around his eyes, too - little creases that speak of too many nights spent squinting at ledgers. Billy never thought he’d see the day. Steve was never much of a reader. But then again - there are too many things he never thought he’d see.
That brings him back to himself. This man standing in front of him may look like his husband - but he is not. A quick glance at his left hand shows that it bears a gleaming golden band in place of the twist of string Billy put there sixteen years ago, a tribute to the elegant wife and excitable daughter now standing beside him.
He chose. And he did not choose Billy.
He smiles his most insincere smile, putting an expression of benign confusion on his face. Harrington has been silent too long. Billy says pleasantly: “Or perhaps I ought to call you Captain? I have heard that that is the form of address you prefer.”
More silence. The countess, frowning, murmurs: “Steve.”
“Yes,” Harrington says jerkily. He seems to shake himself a little. “Forgive me, I… Yes, I prefer… I prefer Captain.”
“Captain Harrington,” Billy says smoothly. “It is an honor to meet you, my lord. Your daughter speaks very highly of you. I cannot tell you,” he adds, pausing slightly, “how much I have been looking forward to this moment.”
Harrington just gapes at him wordlessly. Maxine says quickly, “Father, the Count of Monte Cristo has traveled from Paris especially for my birthday!”
“We are… we are very grateful,” Harrington says hoarsely. He swallows, and Billy has to avoid watching the graceful movement of his throat. Then he takes a breath, and goes on more normally: “Unless you are a parent, my lord, you cannot know the depths of my gratitude for what you have done for me and my daughter. Sir, I shall never forget you.”
It hits Billy like a blow - but he only smiles, extending a hand for Harrington to shake. He shivers a little when Harrington takes it. His palm is warm, and so, so familiar.
“I did what any gentleman would do,” Billy says calmly. His smile flickers a little. “I am certain, my lord, that within a month - you will not even remember my name.”
Harrington meets his eyes, and for a moment neither of them speak, joined by a handshake that neither of them seem quite willing to relinquish. Billy wonders for a brief hysterical moment what would happen if he were to haul Harrington towards him and kiss him.
He does not. Of course he does not. He will never kiss his treacherous husband again.
He releases Harrington’s hand, and turns fluidly towards the countess. “May I steal your wife?” he asks.
Harrington blinks. “Pardon me?”
“For the waltz,” Billy clarifies, pleased with himself for the play on words. He bows his head to Countess Harrington. “If you are willing, my lady?”
“Of course,” she says graciously.
Maxine beams around at them all. “I can dance with you, father,” she says. “I haven’t had the opportunity yet.”
So the four of them walk together through the archway at the back of the hall and into the ballroom, Billy pretending to allow the countess to guide him, as though he’s never been there before. The musicians are playing on a little dais at the far end of the room, and several couples are already dancing. Billy offers the countess his hand.
She takes it, moving forward into his arms, and together they move through the steps of the dance. She dances well, which ought not to be the surprise to Billy that it is. It’s only that she seems so stiff, so formal - he hadn’t thought she would be able to adapt to the flowing movements of a waltz.
But of course, she will have had the same training since childhood that he himself had. Her steps are impeccable.
“It is a spectacular party,” he tells her courteously.
She smiles, though the expression doesn’t quite touch her eyes. “Thank you,” she says. “Maxine has been looking forward to it for some time.”
“I’m glad the business in Paris did not dampen her enthusiasm for the celebrations,” Billy says, and he’s surprised to find he means it.
“Very little dampens my daughter’s enthusiasm for anything,” the countess says dryly. “You must forgive her, my lord - she forgets herself sometimes, in the heat of the moment.”
Billy frowns a little at the description. He likes Maxine Harrington, as much as he might wish not to. Where everyone else in the room hides themselves behind a mask of civility and manufactured elegance, she alone performs to no one. Her authenticity is precisely what makes her so engaging.
“You have a charming daughter, my lady,” he says reassuringly.
Countess Harrington nods slowly. “She is not much like me, I must confess,” she says.
“More like her father, perhaps?” Billy ventures.
The countess glances sharply at him. “Perhaps,” she says. “The boy he once was, perhaps… I do not know.” She shakes her head a little, as though clearing away troublesome thoughts. “Forgive me. I am a poor dancing partner!”
“Not at all,” Billy says politely, and for the rest of the waltz they dance in silence, moving around the room in perfect time.
And all the time he tries not to be aware of Harrington, moving with less precision but so much more enchantment, sweeping his daughter across the ballroom while his husband and his wife dance together and carefully do not look at him.
Chapter 29: vingt-neuf (1831)
Notes:
Quite a few people were hoping for Steve's perspective, and fortunately I'm not keeping you waiting more than a week for it! Enjoy!
Chapter Text
The Count of Monte Cristo. The name is whirling in Steve’s mind, trembling on his lips - an unfamiliar name. The name belonging to the man who saved Maxine’s life in Paris, an astonishing feat for which Steve will be forever grateful, but no more meaningful to him than that. The Count of Monte Cristo.
“Isn’t he wonderful, father?” Maxine asks him while they’re dancing, and Steve forces himself to look down into her smiling face and agree that yes, the Count of Monte Cristo does indeed seem to be a man of great honor and impeccable manners.
But he is not the Count of Monte Cristo. He cannot be the Count of Monte Cristo, because he is Billy Hargrove, Steve’s husband, dead these sixteen years.
Steve cannot understand it. For the next hour, while the Count of Monte Cristo dances and drinks and makes merry with the rest of Maxine’s guests, Steve’s eyes slide continuously over to him. Is it Billy? Can there be any doubt about it? But Billy is dead, and this man behaves as though Steve is a stranger.
He moves beautifully through society, and has soon attracted a little swarm of ladies and gentlemen, ready to hang on his every word. That is not much like Billy. Steve knew, of course, how clever and amusing he could be, what a strong conversationalist - but he never had much patience with society functions. He didn’t like to entertain, to perform.
Not so the Count of Monte Cristo. He’s full of amusing stories and anecdotes, blue eyes sparkling as he delivers comedic little asides, asking thoughtful questions of his listeners so that Steve could swear every one of them believes his interest in them is genuine and absolute.
And perhaps it is. If it were Billy, Steve would know it was an act. But this man… this man looks like Billy, but he does not behave like Billy. Perhaps he loves his position in the center of everything, and Steve only thinks it’s a performance because he’s attributing the feelings of a dead man to a complete stranger.
After all - how can it be Billy? Billy is gone. Steve has mourned him so long he barely remembers what it would feel like to be without his grief.
The idea that there might have been some mistake - that somehow Billy might have survived - it intoxicates him. It fills him up, buoyant as though he’s floating on air, sailing somewhere in the clouds. Perhaps it has all been a bad dream - perhaps none of it really happened—
But he shook Steve’s hand as though he did not know him. He has behaved exactly the way a stranger might behave. Steve can’t understand any of it.
He tries not to stare as the evening wears on. Is his mind playing tricks on him? It’s been sixteen years, after all, and he has no portrait of his husband to remind him exactly what he looked like. Perhaps he is deceived—
Briefly, Steve touches the ring Billy left on his finger all those years ago. It’s hidden tonight under the wedding ring Nancy gave him, which he only wears at balls and other highly public events. It obscures his true feelings, his true love.
Maxine has never asked about the twine ring, though she must have noticed it over the years, when he has held her hand or smoothed the hair out of her face or done any one of the hundreds of little motions as her father that might have drawn her attention to his hands. He supposes it’s been there all her life; she’s too young yet to question such things. Steve shudders delicately to himself.
If Billy had lived, he might look something like this Count of Monte Cristo. The Count is the right age, after all - perhaps thirty-six or thirty-seven, the same sort of age as Steve himself. The age Billy ought to be. The Count’s hair is long and loose where Billy’s was cropped close to his head, and he has a carefully trimmed mustache and beard where Billy was clean-shaven.
There’s something too in his face - something dark and unsteady, where Billy’s expression was always open and joyful. Like Maxine. They’re so very similar.
So perhaps this stranger is not Billy, cannot be Billy. Perhaps they are distantly related - Steve thinks Billy’s mother had relations in Tuscany. Perhaps he is simply a ghost, sent to torment Steve a little further, as if he has not suffered enough over the years.
And no one else seems to see a likeness, even though plenty of the other guests at the party knew Billy Hargrove. Of course, they did not know him like Steve knew him, and they certainly did not love him like Steve loved him - but still, not one of them so much as blinks twice at the likeness. Have they forgotten Billy so easily?
Of course they have. They have pushed him away into the corners of their mind, the dead and disgraced governor’s son, and they won’t mention his name again. Steve knows what society is.
He agonizes half the night away thinking about it, and he’s no closer to an answer by the time the Count himself approaches, finally free of all his new admirers. Steve is standing alone by the enormous ornate fireplace in the inner anteroom, holding a crystal tumbler of whiskey without actually drinking from it. He’s shirking his duties as host, he knows - but Maxine is enjoying herself, and Steve needs a moment or two alone.
The Count picks his way across the room to join him. Steve can’t help but notice how good he looks in his fine coat and smart boots, his blue eyes gleaming under the light of the chandelier above.
He’s never noticed anyone, man or woman, since Billy’s death. With some horror, Steve wonders if that is the reason he sees a likeness - if the Count of Monte Cristo is simply the first attraction he’s felt since he was widowed.
“Captain Harrington,” the Count of Monte Cristo says, when he reaches Steve’s side.
“Monte Cristo,” Steve replies. It’s difficult to speak without his voice wavering. To be standing so near someone who looks so much like his Billy! He’s still reeling from the shock of it. “I… I do hope you’re enjoying your evening.”
The count smiles. It’s an odd, sideways sort of smile. “I am, thank you,” he says courteously. “And you? You must be very proud of your daughter.”
“Yes, indeed,” Steve says faintly. He can’t help but stare at the man in front of him, unable to really concentrate on what he’s saying. Those eyes - he could swear he knows those eyes, he’s loved those eyes for years - but then, it’s been sixteen years - can he trust himself?
“Is something wrong?” the count asks politely.
Steve realizes he’s been gaping for too long. The count looks somewhat concerned, and as well he might. “N-no,” he says. He forces himself to breathe, shaking his head a little. “Forgive me. You just… you remind me of someone I knew long ago.”
That earns him a raised eyebrow. “Indeed?”
“He was someone very dear to me,” Steve says impulsively. He can feel his cheeks flushing. “As close as a brother,” he amends. It’s the old lie. He and Billy used to laugh over it, though it was laughter tinged with sadness. Their affection for one another could not have been further from brotherly.
The count nods his head slowly. “I’m flattered,” he says. There’s a pause, during which both men sip their drinks. The Count of Monte Cristo has a glass of red wine, and Steve tries not to watch as he drinks it, the deep crimson liquid staining his lips. At last, the count says, “What happened to him, this friend of yours?”
Steve catches his breath. He ought to have expected the question, but somehow he did not. It’s been a long, long time since he’s spoken of Billy to anyone but Robin. Only a stranger would not know about the disgrace of Count Harrington’s great friend.
“He died,” he says, his voice choked.
“That is unfortunate indeed,” the count says gravely. He takes another sip of his wine. “But I am not that man.”
Steve’s eyes prickle, but his voice is steady when he replies, “No, of course.”
They stand together in silence. Steve can’t think of a single thing to say in order to break it. Since Billy’s death, he’s imagined all the things he might say to his husband if he were allowed a single day, a single hour to be with him again - but he could never have imagined a situation like this.
It can’t be Billy standing beside him - because Billy would not treat him like a stranger. And yet - and yet, he seems so familiar.
Steve’s heart throbs in anguish. After all these years, he’s grown accustomed to his own grief, accustomed to the cloud he carries around with him. The weight of Billy’s loss is so familiar that he can no longer remember what it felt like to be free of it. But now it’s as though it’s all washing over him anew, the sight of this stranger stabbing him with fresh pain. He looks so much like Billy.
But it cannot be Billy, because Billy died loving him, and the Count of Monte Cristo is only a polite stranger.
“I’m very glad I was able to attend the festivities,” the count says amiably after a moment or two. “I was honored to receive the invitation from your wife and daughter.”
“We’re very glad to have you with us,” Steve replies mechanically. His chest is hurting.
They lapse into silence once more. Across the room, Steve catches sight of Nancy and her mother approaching; he bites down hard on his tongue. His opinion of Lady Wheeler has never improved since she forced him into marriage with her daughter. She’s never made an attempt to foster a closer relationship, but neither does she stay away from him in the way he would prefer.
He wonders suddenly if she will notice the similarities between the Count of Monte Cristo and Billy Hargrove - if, out of all these vacuous unobservant people, she will be the one to pick up on the likeness. After all, she once set her cap for Billy, though she might well wish to forget it. She used Steve’s love for him as blackmail fodder.
Will she see what Steve sees?
Steve makes a conscious effort to make himself look welcoming as Nancy draws nearer. He suspects Lady Wheeler has specifically asked to be introduced to the Count of Monte Cristo, because Nancy would be unlikely to bring her into conversation with Steve otherwise. She’s well aware that there is no love lost between the pair.
He glances sideways at the count once more. After all the easy conversation and enchanting repartee he’s been delivering to Steve’s guests, the count’s silence is somewhat surprising, as though he too is struck with the speechlessness under which Steve is suffering. But that can’t be right.
“Husband,” Nancy says, as she reaches them both. There’s just the faintest trace of wariness in her voice. They’re usually able to mask their formal, distant relationship in public, to put on the act of husband and wife - but of the four people in this little circle, only one is unaware of the true nature of their bond. Nancy turns to the count with a smile. “Your grace.”
“Countess Harrington,” the count says with a little bow. He smiles, all amiability. “And this must be your sister, my lady. Indeed, the likeness is unmistakable.”
Lady Wheeler dimples and blushes; far from seeing Billy Hargrove’s likeness, she seems as susceptible to the Count of Monte’s charm as anyone. “You flatter me, my lord,” she simpers. She touches Nancy’s arm. “The countess is my daughter.”
The count gives an exaggerated startle. “I would not have believed it!” he cries warmly, and Lady Wheeler laughs.
“My mother-in-law, Lady Wheeler,” Steve says quietly.
The Count of Monte Cristo dives at once for her hand. “Lady Wheeler,” he murmurs, and raises it to his lips. Lady Wheeler looks utterly delighted.
It is the same kind of courtly flirtation that fills these inane parties, although it must be said that the count is particularly skilled in his efforts. From what Steve has observed, the count has been applying his charm liberally to everyone he has met at the ball - and it always seems to have the same effect.
Does that prevent them from seeing the likeness? Or is Steve simply seeing what he wants to see?
“After hearing my granddaughter’s tale of your heroics, I was most anxious to make your acquaintance,” Lady Wheeler is saying. She beams up at the count. “She certainly did not exaggerate, my lord!”
Steve grinds his teeth. Nancy’s mother has heard no such story from Maxine; she only knows what the general populace at large knows. She has almost no relationship with Maxine.
But the Count of Monte Cristo does not know that. He waves an affable hand. “Truly, it was nothing,” he says. “I am only grateful that through meeting your granddaughter, I have been fortunate enough to meet all her family and friends! And now, my lady, you must do me the honor of a dance.”
Lady Wheeler’s eyes gleam with pleasure. “The honor is mine, sir,” she says coquettishly, and she takes the count’s outstretched hand.
Nancy turns to watch him lead her mother away. “He is certainly quite the charmer,” she says dryly.
“Yes,” Steve says absently, watching the pair walk back towards the ballroom. The way the man walks, the way he smiles… Everything about him seems to remind him of Billy. How is it possible?
“I think he’s befriended every guest we’ve invited,” Nancy says.
Steve glances at her, something in her tone making him frown. “You do not like him?”
“I didn’t say that,” she says quickly. “He saved Maxine, and for that I’ll always be grateful.”
“Then what?” he asks.
She hesitates, biting her lip. “I cannot say,” she says pensively. “There’s just something in his manner… You don’t feel it? A falseness, perhaps.” She shakes her head. “Or perhaps I’m imagining things. After all, he’s among strangers! We all put on something of an act, in such circumstances.”
Her words have an edge, and Steve flushes a little. Still, though, he knows what she means.
“He saved Maxine,” he repeats, as though convincing himself. “And whether it’s an act or not, his charm is harmless enough. Come, it will be time for dinner soon.”
“You must prepare for your toast,” Nancy says.
Nerves coil in the pit of Steve’s stomach. He normally doesn’t mind speaking in public, but today… today he’s full of anxiety. Maxine was kidnapped, stolen away in an instant, and the man who saved her looks so much like his dead husband that he can barely bring words to mind. How he’ll make the traditional birthday toast, he has no idea.
The last dance has come to a close, and the guests begin to drift into the room in which the dining tables have been set up. Steve is barely aware of his surroundings, although even a cursory glance tells him that as usual, his staff have outdone themselves. Every table gleams with perfectly displayed crockery and glassware, with napkins arranged in outlandish shapes on the plates. Tiny cards with ornate calligraphy denote the name of each guest, and dried flower petals festoon the tables around them.
Steve, of course, is seated with his family on the largest and grandest table of all, with all the closest and most important guests. He doesn’t care for any of them except Maxine, who sits at his right hand with Nancy on her other side. The governor is not in attendance - Steve rarely invites him to social functions, and even when he does, he’s usually too caught up with business to attend - but several of his councilmen are here, and they’re seated on Steve’s table along with Lady Wheeler and, of course, the Count of Monte Cristo.
He had to be on the head table, after what he did for Maxine. Steve has no idea what to think about him anymore.
Everyone knows the story of Maxine’s rescue, and there’s a round of mutters and whispers when the count takes his place. He’s sitting on the opposite side of the table from Steve, though a few seats down from him. Steve has to actively prevent himself from staring.
He looks so much like Billy. Every time Steve convinces himself he’s imagining it, he looks again - and sees those eyes, those eyes he’s dreamed about for sixteen years.
Waiters hover inconspicuously with bottles of champagne, darting forward to pour them when the guests sit down. There’s a general hum of chatter, the fizz of bubbles in glasses, and beside Steve Maxine throws back her head and laughs at something someone has said. He’s glad she’s enjoying herself. She at least has no idea of the painful memories he’s suddenly submerged in.
It’s time for the toast. Steve prepared it several weeks ago - but as eyes begin to turn expectantly towards him, he realizes with a jolt of panic that he can’t remember a word of it. He’s going to let his daughter down. He can feel it.
What can he do? Too many things have happened, and his head feels so full that it’s fit to burst. When he thinks of all the loving things he wants to say to Maxine, he remembers those panicked hours when he thought she was lost to him, and his throat closes up.
Still, he gets to his feet, tapping a teaspoon against his champagne flute for attention. Perhaps if he does everything he’s supposed to do, the words will come to him.
Slowly the room quiets, and anyone who was not looking in his direction does so. Scores of people watching him - it does nothing for the knot of anxiety low in his belly. Steve swallows.
“Good evening,” he says, too quiet. He clears his throat. “Good evening,” he repeats, a little louder. Beside him, Maxine is smiling up at him.
Steve takes a breath. His eyes land on the Count of Monte Cristo - but he must not look, must not think of Billy, not now. Reflexively, he tries to touch the ring on his finger, but of course it’s covered by the gold band he wears for the sake of appearance.
“My daughter is sixteen today,” he says. Every word feels as though it has been dragged through gravel. His eyes are prickling. “I stand here before you all to make a toast - to tell you—”
But it’s no good. The words will not come. His mouth is too dry, his stomach too tight. He’s going to fail Maxine in front of all her friends.
“It is my duty,” he tries again. He can feel them all watching him, no doubt all wondering why he’s stammering like this. It’s not his norm - but Maxine could have died, and then he would have lost everything—
Steve wets his lips. “My duty,” he says again, “to—”
“To introduce you all,” says a voice, clear and confident. Steve’s mouth falls open, and then he hastily closes it again. It’s the Count of Monte Cristo, fluidly standing and lifting his glass. His eyes are so very blue—
“—to the Count of Monte Cristo, yet again,” he goes on, and Steve, still staring at him rather stupidly, stumbles back into his seat. The count is still talking effortlessly. “You see, I have had the audacity to beg Count Harrington to allow me to give the birthday toast to Maxine.”
He smiles disarmingly. “I was so insistent and such is the graciousness of our host that he reluctantly gave up his fatherly right in order to accommodate a guest, even one as boorish as myself.”
There’s a little ripple of amusement. Steve’s breath is coming very fast. The count goes on, “Young Maxine has made far too much of the assistance I gave her in Paris. When I arrived in the hole in which she had been captured, I watched as the criminals, who had her bound to a post, threatened to cut off her ear and send it to her father as evidence of her abduction.”
Steve closes his eyes, his stomach churning. He can barely even allow himself to think about it.
Maxine has ducked her head, looking embarrassed but pleased. Several of the guests are gasping in shock; the details of her kidnapping have not been made widely public.
“The young lady’s reply to all this was, do your worst,” the count continues. That elicits more gasps. Maxine’s friends are all looking impressed, though Steve is still too unsettled to appreciate their admiration. Maxine herself has flushed pink, a little smile on her freckled face.
“Life is a storm, my young friend,” the Count of Monte Cristo says quietly. Steve looks up at him. His blue eyes are suddenly very serious. “You will bask in the sunlight one moment, and be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you the person you are is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm, and shout as you did in Paris: do your worst, for I will do mine!”
He pauses. His eyes flicker minutely to Steve, and then back to Maxine. “Then the fates will know you as we know you,” he says. “As Maxine Harrington, the fearless, and the strong.”
There’s a moment where Steve could swear the whole room is spellbound, absolutely silent as they watch the Count of Monte Cristo. Maxine is watching him too, her eyes just slightly wet.
Then the count picks up his glass and raises it, and everyone else gets to their feet to join him in the toast.
There’s applause now, ringing throughout the room. Maxine looks the happiest she has all night. It was a beautiful toast, better than anything Steve could have come up with even if he had not frozen in place before the count saved him. Perhaps that ought to upset him, but somehow it does not. It feels right that the Count of Monte Cristo spoke for Maxine.
Steve looks across the table at him. Thank you, he mouths. The count bows his head courteously before turning away to talk to the person next to him.
He looks so much like Billy, but that, of course, is madness. Billy is dead, and this man is merely a kind stranger, who not only saved Maxine in Paris but has now saved Steve in Marseille. Steve smiles, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He glances at the Count of Monte Cristo again.
And stops.
The count is talking to someone else, completely unaware that Steve is observing him from across the table. And as he speaks, as he enchants yet another listener - his hand reaches unconsciously into the hair just behind his ear, twirling a few little strands around his fingers.
Chapter 30: trente (1831)
Notes:
I knowwww a couple of people were a little confused by the hair-twirling thing.... I'm sorry, I have tried to include it in earlier chapters, but it's lifted directly from the movie and I guess it's more of a visual thing! Either way, Steve will be ruminating in the next few chapters, so hopefully that will explain it!
Chapter Text
Billy strides across the gravel drive, gloved hand clutching his cane. It’s past one in the morning, and although there are still some guests lingering in the ballroom, the party is definitely winding down. He’s beyond ready to depart for home.
He’s angry with himself, and it’s making him grip the cane with tight painful knuckles. He has to consciously wipe the furious frown from his face, just in case anyone is watching.
Why did he do that? Why did he step in when he saw that Steve - Harrington - was struggling?
It ought to have been a moment of triumph. For three years, he’s been imagining how it might feel to revenge himself upon his erstwhile husband. He’s gritted his teeth every time he’s caught sight of the ring on his finger, reminding himself of Harrington’s betrayal, and swearing to take his revenge. He’s pictured Harrington’s downfall with a kind of agonized delight.
This was only a small taste. He could see from the moment of his arrival that Harrington was deeply unsettled by the sight of him - as well he might be! And Billy knows Harrington. He knows how much he dislikes surprises and sudden change. Although he hadn’t specifically intended to rattle him so much that he was unable to perform the birthday toast, Billy knew exactly what was happening as soon as Harrington tried to speak.
It ought to have been satisfying. It ought to have been the beginning of everything he’s been working towards for the past few years. But somehow… somehow it was not. Harrington’s distress brought him no pleasure whatsoever.
Why not? Harrington betrayed him. He married another, and gave her a child before Billy was even gone. And although Billy will perhaps never know the extent to which Harrington knew of his father’s treachery, it’s naive to believe he was completely innocent of it, not when he married the daughter of the governor’s co-conspirator.
But when Billy saw him standing there, anguish written all over his lovely face, he could not let him falter. He had to step in, to support him as he did so many times when they were boys.
In retrospect, he supposes it was for the best. The toast was for Maxine, and she is innocent of any of this mess. Billy doesn’t want her to suffer any more than she must. But he can’t pretend that he did it for her. He can’t pretend his rescue was for anyone but Steve.
He can’t allow himself to be weak, not now. Not after everything he has planned.
It was a test, this first meeting. Harrington was not confident enough in his recognition of Billy to speak out, so in that sense the test has been passed. Of course, Billy himself failed to keep his heart hardened against his husband - but he will do better next time. It was only the shock of seeing him for the first time, after so many years of seeing his face in all his dreams.
At least the rest of the evening went exactly as he wanted it to. There was no danger that he might soften when faced with Lady Wheeler, after all, and she fell perfectly into his trap.
He’d wondered, when he claimed a dance with the lady, whether she might then recognize him. Whether the intimacy of being held in his arms, his face looming mere inches above her own, might spark recollection.
He need not have worried. Lady Wheeler is as foolish and caught up in her own reputation and advancement now as she was sixteen years ago, blinded to anything outside her own narrow worldview. She was convinced he admired her, blushing and beaming as he led her through the dance, in spite of being so many years his senior.
It was not difficult to win her over. She was disposed to be charmed, and when he wants to, Billy is capable of being very charming. He asked her gentle, attentive questions about her life and interests, complimenting her and flattering her at every opportunity, and she melted into the praise without questioning it in the slightest.
“I can see that you are a woman of great discernment,” Billy said with a smile when the dance was over. He led her to a quiet corner of the room, and she came willingly. “I’d wager no one knows more about the inner workings of Marseille society and politics than you.”
“Oh, you are too kind, sir,” she said with a dimple, fluttering her eyelashes up at him. “I am only a modest woman, making my own limited observations of the world around me.”
Billy shook his head at once. “No, no, that cannot be so!” he exclaimed. “I see how others seek your company and advice. Why, your son-in-law must be the richest man in Marseille - who else could have made such a connection for her daughter? I admire you, madam.”
For some reason, this observation made her flush. “I only did the best I could for my daughter,” she said.
“And how could he resist, when that daughter is as beautiful as her mother?” Billy said gallantly.
Lady Wheeler gave a coy little titter. “Well, if you are ever in need, I will certainly do what I can for you,” she said.
“Your kindness, madam, is unparalleled,” Billy said courteously.
Lady Wheeler opened her mouth to respond - but before she could, there came the soft sound of someone clearing their throat behind them. Billy turned around. Standing a few feet away was Tommy, head bowed and hands tucked neatly behind his back, the very picture of deference.
“What is it, Hagan?” he said sharply.
“Excuse me, your grace,” Tommy said. He glanced around. The room was beginning to empty, most guests heading into the dining room for dinner, and there were few people around to hear them. “A brief matter of business—”
Billy pasted an expression of extreme irritation onto his face. “Can it not wait?” he snapped. “I am at a party, Hagan, and you just interrupted my conversation with this delightful lady.” He gestured to Lady Wheeler, who smiled and simpered at the attention.
Tommy dropped his head apologetically. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said, so regretfully that Billy could almost forget that every moment of this interaction was planned ahead of time. “You asked me to inform you if word came regarding the Hawkins matter—”
“Yes, yes, alright,” Billy said swiftly. He turned to Lady Wheeler with a disarming smile. “You must forgive me, my lady,” he said. “If you would only wait a moment while I get rid of my man, I will escort you to dinner.”
He could see that the word Hawkins had registered with her. Her eyes were wide, sharply curious, and all the coquettish nonsense had disappeared from her expression.
“Of course, your grace,” she said, with a calculating smile.
Billy hurried over to where Tommy was standing. Of course, since the interruption was a sham - Tommy had been instructed to wait surreptitiously in the wings until he saw that Billy was talking privately with Lady Wheeler, and then to interject just as he had done - they did not really need to discuss anything. Instead, they murmured convincingly together for a minute or two, and Billy made sure Lady Wheeler could see Tommy handing him a sealed letter. He tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat.
“All according to plan, it seems,” Tommy whispered softly to him, and Billy could barely hide a smile. The woman was a fool.
When he judged enough time had passed to make the exchange believable, he waved Tommy away and returned to Lady Wheeler with an apologetic air. “My man has no sense of timing,” he said.
“Not at all,” Lady Wheeler said at once. She paused. “I hope nothing is wrong?”
“No, no,” Billy said, but he allowed himself to sound troubled. “At least - well, I am sure I will find a solution.”
Her eyes were gleaming with avaricious curiosity so transparent that it was a wonder she thought him ignorant of it. “Might I assist you in any way, your grace?”
Billy pretended to hesitate, though in reality she was playing perfectly into his hand. “I could not impose… the matter is somewhat delicate—”
“I assure you, my lord, I am the soul of discretion,” she said.
“I do not doubt it,” Billy said untruthfully. He could not help but smile a little wolfishly down at her. “After what happened in Paris with your granddaughter, I feel inextricably linked with your family. I know I can trust you, and as it happens, your superior intelligence and knowledge may be exactly what I need, as a newcomer to the city.”
Her hand, claw-like, closed around his arm. “I am your loyal servant,” she said, blinking large eyes up at him.
He nodded as though convinced. “I thank you,” he said. “It is difficult sometimes to know who to trust. The fact of the matter, my lady, is that I have a shipment arriving tomorrow evening into the main port - my man has just informed me of the time. I’m sure you know how it is. The officials at the docks are so overscrupulous in their duties - they insist upon inspecting every piece of cargo that arrives, even when it is of a private nature—”
She was quick to understand the point. “Oh, indeed,” she said swiftly. “And what business is it of theirs, anyway?”
“That is just my own opinion,” Billy said warmly. “In other places I have lived, I have had connections with… with the right people, shall we say? But I know nobody in Marseille, and really, the import tax in this day and age is quite absurd…”
“I quite agree,” Lady Wheeler says. “As it happens, your grace, I may just be able to help you. Did you say tomorrow night? I could give you the location of a private dock you could use. You could put your cargo on a smaller boat before docking at the main port, and send it there with a single crewmember. I will tell my own man to look out for your ship.”
Billy’s eyes widened, as though he had not researched her thoroughly enough to know that she would have this solution to offer him. “My lady, I am struck dumb by your goodness,” he said.
He was sure she was already imagining the chests of gold of which her man would be ready and waiting to relieve his single crewmember. He had investigated her rigorously before arriving in Marseille. In spite of her elevation in society since her daughter’s marriage, in spite of her wealthy son-in-law, the lady had expensive tastes - and a habit of gambling. She was heavily in debt.
At first it had surprised him to learn that Harrington had not helped her out of her financial difficulties, but he could only conclude that she was too concerned with her reputation to tell him. Besides, the bank had been willing to excuse her until now, given her connections.
That, of course, was before Billy purchased the bank.
He fed her a few more details, and she gave him the location of the quiet private dock to which she had referred. Then he offered her his arm, and escorted her into the dining room with a beaming smile. Her eyes glittered with avarice; he could see that she thought she had duped him.
She had no idea that it was the other way around.
Now Billy is leaving the party, with at least one of his goals in attending accomplished. And really, it is the more significant one. Perhaps his foolish instincts prevented Harrington from being publicly humiliated in the way he deserves, but Billy always intended on taking his time with that particular piece of revenge. He has at least got under Steve’s skin.
Lady Wheeler will be dealt with tomorrow, efficiently and completely. He wants her cleared out of the way so he can focus on the two betrayals that cut the deepest. That is the material point.
Tommy has brought his carriage around, sitting patiently atop it with the reins in his hands while the door waits open for him. Billy gives him a jaunty smile and a nod, tossing his cane up to him. Tommy catches it easily.
“Home we go, Hagan,” he says, climbing inside the carriage. He closes the door, and the vehicle begins to move.
When Billy turns away from the window, however, he freezes.
Steve is sitting on the opposite seat, pulling down the hood of a large cloak that was covering his face.
His face, his lovely face, so sweet and so familiar that for several seconds Billy is struck absolutely dumb by it. They’re so close, here in the quiet dark intimacy of the carriage. Steve’s mouth is trembling, and there are tears in his eyes. He swallows audibly, taking a shaky breath as he looks at Billy.
Billy can’t speak. He has no idea how to speak.
In a little rush of velvet and a squeak of polished boots, Steve moves to sit beside Billy on the same seat. Billy can feel the warmth of him, the closeness of him. His ears are buzzing, his heart thrumming.
Then, without a word - without any indication that he might be about to do something so reckless - Steve leans forward and presses his mouth to Billy’s.
It’s a clumsy, graceless kiss. Billy can taste salt from Steve’s tears. Their noses bump together, and Billy’s beard - nonexistent the last time they kissed - scratches uncomfortably against his lips. He’s still utterly stricken, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Steve is kissing him. After sixteen years - Steve is kissing him.
Billy’s throat is tight, his breath coming fast and harsh. After so long dreaming of this moment - because in spite of all his rage, all his anguish, even learning how deeply Steve had betrayed him was not enough to stop him wanting Steve - he can’t respond to it, can’t return the kiss. Which, of course, is all for the best.
Slowly, jerkily, he pulls away from Steve’s touch.
It doesn’t deter Steve. He reaches into Billy’s lap to clutch at his hands. “Billy,” he half-sobs. The tears are flowing properly now. Billy has so rarely seen Steve cry. Of the two of them, he was always the more stoic. He squeezes Billy’s hands. “Your father told me that you were executed!”
“Did he,” Billy manages to get out in a flat voice. It’s not a question.
Steve seems utterly unaware of his tone. “Oh, God,” he says, choked with emotion. He reaches for Billy’s face again, one hand cupping the back of his head, leaning in for another tearful kiss.
But Billy is prepared for it now. He leans away, allowing an expression of appropriate shock to pass over his face. “Captain, you are mistaken,” he says firmly. He leans a little out of the window, calling to Tommy. “Back to the Harrington residence!”
“No!” Steve half-shouts the word. Billy is amazed by his lack of restraint. To kiss another man - it is a crime punishable by death, and yet he has thrown all caution to the wind, all sense of respect and honor and reputation. If Billy were not Billy - how can he be this certain? How can he be this reckless?
“For the sake of your reputation and that of your daughter, I will forget this ever happened—” Billy begins.
But Steve is shaking his head frantically. “No,” he says again. “No, I beg you, Billy - I don’t care for my reputation—”
“I am not this Billy!” Billy exclaims.
“Stop it, stop it!” Steve cries, and now he’s so wild that Billy’s mouth falls open. He’s never seen Steve like this, so heedless of danger, so hysterical and frenzied. “Stop it,” he says again, a little quieter this time.
The carriage is turning around, the horses galloping back to the house they have just left. Steve sinks into his seat, burying his face in his hands. His chest hitches as he sobs into them. “So what are you?” he asks helplessly, and Billy’s heart lurches in spite of itself. “A spirit? Some ghost sent to torment me?”
Billy closes his eyes very briefly. He is far too near tears himself, his whole body trembling, disguised only by the rattling of the carriage. To see Steve in this agony - to see his wretched distress—
It should satisfy him. But it only brings him a desperate heartache that radiates through his entire being.
He cannot forget. He cannot allow himself to forget the truth of everything Steve has done to him, the betrayal, the abandonment.
He says slowly: “I have known men of your kind before, Captain Harrington. I will not judge you for your choices. I will not spread your business abroad. But it must never be mentioned again between us.”
“What do I care?” Steve says hopelessly.
Billy bites his lip. He’s moving in dangerous territory now - but he can’t help himself. “This Billy,” he says. “You loved him?”
“Yes,” Steve says, so passionately that it strikes Billy like a blow. It seems the finger around which his ring is tied is aching.
“For how long?” he asks.
A strange, melancholy little smile crosses Steve’s face. “For all of my life,” he says. His voice rings with a sincerity that cannot be real. It cannot.
He married, Billy reminds himself fiercely. He married within a month or two of Billy’s incarceration, and his child was born so early that she must have been conceived even before that. He married the daughter of the woman who colluded with the governor to send him away.
His voice is rough and bitter when he speaks again. “And how long after he died before you married the countess?” he asks.
Steve blinks, his face changing. It’s as though the question never occurred to him, as though the suggestion is unreasonable. As though marrying Lady Wheeler’s daughter mere months after swearing himself to Billy could be considered natural.
“That… that isn’t fair,” he says unsteadily.
The horses stop moving, and Billy glances out of the window. “We’ve reached your home, Captain Harrington,” he says coldly. He pushes the door open and gets out of the carriage, waiting. Waiting for Steve to leave. Waiting for him to acknowledge that it is his own actions which have driven Billy away forever.
There’s a long, long moment where Steve just sits there staring at him, and Billy wonders if he’ll refuse to get out of the carriage. Steve’s capacity for stubbornness was always amazing to Billy, back when they were boys and he thought they were in love. Steve’s face is wet, his mouth twisted in pain.
But then he gets out of the carriage, pulling the hood back up over his head. He moves past Billy, close enough that their hands almost brush.
Steve pauses as Billy is about to get back into the vehicle. “You’re right,” he says. His voice still quivers a little, but he’s regained control of himself once more. “You cannot be my Billy.” He takes a deep, trembling breath. “My Billy would never treat me like this.”
It’s like an arrow straight in his heart. Billy sucks in a sharp breath. “Well, there you are,” he says tightly. “You said it yourself. Billy Hargrove is dead. Goodnight, Captain.”
Does Steve believe him? He can hardly tell. He’s barely holding back his own emotion, his own grief. Steve just looks at him, and he looks… he looks disappointed. Disappointed that Billy has not fallen into his arms, yes, but more than that - disappointed in Billy. As though he expected better. As if, somehow, Billy is the one who has been cruel.
Then he turns, and strides away back to the house without another word.
Billy refuses to allow himself to watch him go. He refuses to acknowledge the desperate beating of his heart. He jumps back into the carriage without looking at Steve again - but he leaves the door open.
“Tommy!” he barks out. “Tommy! Get down here!”
There’s a pause, and then the sound of Tommy climbing down from the front of the carriage. He clambers inside, his eyes wary, and sits on the seat opposite Billy.
Billy is suddenly filled with almost indescribable fury, pulsing white-hot inside him. Perhaps it is irrational, perhaps it is misdirected - but he feels it, and there is only one possible recipient. He leans forward, and snatches up the front of Tommy’s jacket.
“I know you let him in the carriage to wait for me,” he says menacingly. “If you ever again presume to interfere in my affairs, I will, I promise, finish the job I started the day we met. Do you understand?” He shakes Tommy’s jacket a little to punctuate his words.
He’s never spoken to any of his crew in such a way, and he can tell it’s frightened Tommy. Nevertheless, he lifts his chin defiantly. “I understand that you have lost your mind,” he says.
“Lost my mind?” Billy replies angrily. “My enemies are falling into my traps perfectly!”
“That man loves you,” Tommy says flatly, and Billy reels away from him. “You have a fortune, a crew of loyal friends, and a man who adores you.”
Billy snarls at him like a dog. “Have you forgotten what he did to me?”
“That was in the past!” Tommy exclaims. “He was a boy, and so were you. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what mistakes he made. But he loves you now, even after all these years. You see it. I know you see it.”
“He betrayed me—”
Tommy shakes his head. “He loves you,” he says. “Do you not know how precious that is? Take the money, take your crew, take your husband, and live your life! Stop this plan and take what you have won.”
“I can’t!” Billy exclaims.
“Why not?”
Billy has no answer. He knows there is an answer - but somehow, in the face of all that Tommy has said, he can’t find it.
Tommy says gently: “I have said from the beginning that I am not your servant, Billy. I may pretend to be, for the sake of your standing as the Count of Monte Cristo, but I am not your servant. I am your friend, and friends tell one another the truth. Even when you do not want to hear it, I will tell you the truth.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Billy says furiously. His head feels so full it might burst.
“I know,” Tommy says. He shakes his head a little sadly. “Come, Billy. I’ll drive you home.”
“I’ll walk,” Billy spits, and throws himself out of the carriage before Tommy can answer with any more inconvenient truths.
Chapter 31: trente et un (1831)
Notes:
You guys are the best, seriously. Thank you so much for the lovely comments and tumblr messages I've been getting lately, they really do mean the world to me!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The day after Maxine’s sixteenth birthday celebrations, Harrington does something he has not done in all their years of loveless marriage, and asks his wife for a favor.
He wakes late, the sun fully risen outside his window and gleaming around the edges of the curtains and into the room. When he wakes he lies for some time in his lonely bed, staring up at the canopies above him with dry, red-rimmed eyes. He hasn’t slept well.
Every time he closes his eyes, he remembers the cold harsh face of the Count of Monte Cristo the night before, blue eyes boring into his own. Billy Hargrove is dead, he said, his voice like ice, and it’s as though Harrington is back where he was sixteen years ago, sitting at that table in the governor’s office and hearing nearly the same words.
He’s never stopped mourning his lost love, but time has dulled the pain - until now. Now, suddenly, it’s all back in full force, as if he’s hearing of it again for the first time.
Grief stabs his heart like a blade, and he can’t understand how it manages to keep beating. He can barely move, barely breathe, with the weight of pain on his chest. Billy Hargrove is dead. Billy is dead - his husband, his love, his Billy—
Only the thought of Maxine gets him out of bed and dressed. Harrington goes through the motions mechanically, eyes staring listlessly across the room as he buttons his shirt. He can’t even cry anymore. It’s as though he’s beyond tears, so drained, so depleted of everything he ever had that even tears have been taken from him.
Walking downstairs to the morning room feels a little like stumbling through a dream, the world having stopped making sense from the moment he saw the Count of Monte Cristo yesterday evening. His head is swirling, and he can barely form coherent thoughts. He walks blindly, and seats himself at the breakfast table without looking around to see who else is there.
“Good morning,” Nancy says in her usual civil manner, ignoring the way he’s clattering his crockery.
Harrington blinks stupidly at her. Maxine hasn’t come downstairs yet, he realizes. Although she’s attended balls and parties before, she doesn’t usually stay up so late - but now that she’s sixteen, that will be changing. He manages to find his voice. “Good - good morning.”
Nancy pauses in the act of spreading her toast with butter. “Are you alright, my lord?” she asks uncertainly.
“Yes,” Harrington says, and then stops. His throat is so tight, his head so full. “No,” he says.
“Steve?” Now Nancy looks truly concerned.
He opens his mouth - but words fail him, and now, at the worst possible moment, he finds that he can cry, after all. Tears prickle painfully in his eyes, and one even begins to fall down his cheek.
“Forgive me,” he chokes out. “Forgive me.”
Nancy seems frozen in her chair opposite him, looking utterly shocked by his sudden outburst - and why should she not be? As far as she’s aware, nothing unusual has happened. They’ve just celebrated their daughter’s birthday, after her miraculous return to them from a terrible situation. She has no idea that anything else has occurred.
Besides, she’s unused to seeing him express any undue emotion. It’s been years since she last saw him do so, years spent in distant, businesslike civility. To be suddenly confronted by his tears, the uncontrolled grief he’s been so carefully holding back from her for so long - of course she has no idea what to do with it.
“Steve, what has happened?” she asks at last. To her credit, she at least sounds concerned.
Harrington tries to speak again, but his body is racked with a wordless sob. “Everything,” he says at last. “It is over, it is all - all over—”
Nancy hesitates, glancing towards the door, doubtless concerned that Maxine will come in and see this frightening display. Harrington can’t even make an attempt to get himself under control. It all seems so pointless now. Billy Hargrove is dead.
His wife seems to have made a decision. She puts down her knife with a little clink of silverware, and gets to her feet with a rustle of silk. Carefully, she moves around the table, pulling out the chair beside Harrington’s. She touches his hand.
“Steve,” she says carefully, “I know we don’t… I know we don’t have a relationship where you feel able to confide in me. I know the time for that is long past. But please, my lord - please tell me how I can help you. I don’t know what you need. I don’t know what has happened.”
Harrington lets out a broken little laugh. “Perhaps I ought to tell you everything,” he says despairingly. “What does it matter now?”
“Would it help you?” Nancy asks.
“No,” Harrington says. “Nothing will help. It’s over. Everything… everything is over.”
But somehow it does help, just a little, just to say it out loud. Just to have a moment where he isn’t hiding everything. Harrington swallows, pulling himself together a little. He takes a deep, shaking breath, and wipes his eyes with a napkin.
“Forgive me,” he repeats, his voice more even-toned now. He pauses - and that is when, for the first time in sixteen years, he asks his wife for a favor. “Could you do something for me today?”
“Of course,” Nancy says steadily.
Harrington nods, swallowing again. “Take Maxine out after she’s eaten,” he says. “I need… I need to be alone today.”
“Of course,” she says again. She looks as though she might say something else - but then they both hear the rustle of skirts and the rapid footsteps of Maxine approaching, and Nancy stands quickly, hurrying back to her original seat.
A moment later, Maxine bursts into the room, all smiles, and completely unaware of the atmosphere in the room. She’s radiant with joy, and all through breakfast she chatters happily about her party, requiring little response from either of her parents.
“And the toast!” she exclaims towards the end of the meal. She reaches out blithely, squeezing Harrington’s hand. “Oh, father, thank you for allowing the Count of Monte Cristo to speak! I know it wasn’t traditional, but the things he said—!”
Harrington flinches a little at the mention of the count, and he’s sure Nancy sees it. He says with an effort: “You did not… did not mind?”
“Mind?” Maxine laughs. “I know how you feel about me, father. You tell me you love me every day, and you tell everyone how proud you are of me at every party you attend! And I do love to hear it,” she adds quickly, and Harrington smiles faintly. “But the count - I was not expecting it, and it was such an honor. He was so kind.”
Harrington says nothing, but fortunately Maxine soon moves onto another topic, and shortly after that the meal is over.
Nancy suggests a walk by the seafront quite naturally, and Maxine acquiesces happily. Harrington sees them off with a dull smile, aware that Nancy is watching him in something approaching alarm - but unable to bring himself to really care.
Now he’s alone, the tears seem to have dried up once more. Steve goes listlessly into his study, collapsing into a little armchair in front of the fireplace. Robin would come to him if he asked, would listen to all his woes, but he’s too exhausted to recount them. Billy Hargrove is dead.
If Billy Hargrove is dead - who is the Count of Monte Cristo?
It makes no sense, and Steve can’t make his tired mind understand it. The count looks like Billy. He has Billy’s face, his eyes - God, those eyes! - his walk, his posture, his voice. Those things might be small coincidences - it’s possible, Steve supposes, that Billy had some distant relations of whom he was unaware. On his mother’s side, perhaps.
But that peculiar little mannerism of curling his hair around his fingers - that, surely, cannot be a coincidence? Steve has never seen anyone but Billy perform the unconscious gesture.
He remembers it acutely. Sometimes they would be talking quietly together in bed, and Billy would lie there with his face turned towards Steve and his fingers moving in his hair as he spoke. Sometimes he would sit on the deck of the Mercedes, gazing out across the dizzying ocean and tugging at his curls. Sometimes he did it because he was sad, and the familiar action seemed to comfort him. At other times, it was a sign of weariness, or even pleasure.
Steve remembers it so well, and it makes his chest ache. No one but Billy, surely, could do it? No one else could sit there absent-mindedly winding locks of his hair around his fingers as he talked? So then… so then the Count of Monte Cristo must be Billy.
But in other ways, he does not seem like Billy at all. Billy would never have looked at Steve the way the count looked at him last night in that carriage. There was a kind of bitter, hard-edged repugnance in his glance, the sort of look Steve might expect if any other gentleman discovered his predilection for his own sex. He was distant, cold. He felt like a stranger.
Billy would not look at him like that. Billy would not treat him in such a way. Billy loved Steve, as deeply and completely as Steve loved Billy.
But if he is not Billy, who is he? Is Steve losing his senses?
Perhaps that truly is the answer. Perhaps his years of grief, coupled with the shock and horror of almost losing Maxine in Paris, have caused his mind to addle. Perhaps he has imagined it all. The thought is almost too terrifying to contemplate.
Steve has no idea how long he sits alone in his study that day. He’s only vaguely aware of the sky moving and changing outside the window, the hours slipping away as he stares into nothingness and lets his grief wash through him, old and familiar and a little dusty.
He thinks Maxine and Nancy arrive home at some point, but no one disturbs him in his little corner of solitude. The day just goes on meaninglessly, and Steve spares a thought to wonder how it can. How the world can go on turning, when over and over his heart has been battered with anguish and loss.
Only when his bladder insists does he finally move from his chair, his joints creaking as he gets to his feet. He’s abstractly aware that he’s hungry, but has no desire to actually eat. It’s as though he’s been wrapped in cotton wool, and the world feels muffled and far away.
Once he’s visited the commode, Steve heads up the stairs, moving slowly and stupidly. Just as he reaches the top, he hears Maxine’s voice behind him, calling out to him as she comes into the house - but he’s too far into his agonized mind to respond.
“Father?” she says - and then, to Nancy: “What’s the matter with my father?”
“Your father is feeling unwell today,” Nancy says composedly, and Maxine makes a sympathetic noise. That’s all Steve hears before he’s out of earshot, treading quietly along the hall to his bedroom.
Ignoring Maxine, his beloved daughter, the only light in his life - he never thought he’d see the day. But he’s too lethargically unhappy to bring himself to care about it now.
Steve spends the rest of the day in bed, something he hasn’t done since he was first told of Billy’s death, all those years ago. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t wail or scream out his despair. In fact, he barely even feels his despair. He feels nothing. There is something very peaceful about feeling nothing.
He has no idea how much time has passed when at last there comes a little tap at the door. His inclination is to ignore it, but the door opens before he can fully make up his mind, and Robin comes into the room. She’s carrying a tray.
“Steve,” she says, in her usual no-nonsense tone. She puts the tray down on the table by his bedside, and moves a little closer to the bed. “Steve, you must eat something.”
Steve rolls over, away from her. He doesn’t want to eat anything. He doesn’t want to do anything except lie here, alone in his empty misery. To allow himself to drift away - to separate, finally, from the grief that has been his constant companion all these years - it feels like a blessed relief.
Robin, however, is not giving up so easily. She moves around to the other side of the bed, perching on the edge of it. “Steve,” she says again.
This time Steve is too tired to turn away. “Robin,” he says weakly.
“Eat,” Robin says firmly. “And then tell me what has happened. Your wife is worried, Steve. She sent me here to see if I could help - can you imagine how anxious she must be, to do such a thing? You know she barely tolerates me.”
Steve does know it, and it’s enough to make him guilty. Wearily, he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He has too many responsibilities to indulge himself in this way.
He drinks the water Robin has brought him, and eats the plate of bread, cheese and fruit. She waits beside him all the while, and when he’s finished raises her eyebrows expectantly. Steve heaves a sigh. He knows from experience that she won’t let him rest until he’s told her everything.
In truth, he knows he’ll feel better when he’s told it all - but the effort seems enormous.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” he says. His voice catches. “He—”
“He?” Robin asks gently.
Steve hesitates, biting his lip. It seems almost too preposterous to say it out loud, a concept beyond all sanity.
“I think… I think I may be losing my mind,” he whispers.
Robin looks concerned. “You seem sane to me,” she says.
Steve shakes his head. “The Count of Monte Cristo,” he says again. “He… he looks like Billy. He is Billy. My Billy. My… my love.”
That makes her stare, her blue eyes blown wide. “What?”
“He’s Billy,” Steve repeats. A tear trickles down his face. “Except… except he cannot be Billy, because Billy would not - Billy would never—”
“Steve,” Robin says. “Calm down. Tell me everything.”
And so he does tell her everything. He tells her the way he felt when he first saw the Count of Monte Cristo at the party, tells her how alike Billy the count is, and yet how no one but him seems to see it. He tells her about that little mannerism of his, curling his hair around his fingers, which the count repeated at dinner last night. And he tells her about his humiliation in the count’s carriage, leaving nothing out.
“You kissed him?” Robin gasps. “Steve, what if he - what if he tells somebody?”
“He said he would not,” Steve says with a listless shrug. “I think I lost my mind. I think I’m losing my wits.”
Robin reaches out, hand closing around his forearm. “Steve—”
“It makes everything I have worked for over the last sixteen years feel like a waste,” Steve says in a rush, and he realizes as he says it that it’s true. This is why he’s so devastated.
He goes on: “All these years, I’ve been living in Billy’s name. I allowed myself to be coerced into marriage because I knew he would not want his reputation sullied. I raised his sister as my own child for love of him! I have spent every moment, every breath I’ve had to spare in search of evidence that might prove he was executed wrongly. I have kept this—” here he dashes a hand against the finger which bears Billy’s ring “—on my finger all this time, and now—”
“And now?” Robin asks quietly.
Steve’s chest heaves on a sob. “He’s dead,” he says. “He’s dead, and this strange ghost has returned in his stead - a ghost who looks like him, who speaks like him, but who does not know me. And he… he spoke to me so coldly, Robin. What good was any of it, if a man who looks like Billy and behaves like Billy can hate me so much?”
“I don’t know,” she says. She squeezes his arm. “But there must be a point to it, Steve. There must. You have Maxine! You love her, as you loved him. And as for this count…”
“Is God punishing me?” Steve asks brokenly. “What other explanation can there be? I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how he can look so much like my Billy, and yet not be my Billy.”
Robin pauses, her brow furrowing thoughtfully. “Are you certain it was not him?”
“He said he was not,” Steve says. Billy Hargrove is dead, the Count of Monte Cristo said. He swallows painfully. “Why would he lie?”
“I don’t know,” Robin says, “but perhaps he did. Sixteen years is a long time, Steve. If… if he did not die, he must have been through many trials. He may not be the man you knew.”
Steve stares at her. “If Billy did not die, he would have come to me,” he says flatly. “He loved me, Robin. I’m not inventing it.”
She spreads her hands. “I have no further explanation,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Steve.”
“He was not like this,” Steve says. “My Billy - he was not cold like this. He was the warmest and kindest man alive.”
“Tell me about him,” Robin says, settling herself beside him on the bed. “Tell me what he was like.”
For all the evening, Steve tells her stories of Billy Hargrove, about the boy he loved sixteen years ago. He’s never really spoken about him, not openly like this. It’s a bittersweet pleasure to recall the vibrant headstrong young man he once knew, to talk about his prowess on the water, his quick temper that so swiftly melted away once expressed, his love of games and sports, his habit of sleeping with his mouth open.
Robin listens until his voice begins to falter, and then as he sinks down into his pillows, she stays beside him until he falls asleep. All his dreams are of his husband.
By the time morning comes, Robin has left him - but Steve feels better nonetheless. He’s had his day of mourning. He’ll never recover from losing Billy, and the mystery presented by the Count of Monte Cristo will no doubt take some painful untangling, but he still has Maxine. He still has Robin. He has survived this long, and he will go on surviving.
He still can’t decide what to make of everything that happened with the count. Is it Billy, pretending not to know him for some strange reason of his own? Steve can scarcely believe it. But then, how can he believe the alternative? For a stranger to have Billy’s exact appearance and mannerisms seems coincidental beyond all reason.
None of the explanations Steve can concoct make any sense at all. Billy Hargrove is dead, the count told him with those cold blue eyes boring into him - and there’s something wrong with that, though Steve can’t see what it is at present.
His spirits are not high when he finally emerges from his bedroom, but they are nowhere near as low as they were the day before, and he must be content with that. Steve walks down the stairs, still adjusting the cufflinks at his wrists. After his apathetic behavior yesterday, he’s keen to reassure Maxine that he is back to normal.
When he reaches the grand marble entrance hall at the foot of the stairs, however, it’s to find Nancy standing by the door, her face ashen and pale. She’s holding a letter in her trembling hands, and looks as though she might faint.
Steve immediately fears the worst. “Maxine?” he asks urgently.
Nancy turns at the sound of his voice. “Oh, Steve!” she exclaims.
“What’s happened? What’s wrong?” he demands.
She doesn’t look despairing, he realizes as he comes up beside her. The expression on her face is not so much unhappiness as it is a kind of muted shock, as though whatever has happened has completely taken her by surprise.
“It’s my mother,” she says, and Steve stares at her. Whatever he thought she might say, that was not it.
“Your mother?” he repeats.
Nancy nods slowly, bending her head to the letter once more as though she can’t quite believe what it says. “Steve - she’s been arrested.”
Steve’s mouth drops open.
“Arrested?” he says dumbly.
Nancy bites her lip. “Yes,” she says.
He can hardly bring words. “For what crime?”
“Theft,” Nancy says. She touches her mouth with her hand, looking distressed. “Steve - I know you have no love for my mother, but—”
It does not matter how little love he might have for Lady Wheeler. She is still a part of his extended family - and whatever shame she might endure will be reflected back on all of them. Steve does not typically care much for his reputation, but he can’t deny that this will be a blow, especially to Maxine.
“What happened?” he says at last. “What did she do?”
Nancy swallows, looking back down at the letter. “It says here that she paid a servant to steal chests of gold from an incoming ship,” she says. “Somehow she knew when the ship would dock, and arranged for the shipment to be diverted to her own private dock instead. Her servant then attacked the crewmates, but did not realize the gendarmes were nearby. When he was caught, the servant gave up my mother at once.”
“Good God,” Steve says quietly.
“I wish I could believe her incapable of this crime,” Nancy says. She takes a deep breath. “I know she has had some financial worries of late.”
It seems almost fantastical - Lady Wheeler, sophisticated and respectable, arrested for her part in a sordid theft. It’s not the way Steve thinks of her, in spite of his long-standing dislike of the woman. And yet it happened, and like his wife, Steve is unable to disbelieve it.
“What will happen to her?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Nancy replies. “But Steve - that’s not the worst part. I have not told you who she was stealing from.”
Something is stealing over Steve - a creeping sense of inevitability, like a cloud descending on his head. “Who?” he asks, his voice low.
Nancy opens her mouth, and Steve knows. He knows what she’s going to say before she speaks. “The Count of Monte Cristo,” she says. “After everything he did for Maxine - my mother took advantage of his kindness. She gathered information about his incoming shipment at Maxine’s party, and made plans to steal from him the next night.” She exhales shakily. “After everything he did - how could she do it?”
“How indeed?” Steve murmurs - but he’s not really listening anymore.
He’s not listening, because his mind is suddenly whirling. Lady Wheeler - Lady Wheeler has been arrested. She has been accused of a terrible crime, her reputation soon to be in tatters. Her life as she knows it is over, and it is because she chose to steal from the Count of Monte Cristo.
The Count of Monte Cristo, who looks so much like Steve’s husband Billy. Billy, who is the only person in Marseille who has more reason to hate Lady Wheeler than Steve himself.
It cannot be a coincidence. Not this time. Billy Hargrove is dead - but that cannot be so. It must have been a lie.
And then Steve stops in his train of thought, because suddenly he’s realized something else.
Billy Hargrove is dead, said the Count of Monte Cristo.
But Steve did not mention the name Hargrove. He only ever referred to Billy by his first name.
Billy Hargrove is not dead. Billy Hargrove is alive.
Notes:
Yeah okay so basically from this point forward... keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times!
Chapter 32: trente-deux (1831)
Notes:
Right, here we GO! Everything gets very dramatic now (y'know, because it wasn't before) and you should not expect anyone to behave rationally! I THINK this one might satisfy one or two people...
Chapter Text
It has been a long day. Billy has spent most of it with the gendarmes, a fact which cannot fail to amuse him; the last time he faced them, they were taking him away to the Chateau d’If. Now they treat him with a kind of obsequious deference, and he comes away with the impression that they would probably bend the law in any way he asked if it came with some accompanying gold.
Lady Wheeler has been arrested, and she is currently being held in a private cell until charges are brought against her. Billy’s trap worked exactly as he wanted it to. He had the gendarmes waiting when the lady’s servant sprang out to attack Lucas Sinclair, and the man gave up his benefactor at once.
Only the identity of the servant was a surprise. It was Billy’s old butler, Mondego, who apparently went to work for Lady Wheeler after Billy was sent away. That ought to sting, perhaps, but Billy has weathered the worst betrayals already. This one meant nothing.
When Billy asked the lieutenant in charge if the lady would be prosecuted, the man could only shrug. It was unclear at this moment if Lady Wheeler’s wealthy and powerful son-in-law would intervene on her behalf. But even if he does - all of Marseille will know what she has done. Billy will make sure of that.
He’d prefer her incarceration, of course. But even if Steve uses his riches and influence to smooth her path, Lady Wheeler will never again be welcome in society. Her reputation will be in shreds, every door closed to her. She will lose her standing, her friends, what little wealth she possesses. To a woman like that, it will be a fate worse than death.
And of course, when she has suffered all that for a while, Billy may yet kill her. He has not quite decided.
The carriage trundles to a halt outside his opulent mansion, and a moment later Lucas raps on the door. Billy used him as the bait for Lady Wheeler the night before, not Tommy. He and Tommy are on the coldest of terms since their argument after Maxine Harrington’s birthday celebrations.
“Thank you,” he says wearily to Lucas, climbing out of the carriage. “For giving evidence, too.”
Lucas shrugs. “Women like that have treated me poorly since I was a child,” he says succinctly. Billy nods, and heads for his front door while Lucas begins leading the horses away.
The door opens as Billy approaches it; Tommy is standing in the doorway, his face smooth and unreadable. “Welcome home, my lord,” he says coolly as Billy comes inside.
Billy sighs. “Tommy, I’m in no mood for this,” he says. He feels uncomfortable. He’s well aware that out of the two of them, he was more in the wrong the day before yesterday. “Can we not put this behind us?”
“You are my master,” Tommy says. “I must do whatever you command.”
“Please,” Billy begins.
Tommy holds up a hand. “You have a visitor, your grace,” he says.
Billy frowns. “A visitor?”
“He is in the drawing room with Lord and Lady Munson,” Tommy informs him. His icy professionalism is painful to witness. “May I take your cloak, my lord? I will have my wife bring you some wine.”
“For God’s sake,” Billy says irritably. He shrugs off his cloak, thrusting it towards Tommy. “Here, take it! If you insist on playing the part, so will I.”
Tommy’s face flickers, as though he’s not sure whether to be angry or amused. “As you wish, sir,” he says.
Thoroughly piqued, Billy strides through his entrance hall and towards the drawing room, ignoring the glint of the chandelier above him making little rainbows dance across the parquet in the early evening light. He’s not sure who his mystery visitor could be. On the one hand, there are many important men in Marseille who he’s sure are anxious to make the acquaintance of the great Count of Monte Cristo - but on the other, it’s difficult to imagine that this guest is unrelated to the events of the day.
It could not be Steve. Surely, surely, after the humiliating spectacle he made of himself in the carriage - Steve would not come here. Not even to beg for his mother-in-law.
The door is slightly ajar, and Billy can hear the low murmur of voices on the other side of it as he approaches. He pauses, taking a breath. Suddenly, more now than perhaps ever before, he wishes Hopper were at his side.
He hasn’t seen the man he’s claimed as his father in three years. Now that he’s pretending to be a great lord, he can’t very well be seen sailing off to pirate lairs - and besides, Hopper is busy with his own mission. He’s spent the last few years exploring every possible avenue to find his daughter, though it’s not easy when he’s a wanted outlaw and all those who might know anything are here in Marseille and would kill him in a moment.
They exchange letters, sent via Perkins in his hidden little hideout - but it isn't the same. Billy misses him suddenly with his whole body, desperate to see him, to talk to him. He’s surrounded by his loyal crew, but just now he feels horribly lonely.
But Hopper is not here, and Billy must make do without his father. He exhales, and pushes open the door.
Inside, just as deep down he had known he would be, Steve Harrington sits in a little chintz armchair beside the window, sipping a glass of port and talking quietly to Eddie and Chrissy on the couch opposite.
He looks up as Billy enters the room - but not the way he looked at Billy at Maxine’s party. There’s no wonder in his brown eyes, no awestruck amazement at the sight of him. Instead, there’s something knowing in his expression that makes Billy nervous.
He decides to go on the offensive. “Captain Harrington,” he exclaims. “I must admit that I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Why should you be?” Steve counters. He’s speaking slowly, carefully, and as he speaks he gets to his feet. “After all, you did have my mother-in-law arrested with that little trap you sprung.”
Billy can’t help it; his eyes dart towards Eddie. He knows his crew is not particularly impressed with him at the moment - Tommy may have expressed it the most vehemently, but Billy is well aware that Eddie and the others share his opinion - but would he really go so far as this? Would he speak openly to Steve about Billy’s plans? Steve has clearly been here a little while, but surely Eddie would not be so disloyal.
“Your friends have told me nothing,” Steve says, clearly observing his glance. Billy bites down angrily on his lower lip. Time ought to have cured Steve’s habit of reading his mind. “But thank you for reassuring me that I can speak openly in front of them. I did not think you would have people living with you to whom you had to lie.”
Now Billy’s anger feels like it’s boiling beneath his skin. “How well-informed you seem,” he says tightly. “And have you come to plead for your mother-in-law’s reputation? If so, I regret to tell you that the matter is out of my hands.”
Steve stares at him, almost dropping the glass in his hands. Chrissy darts forward swiftly to take it from him. “Plead for her?”
“Perhaps we ought to excuse ourselves,” Eddie murmurs to his wife, and they begin to get to their feet - but Billy stops them with a raised hand.
“Stay,” he commands harshly, and they freeze in place. “Why should you go anywhere? It is the captain who is an uninvited guest! Unfortunately, Captain Harrington, I can do nothing for your disgraced relation, and nor would I want to. If you wish to release her from her present incarceration, you would do better to take your pleas to the gendarmes.”
Steve strides forward angrily. “Why would I plead for her?” he demands. He looks so… Christ, so fiery and beautiful. Billy swallows. “Good God, Billy, can you really think so low of me? Do you think I don’t hate her for what she did to you?”
Billy is frozen, unable to move. His throat is so constricted that it hurts to swallow. “Billy? I thought we settled this nonsense in the carriage,” he chokes out.
“So did I,” Steve says, his chin lifting. “Until I realized that you said the name Hargrove - a name that I had never mentioned.”
For a long, long moment, Billy can say nothing at all. He can only stare at Steve, at the lovely defiant lines of him, standing proud and tall as though he never betrayed Billy at all.
“Eddie,” Chrissy whispers, and once again the two of them make to leave. That, at least, is something Billy can latch onto.
“Stay, I said!” he cries out. “There’s nothing to say that you cannot hear, and the captain will be leaving very shortly. In fact, why not invite everyone in? Hagan, I know you and your wife must be listening at the door!”
He whirls around, tugging the door open again. Sure enough, Tommy and Carol are standing there together. Tommy has the grace to look a little shamefaced, but Carol juts out her chin defiantly.
“We heard raised voices,” she says.
Billy laughs harshly. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you did,” he says bitterly. He gestures into the drawing room. “Come in, come in! Captain Harrington thinks he knows me, and I’m sure you’d like a front-row ticket to the show.”
“Do I not know you?” Steve asks, as Carol and Tommy come into the room. Carol sits down at once on the opposite couch, and Tommy follows more slowly. They’re supposed to be servants, but Billy supposes they’re beyond that now. “Does our… our friendship mean so little?”
There’s a little flicker on the word friendship, and Billy knows why. “They know we were not friends,” he says, gesturing towards his four crewmates. “They know it all, captain. They know the playacting we used to do together.”
That makes Steve flinch. “Playacting?” he repeats softly.
“What do you want of me?” Billy snarls at him. His body is aching - tingling all over. “What do you want?”
“I want to be free of you,” Steve says. There’s pain in his voice, and it makes Billy’s stomach lurch to hear it. “The way you obviously are free of me.” Billy scoffs, but Steve goes on before he can speak: “Please - just a few answers from you, and then I will leave you forever, if that’s what you want of me.”
Billy stares at him. His belly is churning, and he’s aware that if he’s not careful, the tears building behind his eyes will begin to fall. In all his plans, all his fantasies of revenge, he never imagined this - never imagined that Steve would see through him so quickly, would come to him begging for answers.
Steve betrayed him. He married another. He conceived a child. And yet - and yet—
And yet, Billy still loves him.
“Ask your questions,” he spits at last, and Steve exhales. Billy is starting to regret inviting an audience to witness this conversation - but he knows he’s not strong enough to speak with Steve alone. After sixteen years, to still love him like this - he’s so weak.
Steve’s breath is audible in the quiet space between them. He gazes at Billy, and now his eyes are softer. “Where have you been?” he breathes.
Billy hesitates - but what reason does he have to lie now? “Thirteen years in the Chateau d’If, and everywhere else you can imagine,” he says, his lips cold.
He sees it in Steve’s face - the horror. Billy swallows down a hard lump in his throat. He does not want Steve Harrington to feel horror.
“The Chateau d’If for thirteen years?” he whispers. His face is suddenly pale.
“Are you finished now?” Billy demands. He’s too close to tears. “I have… I have a good deal on my mind.”
Steve takes a trembling step forward. “What happened afterwards?”
Billy steps back instinctively. “Much!” he barks. He can’t - he can’t allow Steve close. He can’t let himself—
But Steve will not let him back away. He springs forward, exclaiming passionately: “Why did you not come to me?”
“Why did you not wait?” Billy shouts.
It bursts from his lips before he can prevent it - and it’s as though a dam has been opened. All the things he has wanted to say - everything he has thought and felt, every minute of every day since he escaped - they tumble out of him like an avalanche, and his chest aches with it.
“You married the daughter of the woman who betrayed me - you had a child with her - you broke every vow you made to me - you broke my heart—”
Steve holds up his hand. Just holds up his hand. But Billy stops.
It’s his left hand, and he’s holding it up with the palm facing towards himself. And Billy sees the ring.
That little piece of string, old and worn and yet as carefully preserved as Billy’s own - it’s stitched around Steve’s finger. Billy stares at it, stares and stares, because he knows that ring. He put that ring there.
“I told you that day before we set sail,” Steve says, his voice cracking and breaking and yet still staying strong. “I said it would never leave my finger, and it never has.”
Billy’s breath is coming in short sharp pants. “You - you married—”
“I had no choice,” Steve says. He’s still holding his hand up to Billy’s face. “Lady Wheeler discovered the nature of our relationship. I would have been hanged for sodomy if I did not marry her daughter - though, by God, there were days when that seemed preferable!”
It’s like a physical blow has struck Billy in the forehead, and he’s not the only one. All four of his silent witnesses suck in sharp gasps of shock.
“You - she—” Billy stutters.
“If you had come to me—” Steve cries. “If you had— I have been forced to live without you for sixteen years, Billy, and perhaps you hate me now, perhaps you have cut the ring I gave you from your finger, but—”
“I did not,” Billy says, and he holds up his own hand.
Steve stares at it for a long moment, and then turns wildly to meet Billy’s eyes. There’s a hunger in his face that Billy hasn’t seen in far, far too long.
Heedless of their audience, heedless of all Billy’s plans and machinations and schemes, heedless of all the unanswered questions and buried pain that lies between them - Steve steps forward. He steps into the tiny space that separates them, and his hand grips the back of Billy’s neck, and he kisses Billy.
The kiss is hard and unyielding, and Billy half sobs as he presses into it.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years of loneliness, of never feeling the touch of another, of dreaming of Steve and missing Steve and thinking endlessly of Steve - sixteen years without any real hope of seeing him again - sixteen years unkissed, untouched, sixteen years of anguish, sixteen years in which he moved in and out of near-madness, in which he did not know joy—
Sixteen years, and now he is here, and Steve’s body is crushed up against his own, and Billy doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This is either the brightest rays of heaven or the deepest pits of hell; there is no in between.
Steve holds him close, and Billy forces back the tears, pressing in tighter and closer, his arms wrapping around Steve’s body. He feels solid and real, and it’s almost more than Billy can bear.
“Do you think we will be allowed to leave now?” he dimly hears Eddie murmur in parenthesis; Chrissy shushes him, and then all four of his crewmates steal quietly out of the room.
Billy doesn’t stop them this time. He’s kissing Steve, though it’s hardly a kiss; they’re both clinging to one another, like they never want to let go - and Billy doesn’t. He kisses Steve blindly, clumsily, mouth moving unsteadily so that his kisses fall on Steve’s chin and cheeks and nose as well as his lips. Steve tastes like salt.
“Billy,” he’s saying, his voice a raw croak. “Billy, Billy, Billy—”
His hands tangle in Billy’s hair, fingers pushing into the base of his skull - Billy had forgotten he used to do that. It makes his spine tingle from top to bottom. All these years, he’d forgotten the sheer pleasure Steve used to bring him, just from one touch.
It’s impossible to slow down, to be gentle. Billy feels as though he’s drunk, drunk on Steve, every moment finding a new memory to explore. Now he’s rasping a thumb across Steve’s cheekbone - now he’s burying his face in Steve’s neck, lips finding his jaw - now he’s reminding himself exactly how luxuriant Steve’s hair feels in his hands. It cannot be real, it cannot be allowed - but it is real, and it is allowed.
Billy has a fortune worthy of a kingdom, every luxury and extravagance a man could possibly imagine or wish for. He escaped from the cruelest and most heavily-guarded prison in all of Europe. But until this moment he has not felt rich. He has not felt free.
“I love you,” Steve says. He picks up Billy’s hand, the one with the twine ring, and lifts it to his lips. “I love you.”
Billy presses in close, unable to speak. He kisses Steve again, losing himself in the blur of his body.
The curtains are drawn, and the door is tightly shut. Billy knows that his crew will not allow anyone to come into the house now - and so he feels free to reach for Steve’s cravat, tugging it out of the silken knot it is tied into. His fingers find the buttons of Steve’s shirt, but he’s so impatient that he can only undo three or four of them before his hands are roaming, finding their way inside to pluck at Steve’s undershirt. Steve responds in kind, scrabbling at the front of Billy’s jacket.
They’re both fervent, desperate, unable to settle into any one form of love-making. In one moment Steve is laying damp kisses down the line of Billy’s neck and into his collarbone; in the next, Billy has the palm of his hand pressed flat against the taut warmth of Steve’s belly; and in yet another, Steve’s fingers are tangling in Billy’s hair while his hips thrust into Billy’s.
The world is a blinding haze, and Billy can’t take any of it in. He wants to appreciate Steve properly, to drink in the sight of him so present and beautiful and finally in Billy’s arms once more - but there are spots of darkness in his vision, and he can’t concentrate.
He’s only aware of the sensation of flesh against flesh, Steve’s mouth moving on his skin, whispered words in his ear. He can only cling to Steve’s body and lose himself to the mist.
Some time later they end up on the floor, having begun on one of the couches but quickly losing their balance and tumbling down onto the carpet. Steve pulls one of the thick fur rugs from the armchair down onto the floor, half-covering them both.
He’s naked, and Billy can’t stop looking at him. He never thought - never truly believed he might see this again. Might have this: Steve laying beside him, head on Billy’s shoulder after a passionate bout of love-making, eyes fluttering closed and chest gently rising and falling. Billy’s heart is so full and tight that he can barely breathe.
Hesitantly, as though the entire scene might evaporate if he breathes too loudly, he tightens his grip around Steve’s shoulders. Nothing feels quite real.
He did not remove his own shirt. Steve didn’t notice in the frantic inelegant desperation of their coupling. Billy has no desire to bare his back, with the criss-cross pattern of scars covering skin that was once unmarred and beautiful. His pain and torment has no place in the wondrous dream of having Steve by his side.
Steve is soon asleep, but Billy remains awake long into the night, staring up at the ceiling as Steve slumbers under the weight of his arm. He must finish this business. Now that Steve is back with him - now that his plans of revenge only involve his father - he must finish it. It’s the only way they can be together. The only way he will ever be happy.
He sleeps a few scattered hours, but when dawn comes creeping over the horizon, Billy is already up and pulling on yesterday’s clothes. His mind is still muddled, disjointed, and his heart is thudding too loudly in his chest as he buttons up his shirt. He gazes down at Steve, still asleep in the rugs on the floor.
None of this makes any sense. None of Billy’s plans allowed for such an occurrence.
He steals out of the drawing room as softly as he can, blinking his dry eyes against the weak early morning light shining into the hallway outside as he closes the door behind him. Only one thought is in his mind now: he must finish this. He must find the evidence that will expose his father as he exposed Lady Wheeler, and he must do it at once. There is not a moment to lose.
“Leaving so soon?” Billy startles at the voice - but it is only Tommy, standing at the other end of the corridor with his eyebrows raised. “I was sure he’d keep you busy longer than this. My lord,” he adds, to let Billy know he is not yet forgiven.
“Yes, you were right,” Billy says, because he’s in no mood to argue - and Tommy was right. He can’t bear to have his closest confidante angry with him. “I should have come to him - I should have trusted him.”
Tommy comes closer. “He loves you,” he says.
Billy flushes. “Yes,” he says. “That too. But Tommy, don’t you see? I must finish the rest of it at once. I must get it all in order. The governor - it will be more difficult. I must go to his offices and see what evidence I can collect in order to expose his wrongdoing. I want it over now.”
“It would be over, if you could only let it go,” Tommy observes.
“He’s my father,” Billy says, and as he says it, a low bitter fury spreads through him. The pain of his father’s betrayal is still absolutely exquisite - but he realizes now that he’s been hiding it behind the pain of losing Steve. Now that he has Steve back—
There is nothing to protect him from it now.
“You could be happy,” Tommy says. “You could take everything you have won and leave this place!”
Billy tries not to allow his fists to clench by his sides - but he’s unsuccessful. “I will be happy,” he says. “I will take it all, and I will live forever - but I must do this first. I must. Please don’t ask me to allow my father to get away unscathed. Don’t ask it of me.”
Tommy hesitates. Billy can see him wavering. “Will you not wake the captain?” he asks. “Will you not tell him where you’re going?”
“He doesn’t need to be part of this business,” Billy says. It’s difficult to articulate why he wants Steve nowhere near his plans. Steve is the reward now. He’s the prize Billy gets to have at the end of his journey, the reward for everything he’s been through.
And if Steve gets too close - he’ll see what Billy has become, over all these lost years. He’ll see that Billy’s not the naive trusting boy he once was. While Steve has remained his own pure and beautiful self, Billy’s time in the Chateau d’If has changed him. He is vengeful now - and while he cannot let go of that newly unlocked part of himself, nor does he want Steve to see it.
“Please, Tommy,” Billy says. “You were right, and I ought to have listened - but I need you beside me now. Please don’t abandon me.”
That makes Tommy’s face crease painfully. “I would never abandon you,” he says. “I am with you. You know I am with you.”
“We’ll go to the governor’s office,” Billy says. “I don’t know what we’ll find, but we’ll find it quickly - and then I’ll have it all. Then I’ll live my life and be happy with Steve, I swear it. I swear to you. Just one more hurdle - and then it’s all over.”
Chapter 33: trente-trois (1831)
Notes:
It was very lovely reading all the comments last week, everyone is so pleased they're together again! The angst is definitely over now.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Steve is dreaming, and in his dream Billy Hargrove is alive. Billy is alive, and in Steve’s arms, and it feels so real that Steve doesn’t want to open his eyes. He dreams that his head is laid on Billy’s chest, and Billy’s hand strokes through his hair, and they’re twenty years old once more—
With a little start, Steve wakes up.
For a moment or two, he just lies still, completely disorientated. He can’t remember where he is, why he’s naked beneath a fur rug on the floor - and why he feels more content than he has in sixteen years.
And then it all comes pouring back. Billy, his Billy. Billy is alive.
They kissed and clung to one another and made love half the night away, and it was as though no time had passed at all. Steve felt disbelieving joy spreading through his whole body, because how could it be real? After all his grief, all his mourning - Billy was here. Billy was beside him.
Billy is not beside him now, Steve realizes. He rolls over, pushing himself up onto one elbow. He’s alone on the floor of Billy’s luxurious drawing room, blankets pooled around his waist. Golden light shimmers between the half-drawn curtains at the windows, telling him he’s slept late. Where is Billy?
Slowly, Steve retrieves his clothes and dresses. Has Billy risen already without waking him? That seems unlike him - or at least, the version of him Steve remembers. Out of the two of them, Steve was always the early riser, but he would never leave their bed alone. Neither of them could stand to be apart if there was the slightest opportunity to be together instead.
But it has been sixteen years, and Billy is not twenty years old anymore. Though at heart Steve cannot believe he’s really changed, he must concede that some habits do alter with time. Perhaps he’s become one of those men who can’t bear to waste the day in bed.
It gives Steve a pain deep and low in his belly to think of everything he doesn’t know about Billy now. Thirteen years in the Chateau d’If… how did those years affect him? Did he suffer? Foolish question - he must have suffered, but in what ways? How did he escape, and where has he been since then?
He’ll have his answers, he knows. Now that they are back together, Steve is determined that he and Billy will never be separated again, and Billy must feel the same way. He must have a thousand questions about the years apart. Steve swallows down a sob. They have the rest of their lives to talk it over.
They will, at least, when Steve finds Billy again. He pauses by the door once he’s dressed, still confused by his absence. How could he walk away? Their reunion has been nowhere near long enough.
When he leaves the drawing room, he hears voices coming from behind another door along the hall, left slightly ajar. Steve approaches with some anxiety. He met Billy’s friends Lord and Lady Munson yesterday when he arrived, and they seem perfectly friendly - but it’s clear they know a great deal more about him than he does about them. Besides, his servants - who don’t behave like servants at all - make him nervous.
But this is Billy. Steve’s place is by his side. He can have no companions who will not soon become Steve’s as well.
He’s expecting to see Billy in the room beyond the door, but when he enters, there’s no sight of him. Instead, Lord and Lady Munson are sitting at a small mahogany dining table, eating breakfast - and alongside them are four other people, only one of whom Steve recognizes as the wife of the butler who let him in yesterday.
She’s the first to look up when Steve comes into the room. “Good morning,” she says tartly.
Steve takes in the odd scene. The table is not laid the way his own servants set up for breakfast, all perfectly arranged silverware and platters of delicately presented food. Instead the food and drink has just been left in the center, inviting the participants in the meal to serve themselves. Nothing has been cut up or prepared properly.
That would be odd enough, but equally strange is the collection of people. Lady Munson is perhaps the only person around the table who looks at home in such a fine dining room, wearing a pale pink silk dress with her blonde hair arranged into a classically stylish fashion. She’s eating a peach as he comes in, juice leaking over her slender white fingers.
Lord Munson, on the other hand, seems very odd to Steve - not like a gentleman at all. He was predisposed to like the man because Maxine has spoken of his kindness in Paris, and indeed Steve has no reason to turn against him - but his behavior is certainly strange. He wears his hair long, but not oiled and styled like other fashionable gentlemen. His clothes seem ill-fitting, and he wears them with an awkwardness that suggests he’s unused to them. When they spoke yesterday, he conversed with an enthusiasm and informality unusual in a man of society.
No, Steve is willing to bet he’s no gentleman, even if his wife is a lady. And now he’s eating beside a servant woman - Mrs Hagan, Steve presumes - who ought to be serving him in any normal respectable house. She has her eyes fixed on Steve, a sardonic and faintly challenging expression on her face.
“Good morning,” Steve says uncomfortably.
“Won’t you sit down and eat?” Lady Munson asks kindly. She gestures towards the table. “We have plenty to spare, as you can see.”
Steve’s eyes flicker across the three occupants of the table he does not recognize. They are the strangest of all, because all three have dark skin, which ought to have no place at a gentleman’s table. There are two women and a man, although one of the women looks young enough to be considered a girl.
Lady Munson follows his gaze, and her mouth tightens. Steve realizes that his hesitation could be interpreted as prejudice, and hastily he takes the empty chair beside the older woman. “We have not been introduced, my lady,” he says politely.
The woman raises a dark eyebrow. “I’m no lady, I’m afraid,” she says calmly. “Lucille Williams, at your service.”
Steve takes her hand and kisses it. “A pleasure.”
“Billy never said you had such manners!” Mrs Hagan exclaims, clearly amused.
“You may kiss my hand next,” adds the younger girl, holding it out. “My name is Erica Sinclair. Oh, and that is my brother Lucas, though I don’t know if he’ll want to be kissed.”
Lucas Sinclair looks mildly horrified at the prospect. Steve smothers a smile as he obediently bends his lips to Erica’s knuckles. “An honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Sinclair,” he says.
“We met very briefly yesterday, but you were otherwise occupied,” Mrs Hagan says dryly, and Steve flushes. “Carol Hagan - no need to kiss my hand. As you can see, we do not stand on ceremony in this house.”
“I see that,” Steve says carefully.
Lord Munson perks up at that. “Does this mean we can forget all this tiresome lord and lady nonsense?” he asks. “My friends all call me Eddie, and this is Chrissy. She abandoned her family, her betrothed and even her country to marry me.” He sounds exceptionally satisfied by this fact.
“Steve,” Steve says, because why not? The day cannot really get any stranger.
“Excellent,” Carol says. “We’re all very glad to meet you, Steve. We’ve heard a great deal about you. Have some breakfast.”
Hesitantly, Steve takes a piece of bread from the plate in front of him, holding it in his hands without biting into it. “You have the advantage of me,” he says. “I know nothing about any of you.”
“We’re Billy’s crew,” Eddie says, through a mouthful of food. “You know he’s not really the Count of Monte Cristo, don’t you? He’s a pirate.” Again, this statement appears to please him.
Steve catches his breath, again reminded just how little he knows about the way in which Billy has lived his life these past sixteen years. “Where is Billy?” he asks.
Carol and Eddie exchange looks. “He and my husband Tommy left at dawn for the governor’s offices,” Carol says at last.
“The governor’s offices?” Steve repeats forcefully. His hands, he realizes, are shredding and pulling at the piece of bread he’s holding. “Why would he go there?”
Another irritating look passes between the crew members. “His father the governor betrayed him,” Eddie says, a little hesitant this time.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Steve says loudly. He takes a breath, forcing himself to calm down. After all - for all Billy might have told them about him, these people can have no idea what he does and does not know. “I am well aware of his father’s treachery,” he says as composedly as he’s able. “Does he plan to confront the governor?”
“He wants to trap him and expose him, like he did with Lady Wheeler,” Erica Sinclair says, spreading butter on a piece of toasted bread. She stops when she realizes several people are looking at her. “What? Are we not to tell him?”
Steve feels it like a dull blow to the chest. “Has he… has he instructed you not to tell me?” he asks.
“No,” Chrissy says quickly. “He has not - I am sure he would not. I am sure he has no secrets from you.”
Steve takes a shaking breath. “It seems he has a great many secrets from me,” he says unsteadily.
“No,” Chrissy says again. She looks horribly sympathetic.
“He has gone to collect evidence of his father’s treachery,” Eddie says, seemingly deciding Steve is to be trusted. “He wants it all over quickly now.”
Steve stares at him, his heart beating fast. “He wants… And he thinks he can have it easily, does he, just through wanting it?”
“He succeeded with Lady Wheeler,” Carol says loyally.
“Lady Wheeler is a fool,” Steve says crisply. “Anybody could have trapped her in such a way. Her debts and gambling habit are well known, at least among those who pay attention. Do you think it never occurred to me to have my own revenge on her in a similar fashion? I could have done it in a minute, at any time over the last sixteen years. I have just as much reason to hate her as Billy.”
The crew members don’t seem to know what to say, looking around at each other uncertainly. Carol says: “Then why didn’t you?”
“Because she is my mother-in-law,” Steve says, “and any scandal attached to her automatically attaches to me, and more importantly, to my daughter. Because it would hurt my wife, and though I have no love for her I am not cruel enough to pain her deliberately. Because I have no wish to draw unnecessary attention to myself until I have revenged myself upon the true architect of my ruin. I have reasons enough!”
There’s another pause. Then Chrissy says, “You must not be angry with Billy for taking his revenge on the lady—”
“I’m not angry with him for that,” Steve says dismissively. “Those are my reasons, not his. What I do not understand is why, having finally reunited with me, he has not seen fit to tell me his plans!”
“He has hardly had time,” Lucas Sinclair offers doubtfully.
Steve tosses his head angrily. “He left at dawn,” he says. “Of course he has not had time! Is there any reason he could not wait for me to wake? I could have helped him!”
He’s aware as he speaks that his anger is misdirected. These people may be Billy’s friends, but they do not make his decisions. He just can’t understand how he’s ended up here - talking about Billy’s plans for revenge with people who are not Billy. Why would Billy not wait? Why did he steal away before Steve was even awake?
I love you, I love you, he murmured wretchedly in Billy’s ear last night, when they were pressed together and his heart felt so full of joy it might burst. Billy clung to him when he said it, and that seemed to be enough. But he did not say it back.
“I think he just wants it all over, now that he knows - now that…” Chrissy trails off uncomfortably.
“Now that he knows what?” Steve snaps.
More glances exchanged. Steve’s pulse jumps furiously. “When he found out you had married,” Eddie says at last, his voice very careful, “he was very distressed.”
“He thought I had betrayed him,” Steve says. And then, suddenly, he understands. “He meant to get his revenge against me, as well as Lady Wheeler and his father. I have undone his plans simply by loving him.”
His words hang in the air. They burn through Steve’s chest.
“You cannot blame him,” Carol says.
Steve turns on her. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” he says. His voice is trembling. He throws the bread back onto the table, pushing his chair backwards with a horrible scraping noise. “He didn’t trust me. I have spent sixteen years - sixteen years - grieving and mourning and despairing, and the only reason I kept going was because I was sworn to avenge him, to clear his name.”
He stands, his breath coming in sharp harsh pants. “That is all I have done, all these years,” he says to them all. They’re all staring at him, eyes wide and round. “He thinks he can find evidence of his father’s wrongdoing in a single morning? Ha! I have been collecting it for sixteen years, and even that has not been enough! Do you think, if I could have destabilized the man who executed my love, my husband, that I would not have done it by now?”
“He did not know—” Eddie begins.
“No, he did not know,” Steve says harshly. “He did not care to wait, to ask me, to find out. He did not trust me. He has kept me in the dark, allowed me to grieve - and Maxine!” he exclaims suddenly, a new realization hitting him. “The kidnapping in Paris - was that an invention, meant to punish me?”
Now the crew’s faces twist in guilt. “That was us,” Lucille admits.
A new blow hits Steve in the chest. Here he is, breaking bread with the scoundrels who abducted his daughter! “If he only knew,” he says, voice shaking with anger - but no, he will not explain Maxine’s true identity like this. Not to these people, who stole her away and frightened her. “A sixteen-year-old girl,” he says. “All to hurt me.”
“Not only to hurt you,” Erica says. “He wanted to find a way to enter your social circle.”
“He wanted me to feel grateful, to feel indebted,” Steve says coldly. His fingers are twisting around the ring on his finger, the ring he’s kept there all these years because he believed Billy Hargrove loved him. Suddenly, the events of the night before feel low, dirty. “He wanted to punish me, when all the while I have done nothing but work in his name.”
A silence. All of them are looking at one another uncomfortably. Then Chrissy rises gracefully to her feet, moving around the table towards him.
“Your anger is understandable,” she says. “I don’t deny those things… those things were poorly done. If Billy had known—”
“He would have known, if he had come to me,” Steve says, backing away from her. “Everything, everything I have done has been for him. I have been gathering evidence against his father for years. I have looked out for those interests he left behind. Good God - I even helped the pirate girl to escape because he asked me to protect her!”
Carol starts at that. “What?”
Steve shrugs his shoulders angrily. “He charged me to protect Jane Hopper,” he says. “It was the last thing he asked of me before he was taken away - and I did it. I helped her flee the city, and I have been keeping watch over her ever since.”
“You know where Jane Hopper is?” Carol exclaims. She’s on her feet. “She’s alive? She’s well?”
Steve stares at her. “What is it to you?”
“It’s nothing to me,” Carol says. “But James Hopper— Don’t you know that her father was imprisoned and escaped the Chateau d’If with Billy, and has been searching for her ever since?”
“No,” Steve says furiously. “How would I know that?”
That appears to take the wind out of her sails. She stares at him, clearly flummoxed. “Her father is desperate,” she says.
“Her father might have been reunited with her three years ago, if Billy had seen fit to come to me then,” Steve says ruthlessly.
“Yes, yes, he was wrong, you’re very angry,” Carol says impatiently. “Won’t you tell me where she is? I must write to her father - you must tell me!”
Steve takes a step back, away from them all. “Why should I?”
Carol’s mouth drops open, and Eddie steps in fluidly. “She would want to see her father again, surely,” he says.
“You know nothing about her,” Steve says.
“Please,” Chrissy says. “Please tell us.”
But Steve’s jaw is set stubbornly. “If Billy wants to know, he can ask me himself,” he says. “If he wants to know where Jane Hopper is, he can ask me for her address. If he wants revenge on his father, he can ask me for the evidence he’ll need to get it. He might wish to shut me out of his plans, to leave me lying by the wayside, a pretty diversion he can pick up and set down as he pleases - but if he wants his plans to meet with success, he will have to treat me as an equal.”
“That isn’t fair,” Chrissy says quietly. “You have no idea what he has been through—”
“And you have no idea what I have been through,” Steve counters. “He ought to thank Lady Wheeler. If she had not blackmailed me into marriage sixteen years ago, sparking my desire for my own form of vengeance, I might have ended my life long before Billy ever escaped the Chateau d’If, and then he would never know where Jane Hopper escaped to. I thought he was dead. You will never know what that felt like.”
Not a one of them says a word. Steve’s chest hitches. “I thought he was dead,” he repeats more quietly, “and now he has been returned to me, and it ought to be a miracle - but instead I learn that he no longer loves me, and everything I did in his name was wasted.”
“It was not wasted,” Carol says, “and he… he does love you.”
“He has broken my heart,” Steve says. “If he wants something from me now, he will have to ask. I have nothing more to give for free.”
And with that final, painful declaration, he departs.
He’s in agonies as he walks home. Billy doesn’t love him. He believed the worst of Steve when he escaped the Chateau d’If, and now he shuts Steve out of his plans, and refused to respond when Steve told him he loved him. He did not even wait for Steve to wake up before leaving him. He orchestrated the kidnapping of Steve’s daughter, Billy’s own sister, if he only knew it.
This is not the Billy Steve has been dreaming about for all these years. When he yearned for a day, an hour, a single moment with his lost love, to hold him close just once more, this was not what he pictured.
When he realized Billy was still alive, Steve was filled with a joy beyond imagining, bubbling up inside him so that he forgot everything else. He forgot the cold cruelty Billy showed him in the carriage after Maxine’s party, forgot that Billy pretended not to know him and didn’t care how crazed that made Steve feel. Last night was a brief moment of euphoria - and now it all comes crashing down.
Dantes lets him in the house, informing him that Nancy and Maxine have gone for a walk. That makes Steve feel a twinge of guilt; for all Lady Wheeler’s sins, she’s still Nancy’s mother, and he just left Nancy alone to deal with it all. Perhaps he ought to have tried to love her, knowing what he knows now. But for all Billy’s coldness, the thought still repels Steve.
“If the Count of Monte Cristo visits, you may tell him I am not at home,” he tells Dantes firmly.
Dantes' face is as impassive as ever. “Yes, sir,” he says.
Steve can’t settle yet. There’s one more thing he must do, and he changes into dark inconspicuous clothing to do it, fetching the gold pin Lady Wheeler once gave Billy and slipping it into his pocket. Then he steals quietly out of the house again, and slips away to the docks to find Jonathan Byers.
He told Billy’s crew that he would not help Billy for free, and he meant it. But for all that, Jane Hopper is his responsibility. He cannot in all good conscience allow his anger and anguish over Billy prevent her from finally reuniting with the father she has mourned all these years - and who, unlike Billy, actually wants to see her.
Jonathan is cleaning his boat when Steve finds him. He gets to his feet warily; they’ve had little enough to say to one another since Steve discovered his affair with Nancy, and Steve has never sought him out like this.
“Is everything alright?” he asks, when Steve draws near.
Steve glances around; there’s no one in sight. “I need you to go to Jane at once,” he says. “I’ll pay you anything you ask - I’ll double whatever income you lose. Give her this.” He presses the pin into Jonathan’s unresisting hand.
“What’s happened?” Jonathan asks sharply.
“You must tell her that her father is alive, and searching for her,” Steve says, and Jonathan sucks in a surprised breath. “I don’t know exactly where, but I can find out. If she comes to Marseille with you, I can arrange a meeting. She can stay with me. I will keep her safe.”
Jonathan’s eyes search his face. “Something has happened,” he says slowly. “You’re upset.”
“It doesn’t matter—” Steve begins impatiently.
“Someday you will have to tell me everything,” Jonathan says. “I know you no longer trust me, and I don’t blame you for it - but we cannot go on this way forever. Someday you will have to tell me the secrets you’re hiding from me.”
Steve’s chest hitches, and he thinks again of Billy - Billy, who does not love him, does not trust him. “I think it will all come out before this is over,” he says shakily. “I think the time for secrets will very soon be over.”
Jonathan stares at him. “You’re frightening me,” he says.
“You should be frightened,” Steve says. “We live in dangerous times - but I swear to you, Jonathan, you’ll know it all by the end. I don’t know what will happen, but I do know this: the time of waiting, and of hiding, is over.”
Notes:
Yes I lied about the angst being over, but nobody believed me anyway, right?
Chapter 34: trente-quatre (1831)
Notes:
I THINK a couple of people have been waiting for this one....?
Chapter Text
He might have known it would come to nothing. What could he discover from one aimless morning, unplanned and unfocused, after all? And yet, returning at last from his excursion to Governor Hargrove’s place of work in the early afternoon, Billy only feels a hot-tempered renewal of despair.
“We will make a better plan,” Tommy says reassuringly. They’re both on horseback, riding home alongside one another. Tommy attempted to ingratiate himself with a serving woman he met outside the governor’s office, but he learned nothing. “We will return.”
Billy nods, fingers tightening around his horse’s reins, but says nothing. What can he say? This morning’s endeavors were completely unprecedented. Until now, he’s plotted out every piece of his vengeance with meticulous care. But after reuniting with Steve - after finally having a little piece of joy to hold onto - he just wanted it all to be over. He thought he could rush out and finish it all in a day.
Of course it didn’t work. His life can never be simple.
Billy doesn’t employ ordinary servants; he only wants to have people he can trust living with him. Instead he has a team of hired staff arriving every afternoon to clean for a few hours; anything dangerous for them to see is kept on the Vengeance. After three years of this, it’s all become second nature for Billy and his crew.
The house is quiet when he arrives home. The hired servants will be along soon, so the crew have probably begun the process of relocating for the afternoon. They usually spend their time on the ship - the one place that feels like a real home. No one can get to them there.
For a moment, Billy imagines what it will be like to have Steve there on the ship with him. It’s been so, so long since they’ve sailed together.
“You’re home.” It’s Carol, emerging from the dining room with an expression on her face that instantly makes Billy nervous. It’s flatly unimpressed, her eyebrows raised almost into her hairline.
“Where’s Steve?” he says at once. It’s his most important concern.
Carol gives him a look. “Gone,” she says. She smiles sweetly, and for no reason at all Billy’s heart begins pounding. “You played that one very well, didn’t you? Fucked him, and then left him before he woke. Now he thinks you don’t love him.”
“What?” Billy stutters.
“He thinks you don’t love him,” Carol repeats clearly. “He’s furious you didn’t trust him with your plans, especially since he’s spent the last sixteen years collecting all the evidence against your father you could ever need. Oh, and he knows where Jane Hopper is.”
Billy stares at her, unable to take it all in. “He… he knows where Jane is?”
“Of course he does,” she says. “He helped her escape. What was it he said?” she adds, turning over her shoulder. Billy can see Eddie, Chrissy and Lucille sitting at the dining table in the room behind her, looking uncomfortable. Carol turns back without waiting for any of them to answer. “Oh, yes - her father might have been reunited with her three years ago, if Billy had seen fit to come to me then. Quite a way with words, has your wayward husband.”
Billy’s mouth has fallen open, his throat tight. He can’t speak, he can’t formulate a thought. “He - I—”
“Did he tell you where Jane Hopper is?” Tommy says urgently from behind him. “Did you ask him?”
He’s moving forward into the dining room, and Billy follows him in a daze. He feels the same sense of unreality he had when he first arrived at the Chateau d’If - the same feeling that this cannot truly be happening. Everything he has done in his life cannot add up to this conclusion.
“Of course I asked him,” Carol is saying irritably. “Do I look like a fool? He wouldn’t tell me. Apparently his counsel no longer comes for free. And who is to blame for that?” She pierces Billy with an angry glare.
Tommy puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me, my love,” he says. “Of course I know you did the best you could.”
“The Sinclairs are gone to take a message to Perkins,” Eddie puts in. “We thought Hopper should know as soon as possible, even if we did not have a direct location to tell him.”
Billy says, his heart beating so hard he can feel his skin jumping: “I don’t understand - I don’t—”
“He knows you were behind his daughter’s abduction,” Lucille says quietly, and Billy’s chest tightens. “He knows you planned to take your revenge upon him as well as your father.”
Billy’s breaths are coming too fast. “He cannot blame me for thinking—”
“He does blame you,” Carol says tartly. “He has spent sixteen years grieving for you, and now he thinks you do not love him, do not trust him. And is he wrong?”
“Of course he’s wrong!” Billy bursts out angrily. “How dare you suggest otherwise - he is the one who broke my heart—”
Carol is utterly unmoved by his rage. “Well, if you want his help, I suggest you swallow your pride and ask for it,” she says. “Your lover is no longer content to be treated like - how did he put it?”
“A pretty diversion,” Chrissy says, and then looks guilty for saying it.
“That’s right,” Carol says. “A pretty diversion you can pick up and set down as you please. Good God, Billy, you fool! The key to everything you’ve been working towards - your vengeance, your future, your happiness - was sitting here in this very room, and you walked away from him. Now you’ll have to beg him for his help.”
Billy is shaking. “Beg him?” he repeats furiously. “I will beg him for nothing! How dare he act so high and mighty - as though he is the one wronged! What right has he to know all my plans?”
“I thought he was your husband,” Tommy says quietly.
Billy rounds on him, enraged. “My husband? He is married to another! And perhaps he was forced into it, but that does not explain the child - or had you forgotten that part of the story? He lived in a mansion with his family while I was imprisoned and tortured, and he wants to pretend that he is the victim? I will not stand for it! I will never beg - not from Steve Harrington, and not from anyone. I swore that when Brenner was whipping me in the Chateau d’If.”
That stops any of them from responding. Billy almost never references the time spent in the Chateau d’If.
“Is he at home?” he demands.
“He didn’t say where he was going,” Eddie says hesitantly.
Billy nods to himself, his jaw set. If this is how Steve wants to play things - this is how they’ll do it. “We will go to his house,” he says. “I won’t beg. I will have what I need from him, and then - then we never need to see each other again. He can live without me forever, if that pleases him.”
“He loves you, Billy,” Chrissy says softly. “He thought you were dead.”
For a brief moment, Billy tries to imagine what that might have been like - if the shoe was on the other foot. If he had spent the last sixteen years believing Steve had been executed. He shakes the thought away. It’s too painful.
“If he loved me, he would not have left,” he says in a hard voice. “Let’s go.”
No one says a word in the carriage on the way to Steve’s house. Tommy is driving, and Carol is sitting up beside him, perhaps because she’d be too liable to spit more furious things at Billy if they were sharing space at the moment. Billy sits beside Lucille with Eddie and Chrissy on the bench opposite, gazing out of the window and grinding his teeth furiously together.
The horses trot up the wide gravel drive to Steve’s home, and Billy springs out almost before the carriage has come to a halt. He’s in no mood to lose himself in reminiscence, the way he might if he allowed himself to look around. He doesn’t want to remember all the playful moments he and Steve have had here, all the boyish pursuits and romantic talks and endless bouts of laughter and revelry.
It’s all too much. He had Steve - and now he’s lost him again. His crew blames him, and in truth Billy blames himself too. Everything has gone horribly wrong, and he doesn’t know how to claw it back.
His father - his father is to blame. Billy has to hold back tears at the thought of Governor Hargrove. He’s tried desperately not to allow himself to remember. The depth of that betrayal is so absolute that it would shatter him if he thought on it for too long.
He’s avoided seeing his father thus far. It’s been quite easy; the governor was never much for parties and social gatherings, and from all Billy’s research, he’s only become more reclusive since his son was sent away - or killed, as he had everyone believing. But someday soon, the day will come when Billy must face him once and for all.
Will he know his son? Will he recognize him, under all the trappings of the Count of Monte Cristo?
Billy dashes his head to one side, unwilling to pursue that line of thought. First he must deal with Steve. When he has all the information Steve can give him, then he can turn his mind to vengeance once more - and properly this time, with no hasty unplanned excursions like this morning.
The door opens to Billy’s sharp knocks; Dantes stands behind it, as impeccably efficient and well-mannered as always. Billy lifts his chin. No doubt Dantes will wonder what he’s doing here with five uninvited guests - but Dantes is far too well-trained to comment.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Dantes says. He pauses fractionally. “Won’t you come in?”
Billy enters the house, his crew trailing along behind him. Perhaps it is excessive to bring them all along with him - but he feels better with people he trusts at his back, even if they all think him very foolish at the moment. Dantes takes their cloaks and jackets, and then leads them through the wide sprawling entrance hall and towards Steve’s study.
Billy hates that he knows exactly where it is.
Dantes taps on the door of the study; Steve’s voice comes from within. “Yes?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo, my lord,” Dantes says, throwing the door open. He leads them all inside.
The study is a large attractive room, with an oak desk situated in front of the enormous window and comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace. Steve is sitting on one of these, although he springs to his feet at the sight of Billy. Remaining seated beside him, Billy is irritated to see a young woman he doesn’t recognize.
She’s a pretty girl, if a little untidy. She wears a dull gray dress that indicates she’s a member of Steve’s staff, although she sits in the armchair with a comfortable familiarity that suggests friendship rather than employment. Billy looks away from her.
“I told you not to let him in!” Steve snaps at Dantes. His face is flushed, his eyes bright. He looks too beautiful to be real, and Billy thinks once again of the night they just shared - of Steve’s hands, finally touching him—
“Yes, sir,” Dantes says steadily.
Steve halts in his remonstrations, and a look of understanding passes over his face. He closes his eyes briefly. “Ah, but of course,” he murmurs. “You always did like him.”
“Yes, sir,” Dantes repeats. Billy frowns - and then Dantes glances towards him. “Welcome home, sir,” he says quietly.
Billy sucks in a gasp. “Oh,” he says, because - Dantes did always like him. He takes an unsteady breath. “Thank you, Dantes,” he says.
Dantes nods, and departs, closing the door behind him.
For a few moments, nobody speaks. Billy can’t help but stare at Steve - at all the lovely reality of him, standing here just a few feet away. Steve’s hands touched him last night - his mouth moved on Billy’s skin - he told Billy he loves him—
“What are you doing here?” Steve asks at last, his voice clipped.
Billy looks meaningly at the young woman sitting by the fireplace, her eyes bright with curiosity. He’s not going to start spreading his business in front of a stranger.
Steve catches his glance, and his chin lifts. “Oh, of course, how rude of me!” he says, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I haven’t introduced you to Miss Buckley, Maxine’s companion and my friend.”
He turns to the woman. “Robin, allow me to introduce Lord Edward Munson,” he says, gesturing towards Eddie. The girl - Robin - gets to her feet with a shy little smile, curtseying prettily. “And his wife, Lady Christiana Munson - or is it Christine? I’m afraid I never heard it in full—”
“Christiana,” Chrissy says, bowing her head gracefully. “My friends call me Chrissy, however. I do hope we will be friends, Miss Buckley.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Miss Buckley replies a little awkwardly.
Steve goes on smoothly: “Mr Thomas Hagan, and his wife Mrs Carol Hagan.”
“Good afternoon,” Tommy says politely.
Now Steve turns to Lucille. “Miss Lucille Williams,” he says. “May I present Miss Robin Buckley?”
“A pleasure,” Lucille says.
Miss Buckley’s mouth opens and then closes again. She doesn’t appear to have words for Lucille.
“And this, of course, is the Count of Monte Cristo,” Steve says, waving an imperious hand towards Billy. He turns, and his brown eyes meet Billy’s in a steady, challenging gaze. “Or perhaps I should call him William Hargrove, former captain of the Mercedes? Forgive me, my lord - you have so many names. I simply can’t keep up with them all.”
Billy flinches. He’s certain Steve sees it, but he sweeps into an exaggerated bow to Miss Buckley before any comment can be made. It seems Steve has found a friend he trusts, just as Billy has.
“An honor, Miss Buckley,” he says in his most charming voice.
“Oh, believe me, the honor is mine,” she says. “I have heard so much about you.”
Billy grinds his teeth together. “I’m certain you have,” he says irritably.
“Now that all the introductions are out of the way,” Steve interrupts icily, “to what do we owe this unexpected intrusion? I was led to believe our business was concluded last night.”
A hot pulse of anger bursts through Billy’s chest. “What business?” he counters. “Last night was merely entertainment, was it not? I wasn’t aware we had any place in each other’s business.”
He sees Steve flush angrily, but he doesn’t lose his temper. “In which case,” he says tightly, “I must reiterate: what are you doing here?”
“You have information I need,” Billy says. He’s furious that he even has to express it; Steve is clearly determined to eke out the confrontation as much as possible.
Carol pops her head out towards Miss Buckley. “Shall we take a seat?” she asks lightly. “It seems both our employers are bent upon childishness and melodrama. This may take a while.”
Billy turns furiously towards her, but before he can speak, Miss Buckley laughs. “Yes, indeed,” she says. “Of course, it may be entertaining, but why should we not be comfortable observers?”
At least Steve looks as annoyed by this interruption as Billy is - even more so when all six of their combined companions start settling themselves in the seats around the fire. Eddie and Chrissy share a couch - of course they do, since they can barely stand to be apart for a moment - while Carol takes an armchair and Tommy sits at her feet. Miss Buckley sits on the second couch; her face turns pink when Lucille sits beside her.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourselves,” Steve snaps angrily at them.
Carol looks unrepentantly up at him. “Oh, we are,” she says brightly.
Steve’s mouth opens and closes a few times. At last, apparently deciding he has no response to this - a wise choice, in Billy’s experience - he whirls back to Billy. “Were you about to ask me for something?” he asks fiercely.
“I want Jane Hopper’s location,” Billy fires back. “I won’t beg you for it, though.” He takes a menacing step forward. “You’ll give me what I need, or—”
“Or what?” Steve sneers. “What will you do? Abandon me for years at a time? Shut me out, lie to me, accuse me of treachery? Abduct my daughter? What do you think you can do to me now that you have not already done?”
Billy opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Miss Buckley says sharply: “What do you mean, abduct your daughter?”
“Oh, did I not mention it?” Steve exclaims, his voice rising. “Billy and his crew - these people you’re now sitting and making merry with - are the thugs responsible for Maxine’s kidnapping. They are the ones who stole her away in Paris, who frightened her and left us all mad with grief and worry - all in the name of revenge, of course!”
Miss Buckley levels an icy glare at Billy. “You? You kidnapped Maxine?”
“She was never in any danger,” Billy blusters, though he can’t help but feel a sick wash of guilt. He never really paused to consider the fear and anxiety he was putting Maxine’s family through - all of them, not just Steve. It’s clear in Miss Buckley’s face that she’s furious with him.
“She’s sixteen!” Steve shouts. “She was afraid - she thought she might die!”
Billy folds his arms, ignoring the regret flickering in his belly. “It was a few minutes of her life,” he says. “It was necessary for my plans—”
“It would never have been necessary if you had trusted me!” Steve says loudly. “If you had come to me three years ago - you would not have needed to gain entry to my family by nefarious means!”
“And I would have done so, if you had not betrayed me!” Billy snaps back heatedly.
Steve’s mouth drops open. “Betrayed you? You - I told you that I had no choice but to marry!”
“And to conceive a child?” Billy counters. “Was that choice taken away from you too? Do you think I’m a fool? I know how old she is, Steve - I know she must have been conceived before I was taken away!”
“You know nothing,” Steve spits. He’s shaking with anger. “You know nothing, and you will know nothing. You - you are not the man I thought you were.”
Billy nods bitterly. “No, I am not,” he says. “I am changed. I spent thirteen years imprisoned, while you made love to your beautiful wife and raised your beautiful daughter - but please, continue to tell me all the ways I’m the villain of the piece! Continue to tell me all the ways you have suffered.”
“Why should I? You’ve made your mind up about it all already!” Steve exclaims.
At that moment, the door to the study opens, and opens quickly. Both Steve and Billy whirl around, momentarily silenced - and Countess Harrington sweeps into the room.
She stops at the sight of Billy. “Count,” she says in some surprise. She looks around, taking in the crewmembers and Miss Buckley sitting comfortably in the chairs and couches. She doesn’t seem to know what to make of them all.
“Good afternoon, Countess,” Billy says politely, mostly because he knows it will annoy Steve. Sure enough, Steve’s face reddens.
The countess nods to him, her face twisted in bewilderment. As usual, she’s perfectly put together in a gown of frothy ivory satin, her glossy dark curls bound with silvery ribbons and a touch of rouge on her lips. She looks back at Steve. “I heard raised voices,” she says uncertainly.
“I’m sure you did,” Steve says tersely. “What are you doing here, Nancy? I thought you and Maxine were out walking. Where’s Maxine?”
“We were,” Countess Harrington says slowly. “We’ve returned - Maxine is in her room. What’s going on?” She looks at the crew once more. “Who are these people?”
“I’ll explain later,” Steve says. “Please, Nancy - give us the room.”
She stares at him. “Steve,” she says. “I… What’s going on?”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said,” she interrupts. “I’m not leaving the room without an explanation, Steve. Why are all these people here? And why were there raised voices?” She pauses, and then adds in a quieter voice, as though that might make it more secretive: “Is this to do with what happened the day before yesterday?”
Billy narrows his eyes. “What happened the day before yesterday?” he asks before he can stop himself.
Countess Harrington looks startled, as well she might; after all, what business is it of his? She glances at Steve, who says nothing. “Steve was upset,” she says hesitantly.
“Upset!” Miss Buckley murmurs, a hint of derision in her tone.
The countess flushes. “Extremely upset,” she says. “More upset than I have ever seen him. Was that your doing, sir?”
Billy swallows. The day before yesterday - that was the day after Maxine’s party. The day after his confrontation with Steve in the carriage. “I suppose it was,” he says unwillingly.
“Nancy, not now,” Steve says impatiently. “Please, leave us—”
“No!” she exclaims. “No, for once you are going to tell me the truth! All these half-truths and lies - where were you last night? Who are all these people? Why are they here - what can Miss Buckley know that I can’t? Talk to me!”
Steve presses his lips together. They’re very white. “You want to know the truth?” he says. His voice is even - but as much as he wishes he didn’t, Billy knows Steve. He knows that Steve is very, very angry right now.
The countess is either oblivious to this or choosing to ignore it. “Yes!” she half-shouts. “Yes, I do!”
“Very well!” Steve exclaims, and with a loud bang that makes everyone in the room flinch, he whirls around and hits the surface of his desk with his palms. Too late, Billy realizes he miscalculated. Steve is not just very angry. He has completely lost his head.
“Steve!” Countess Harrington cries.
He turns on. “No, you want the truth!” he says angrily. “Well, here it is - here he is!” He gestures sharply towards Billy. “You think he’s the Count of Monte Cristo? Ha!” Steve laughs mirthlessly, bitterly. “Have you not always wanted to know how your mother forced me to marry you?”
She blinks very hard, looking around the room with two spots of color in her otherwise white cheeks. That was clearly unexpected - as is the fact that nobody seems surprised by this revelation. “I don’t understand—”
“I loved him,” Steve says baldly, and Billy makes a sound without meaning to. It comes from a place deep inside him, a place he hardly knew still existed - a shrill, keening sound. He cuts it off instantly, and Steve goes on: “Not like a brother - that was what we always said.”
For a moment, his eyes meet Billy’s. Billy is biting his lips very hard. “We always said we were as intimate as brothers,” Steve repeats, “but that was a lie. A lie! I loved him. He was my… my husband. My lover. He was everything.”
“What are you saying?” the countess says. Her face is very pale now.
Steve lifts his chin. “I am saying exactly what you think I’m saying,” he says. “I loved him, and your mother knew it. If she’d told anyone what she knew, I’d have been executed just like I thought he was.”
“Executed?” Countess Harrington is frowning, her mind clearly working - and then— “Wait - are you saying - is he—”
She turns horrified eyes on Billy. Billy descends into an exaggerated bow, as if that might disguise the throbbing of his heart and the buzzing in his skull. “William Hargrove, madam,” he drawls. “At your service.”
“Good God,” she hisses.
“And now he’s back,” Steve says savagely, “and he has some elaborate plan to revenge himself upon everyone who ever wronged him, of which I am apparently one—”
That incenses Billy, as Steve no doubt intended. “You cannot, cannot blame me for drawing conclusions—” he snarls.
“I can blame you for losing faith in me,” Steve fires back at once. “I can blame you for failing to come to me—”
“Wait,” the countess says, holding up a shaking hand. “Before you - just wait, Steve. If this… if this is the secret - if he was your lost love - I don’t understand. Who was Susan Mayfield?”
Steve stops talking very abruptly. Billy frowns at him. He has no idea what the countess is talking about.
“That’s not - not important right now,” Steve says.
Countess Harrington makes an outraged noise. “Of course it is! My God, Steve, have I not deserved your honesty by now? I know you’ve spent sixteen years punishing me for failing to oppose my mother’s marriage schemes when I was a nineteen-year-old child, but have I not done enough by now to earn back your trust?”
Steve opens his mouth, but his wife hasn’t finished. “Have I not done my duty as your wife? Have I not endured the cold distance of a marriage to a husband who never willingly came near me, never touched me, never even attempted to love me?”
That turns Billy cold. Can it be true - that Steve really has never touched her?
“Nancy,” Steve says.
“Have I not raised your daughter as my own?” Countess Harrington says - and a stark silence follows her words.
The crew look as shocked as Billy feels, every one of them gasping or holding a hand to their mouth in some way. Billy feels as though all the blood has drained out of him. Slowly, trembling, he turns to Steve. “What does she mean?”
Steve’s face can only be described as tortured. There are tears in his eyes. “If you had come to me,” he says weakly to Billy, “I would have told you all this.”
“But not me?” the countess presses, her voice high and shrill. “Who was Maxine’s mother, Steve? Who was Susan Mayfield?”
Mayfield… is that name familiar? Some kind of recognition is creeping over Billy, but there’s no time, no time to understand it, to remember—
“She was not my lover as I let you believe,” Steve croaks.
The countess stares at him. “But… Maxine is her daughter! Your daughter!”
“No,” Steve says. “Maxine is not my daughter.”
More silence, long and weighty. Then - the worst thing - a small voice, coming from behind the door. As Billy turns to look in horror - he sees the inevitable.
Maxine Harrington walks into the room, her small face twisted with pain.
“What?” she says.
Chapter 35: trente-cinq (1831)
Notes:
It's revelation time, baby!
Chapter Text
“What?” Maxine says, and Steve’s stomach swoops with dread.
She comes into the room a little further, standing between them all - Nancy by the door, Billy pacing by the window, Steve in front of his desk and all Billy’s crewmates sitting with Robin in front of the fireplace. Little Maxine is in the middle of them all, looking very young and very unhappy, her face white and her hands twisting together.
“Maxine,” Steve says helplessly - but how can he finish his sentence? She should never have overheard what she has just overheard.
Her chest heaves. “You said - you said I’m not your daughter,” she says.
For a brief moment, Steve considers lying. He’s never seen her as anything other than his own - why should he pain her with the truth? But he’s never been much of a liar, and she deserves honesty. Now that it has all come out, just as he told Jonathan Byers it would, she deserves honesty as much as anyone. More than anyone.
“No,” he says. “You are not.”
Maxine’s mouth is quivering, her eyes wide with panic and disbelief. “But - no! I don’t - I thought—”
“Forgive me,” Steve says, his voice cracking. “I… You must know, I have loved you like my own from the moment you were first placed into my arms as a baby.”
“I don’t understand!” she exclaims shrilly. “Mother? Or are you - what—?”
Suddenly she sways on her feet, and Steve rushes forward. Robin, too, is struggling out of the couch she was sharing with Lucille and hurrying over; between the two of them they manage to support Maxine’s weight. She’s gone limp, gasping for breath.
“Bring a chair!” Steve snaps, and Lucille and Tommy drag over one of the armchairs. Steve guides Maxine into it.
She looks up at him with a pitifully distressed expression on her pale face. “Is my mother my mother?” she asks.
Steve hesitates. “No,” he says.
“But I love you,” Nancy says. She’s hovering nearby with Robin, but now she kneels at Maxine’s feet. “I know I do not show it as well as your father, but I love you, Maxine.”
Maxine sobs a little. “But how - who—” She looks around again. “I don’t understand - who are all these people?” She looks at Billy. “Is the Count of Monte Cristo my father?”
“No,” Billy says. It’s the first time he’s spoken since she came into the room. His voice is husky and troubled. In spite of everything he’s done, Steve can see he doesn’t like to see Maxine in such distress.
“I will tell you,” Steve says. He kneels down, reaching to take Maxine’s hands in his own. “I will explain where you really come from, I swear it.”
She takes a shuddering breath. “If you aren’t my mother and father - who is?”
Steve bites his lip. This is not the way he would have wanted to tell this story - to his daughter when she is very upset, surrounded by people, half of whom are strangers. Pain lances through him even to think about it. But she’s heard too much to be denied the rest. He must tell her.
“When I was very young, I had a friend,” he says. He hears the softest rustle, as Billy unfolds and refolds his arms behind him - but he will not look. “More than a friend - someone I loved so dearly, so deeply, that I could not imagine my life without them in it. We played together as children - we grew up together. And when we were still quite young - a little younger than you - we realized that we loved one another.”
Maxine is staring at him, tears falling silently down her cheeks. “You’ve never spoken of your childhood friends,” she says uncertainly.
“No,” Steve says. He pauses, swallowing. “You see - I could not. My friend… my friend was a boy, like me.”
For a long, long moment, Maxine doesn’t speak. She just looks at him. He can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“A boy?” she repeats at last.
“Yes,” Steve says. “I loved him - oh, I loved him! You cannot imagine love like that. He meant more to me than anyone else in the world, and I knew we were destined to be together. We swore vows to each other, though we knew we could not legally marry. We even exchanged rings.”
She sucks in a little gasp. “The string you always wear on your finger?”
Steve nods. “For years I’ve kept it,” he says. He will not look at Billy. He refuses. He will only look at Maxine. “Perhaps it seems a sin to you, but I will never be sorry for it. We loved each other. It was… it was real.”
“I don’t understand,” Maxine says. “What has this to do with me?”
“My love - my husband - was the captain of the Mercedes,” Steve says. “I was his first mate—”
She stares at him. “But you are captain of the Mercedes!”
“I am now, yes,” Steve says patiently. “But back then I was the second-in-command. We were sent to arrest an infamous pirate - you may have heard of him. His name was James Hopper, and we captured his ship and half his crew, including his young daughter. We were twenty years old.”
“Twenty,” she repeats, clearly making the connection. She knows his current age, knows this could not have been long before her own birth.
He nods, squeezing her hands. “I know this is a long story,” he says apologetically. “I promise you, it is relevant to you.”
Weakly, Maxine squeezes back. “I want to know it all,” she says. “I want to understand.”
“Of course,” Steve says. “Well, as I was saying - we captured the pirate and his daughter. But he had a tale to tell - one we did not expect. He told us he was innocent of the crimes for which we had been hunting him down. He had been framed, made a scapegoat by a corrupt government in Marseille, and he blamed the governor himself.”
“Good God,” Nancy breathes.
Maxine glances sharply up at her. “You didn’t know this?”
“No,” Nancy says faintly. “No, I… I have not heard this story before.”
“I didn’t know your mother when all this was happening,” Steve says. “I never told her. It would not have been safe - it is not safe now. You must understand, Maxine - this is a dangerous conspiracy. It must never leave these walls.”
She looks frightened, as well she might. She nods unsteadily.
Steve goes on: “I have not told you the worst yet. You see, it was a shock in particular to my… to my husband, to hear this accusation made against the governor - because he was the governor’s son.”
“His son?” Maxine repeats, astonished.
“Yes,” Steve says. “His name was William Hargrove.”
Maxine bites her lip. “You keep saying was,” she says.
Steve swallows, his chest suddenly tight. “Yes,” he says, voice choked.
“What happened?” his daughter asks.
He takes a breath. “Billy - that was what he called himself - he only went by William in the most formal of settings—” Behind him, he’s aware of Billy shifting from foot to foot. He resolutely doesn’t look “—Billy could not believe his father guilty of such corruption. He decided to take the matter before the governor himself, the moment we returned to Marseille.”
“I don’t know exactly what occurred that night,” Steve goes on. Billy, no doubt, could tell this part of the story - but he doesn’t speak, and Steve continues. “All I know is that he said goodbye to me after we docked, and I never saw him again.”
Maxine leans forward, distress in her face. “What?”
Steve exhales, holding back a sudden prickle of tears. “He said goodbye,” he says again, “and went to speak with his father. I was afraid, though I did not know why at the time. I felt something was wrong. Billy had charged me to protect the pirate’s daughter - a girl of your age. I had left her in the care of your grandmother Wheeler, guarded by her son Michael—”
“Michael?” Maxine interrupts.
“You know you have an uncle,” Robin says gently.
Maxine glances uncertainly at her mother, who sits motionless with her lips pressed together. “I… I know,” she says, “but I thought - I always heard there was some scandal there.”
“This is the scandal,” Steve says. “He was instructed to guard Jane Hopper, but instead he fell in love with her. I went to them both that night. I was afraid for the girl - I felt there was danger, though I could not say why. When I told them my fears, your uncle immediately agreed to steal Jane away from the city.”
“Was my grandmother there?” Maxine asks hesitantly.
Nancy moves then. “No,” she says. “She was not.”
Steve looks at her, startled. “How do you know that?”
“Because I was there,” she says calmly. “It was my house, and you and my brother were not quiet enough.”
It’s as though she has pulled the whole floor out from under him. “You never said a word!”
“I didn’t know what was going on, and I was frightened,” she says. “Later - later I thought you might be angry if I admitted I knew what you had done. You never wanted me to know your secrets.” She hesitates. “When I met Jonathan, I realized at once what his purpose was.”
“My God,” Steve says with a sigh. “So many secrets - so many lies - and for what?” He shakes his head. “For what?”
Nancy’s cheeks are a little pink. “Go on,” she says. “I want to hear this story too.”
“I helped Jane and Michael escape,” Steve resumes. “Michael had an old friend - his brother Jonathan took them away from Marseille, and he has been taking my letters to them ever since. I have made sure they are protected.”
“Since we are being so open today, I should tell you that Jonathan has taken letters from me, too,” Nancy says quietly. “He did not tell me his role, but as I have said, I guessed it for myself. I wanted to send them money, but Jonathan told me you had already done so.”
Steve closes his eyes. Such a tangled web of deception - how have they lived this way for all these years?
Before he can speak, he hears a familiar voice behind him, unusually soft. “You took care of them all these years, all because your lover asked you to?”
“It was the last thing he ever asked of me,” Steve says. He turns around for the first time. Billy’s blue eyes are heavy with emotion. For a long moment, they stare at each other - and then Steve turns away, back to Maxine.
His heart is fluttering with a familiar ache - but he has no time for that now. “The next day, Governor Hargrove summoned me to his offices, and told me that he had discovered his son had been conspiring with the pirate Hopper - that all the corruption in Marseille could be laid at his door. He showed me evidence - a witness statement - other documents. And he told me—” his chest catches “—he told me his son had been executed for his crimes.”
“Executed?” Maxine whispers. She’s clearly forgotten all about her parentage, caught up in the story. Nancy, too, looks riveted. She knows none of this.
“Yes,” Steve says. He bites down hard on his lower lip. “It - it devastated me, Maxine. I thought I would die from despair—” His voice wavers and breaks, and he cuts himself off. “Forgive me,” he says. “Forgive me. It’s difficult to talk about.”
Maxine squeezes his hands. “I’m sorry, father,” she says. She pauses. “The governor really executed his own son? How… how could he do that?”
Steve pauses, his eyes flickering towards Billy without his permission. “He is a cruel, heartless man,” he says. “You must understand, Maxine - his son was the very best of men. He was kind, just, brave, honorable - everything a young man ought to be. I have never known anyone before or since who embodies such traits. It seems almost impossible that such a paragon came from so twisted and evil a villain as the governor - but blood, it seems, does not always tell.”
He smiles wanly at Maxine. “Only one thought kept me moving forward,” he says. “I was determined to clear Billy’s name, for I knew he was innocent of the crimes for which he had been executed. I have been working towards that goal for the last sixteen years.”
“That explains so much,” Nancy says softly. “I knew you could not truly like the Klines.”
“I certainly do not,” Steve says with feeling, and she laughs faintly. Steve takes a breath, and goes on: “I never intended to marry. I swore an oath to be faithful to my husband until my last breath, and I meant to keep it. But fate took another turn - and this, Maxine, involves your grandmother.”
“My grandmother Wheeler?”
Steve nods. “I admit that her position was precarious. Her son had stolen away Jane Hopper under her very nose, and her prospects and those of her daughter must have looked very bleak. She saw an opportunity to improve her situation, and she took it.”
Nancy looks very white, but says nothing. Maxine glances between the two of them. “What did she do?” she asks quietly.
“She falsified the witness statement against the governor’s son, in exchange for Michael Wheeler’s exoneration,” he replies steadily. “On her testimony my Billy was executed - and I believe it was she who convinced the governor to give me captaincy of the Mercedes, too. She wanted her daughter to marry a young man with the greatest of prospects.”
“How did she know you would marry my mother?” Maxine asks.
Steve swallows, his throat tight. It’s been a long, long time since he’s spoken aloud for so long. “She discovered the truth of my relationship with Billy Hargrove,” he says. “My belief is that she did so by bribing Billy’s manservant Mondego - he came into her service afterwards, and has recently been arrested for doing her bidding in a criminal matter. I know you must have heard of it.”
“I have, but I don’t really know what happened,” Maxine says.
“We will come to it,” Steve says. “It is all related. Anyway - that was how I came to marry your mother. Lady Wheeler told me she would see me hanged for sodomy if I did not marry her daughter, and though at that time I cared little for my own fate, I knew I could not allow Billy’s reputation to be tarnished any more than it already had been. I could only clear his name if I remained alive and in good standing with society.”
Maxine looks utterly horrified. “My grandmother… my grandmother blackmailed you?” she whispers. “She threatened you with death?”
“She did,” Steve says. “It must have seemed an attractive prospect to her. I married your mother, though I swore it would be no true marriage, that I would not touch her—” He stops abruptly. “Forgive me,” he says. “You don’t need to hear such things.”
“I want to hear it!” Maxine exclaims. “I want the truth! Please, father - or - please! Don’t keep things from me any longer.”
He reaches out, stroking the fiery red tendrils of her hair. “Oh, my darling,” he says softly. “You remind me so much of— Well. I will come to it.”
“Tell me,” she insists, and he nods, and goes on.
“I married your mother,” he says. He glances swiftly at Nancy. “We were not very happy - I was not very fair to her. I resented it—”
“No,” Nancy interrupts, unusually vehement. “You were not to blame, Steve. You should never have been put into that position. You were right to blame me - I should have stood up to my mother—”
He shakes his head. “You were nineteen,” he says gently. “You were still half a child! I should not have taken my own unhappiness out on you.”
“I wish I had been wise enough to see how unhappy you were,” Nancy says.
“We were both very young,” Steve says. There’s the ghost of a smile on his face. After all these years of resentment and lies, distance and blame - to now have this conversation! He never thought he’d see the day when he could truly absolve his wife of her part in marrying him - but it all seems very clear now.
They were barely children, thrown into a situation neither of them should have been forced to handle. Neither of them had the full truth, and they were both too wrapped up in their own loneliness and misery to be honest with one another.
“We’re friends now,” he says gently, and Nancy smiles a little shyly.
Maxine is looking between them, her mouth slightly ajar. “I always knew you didn’t… didn’t marry for love,” she says hesitantly.
“We should not have married at all,” Nancy says. “I should never have gone along with my mother’s plans - but I didn’t know what she’d done to force his hand, and I was afraid. After my brother ran away, it seemed very unlikely that I could make a good marriage, and I didn’t know what would happen to me if I did not. My mother had little fortune with which to support me.”
Steve catches his breath. He’d never even thought of this - but of course she was frightened for herself. Of course her interest in him was not motivated by greed or entitlement, but by fear.
“Well, we married,” he says, resuming his tale. “And I’m glad of it now, because we might not have had you otherwise. It was the very security of our union that allowed me to take you in.”
“Take me in?” Maxine repeats, voice wavering.
Steve strokes her hair once more. “Yes,” he says gently. “Shortly after my marriage to your mother, I had a visit from a woman I had never seen before, a serving woman from a great house. She was with child, and she was desperate. Her employer had cast her out when he learned of her condition.”
“My mother?” Maxine asks tearfully.
“Your mother,” Steve says. “She was a good woman, Maxine. She loved you so, so much. I cannot tell you how much you look like her.”
She lets out a little sob. “You used to tell me I looked like my mother, when I was a child,” she says. “I never understood it.”
“You do look like her,” Nancy says. “She lived here with us until you were born, so I knew her as well. You look so much like her.”
“You knew my mother too?” Maxine says to her.
Nancy looks at Steve. “Not well,” she says carefully. “I thought - it was my understanding—”
“I let your mother - the mother who raised you, I mean - believe that your true mother was my lover,” Steve admits. “I should have trusted her with the truth about Billy. I know that now. But at the time I was too wrapped up in my grief and fury over him to tell anyone about it.”
“Anyone but Miss Buckley,” Nancy says, with a touch of asperity.
Steve sighs. “Yes, that’s true,” he says. “I told Robin everything. It seemed… easier, somehow, with a stranger.”
Maxine is frowning. “But I don’t understand,” she says. “What did my mother - my real mother - have to do with William Hargrove? Was he my father?”
That makes Steve choke on something between a laugh and a sob - because it’s not so far off the truth, and yet it could not really be further. Billy himself has said nothing for a long while. Steve wonders if it’s because he wants to hear all this for himself, or because he’s beginning to guess at the truth. Perhaps a little of both.
“No, he was not your father,” he tells Maxine. “Forgive me - I know it’s a long story.”
She takes a shaky breath. “Go on.”
“Your mother was dying,” Steve says, and Maxine gives a little cry. “She knew it when she came to see me. She knew she would not survive your birth, and she wanted to find a home where you would be looked after. She hoped I would help her.”
“Why you?” Nancy asks, before Maxine can say it. There are tears falling openly down his daughter’s face, and it makes Steve ache to see it.
Steve can’t help it - his gaze darts momentarily towards Billy once more. He’s standing as though carved out of stone, his expression utterly unreadable. Swiftly, Steve looks away again.
“She met someone she trusted who recommended me to her,” he says. He takes a deep, audible breath. “She met my Billy,” he says. “I believe it was the night before his death. She did not tell him of her situation, but she asked him if he knew any honorable men who might help her. He gave her my name.”
Behind him, Billy stirs. “Susan Mayfield,” he says, very slowly.
Steve glances at him. “Yes,” he says. “That was her name.”
“I don’t understand,” Maxine says. “What… Why is the Count of Monte Cristo here? What has all this to do with you?”
She addresses this last question to Billy. Clearly his unexpected intervention into the conversation has reminded her of his incongruous presence - but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t yet know the connection himself - though he soon will.
“I will explain it all, Maxine,” Steve says softly. “I swear it. The story is nearly finished now.”
“Tell me,” Maxine says. “Tell me everything.”
He brings her hands to his lips, kissing them impulsively. “You are my daughter,” he says fiercely. “I felt it from the moment I first held you - it didn’t matter who your biological parents were. You were mine from that moment, and I could not have loved you better if you really had been mine. I had my own reasons for agreeing to raise you as my heir, but all those reasons fell away when I saw you, when I held you. I took you for Billy, but I kept you for your own sake.”
“You took me for Billy?” she says. Her voice is unsteady through her tears.
“He recommended your mother to me, and she came to me because she was desperate - but it was more than just that,” Steve says. “She was a maid in the governor’s house. Maxine, my sweetheart - the governor—”
Billy makes a noise then, clearly realizing what Steve is about to say. “No—”
“The governor,” Steve says again.
This time it’s Nancy who cuts him off. “You cannot be serious,” she breathes.
She’s not the only one to utter exclamations. Several of Billy’s crew members have gasped and ejaculated. Billy is still breathing very hard behind him. But Steve only has eyes for Maxine.
“The governor,” he says doggedly, “is your father.”
“The governor?” Maxine repeats shrilly. “The evil, terrible man who executed his own son?”
Steve squeezes her hands tight. “Yes,” he says. “Your mother thought he would marry her, but he cast her out when he learned she was carrying you.” He’s speaking fast now, aware he has little time to get it all out before Billy loses his head. “I agreed to take you in and raise you as my own because you shared a parent with my husband. You were my last tie to him.”
“But—”
“There’s more,” Steve says swiftly. “I must tell you all of it - because I was deceived, Maxine. The governor lied to me. He lied to me when he told me he had executed his son. For sixteen years I grieved - for sixteen years the only light in my life came from your presence in it. You remind me so much of him! When you laugh, when your eyes sparkle in the sunlight - you are so very like him. I thought the only way I would ever see him again was through you - but it was not true.”
She’s staring at him, clearly frightened by his sudden intensity. “I don’t - what are you saying?”
“Billy Hargrove was not executed,” Steve says. “He is not dead. I thought he was - but I was wrong. He was sent away, but he was not killed. He is alive.”
Maxine’s eyes are blown wide. “Father—”
He can see that she’s half-realized the truth already. “Yes,” he says, and he turns at last to Billy.
Billy, who stands motionless, his face frozen in something between horror and utter disbelief. Billy - his own Billy - his love Billy. His husband. After everything that has passed between them, Steve will never be able to stop loving him. It is senseless to pretend otherwise.
“You have a brother, Maxine,” Steve says. “You have a brother, and his name is William Hargrove - the man you know as the Count of Monte Cristo.”
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