Chapter Text
Chapter Two
I wanna hold the hand inside you
I wanna take the breath that’s true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth
You live your life, you go in shadows
You’ll come apart and you’ll go blind
Some kind of night into your darkness
Color your eyes with what’s not there
It was after midnight, and Sir Phillip Crane had arranged several lanterns so he could tend the peony garden near the lake where he had picnicked with his wife earlier that day. His staff had long since grown used to the habit; Phillip preferred caring for his flowers outside the greenhouse and glasshouses at night, when the world was quiet, calm, and still. On this fine June evening, with Midsummer still some days away, the day’s warmth lingered in the soil, and the motionless breeze carried the fragrance of blossoms from every side. Fireflies flickered now and then in the darkness, adding to the atmosphere.
Not that Phillip could notice the calm ambience. His mind was troubled and would not rest. He had tried sleeping earlier that evening, but his mind would not stop racing with thoughts that always kept him up late at night. Feelings of inadequacy and fears of failure and letting the children down. Concerns about the estate and that he was handling everything poorly and that his father was right and he was indeed worthless and pathetic.
There was only one solution on these kinds of evenings, when his mind started racing and breathing became a difficult task to accomplish, and that was to go out into his flowers and plants and bulbs and seeds. Dirt always succeeded in distracting him. The experience of knowing precisely and exactly how to plant bulbs and seeds- the correct soil composition to use, the accurate depth for optimal growth- it was deeply satisfying in a way nothing else was. The perfectionism of these actions, born out of repetition and careful analysis and continual study into botany and biology, allowed him a modicum of peace. If he worked constantly, and never stopped, and never paused, then perhaps he would not be discovered as the fraud he knew himself to be. How absurd, to call himself a baronet and a father and now a husband again. The world would soon discover his ineptitude at playing these parts, and Phillip did not think he could manage the fallout waiting for him upon discovery.
The children were usually the primary cause of his insomnia. Such a great responsibility placed upon his shoulders, to raise two children and keep them safe and cared for and properly educated and fed. Daunting, that is how it felt most days. The task of raising his brother’s children felt absolutely formidable most days, and he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He could accomplish the bare necessities. He could make sure they were fed and that they had proper clothing and toys that would engage them intellectually and tutors that would cultivate their minds and prepare them for society someday. Beyond that, however, making sure they felt emotional connections and secure attachments, that was harder to achieve. It was easier to leave certain boundaries in place, especially as the twins grew older. As their minds grew and developed certain understandings about the world and how the world worked, Phillip knew eventually the twins would find him to be lacking and deeply disappointing. So it was safer to maintain a distance now, to prevent a more devastating disappointment later.
The peonies were exquisite. They were pink and white and various shades in between and it was such a rewarding accomplishment, weeding and pruning and snipping and propagating. Fleetingly, Phillip wondered if his new wife would like to wake up to a bouquet of these lovely peonies waiting for her in the morning. He wasn’t sure if she even liked peonies, or what her favorite flower was, actually. They had not yet had that conversation, during their daily discussions.
And then he banished the thought of presenting a bouquet to Eloise. Such a gesture would not be expected nor welcomed. Not within their arrangement. They were friends. No, that wasn’t even accurate enough of a term. They were friendly acquaintances that happened to be married. Why they married, he was not exactly certain he could explain to himself or anyone else how the nuptials had come about, so quickly and expeditiously and before he could quite realize what was happening. He was married for a second time, and once again it was not a love match. Love was not realistic in this world that Phillip lived in, and it was futile and pathetic to ponder anymore on the subject. Bouquets in the morning belonged to a fantasy realm born out of too many fairy tales. Fairy tales belonged very, very far away from Romney Hall.
The peonies were as perfect as they could be that night. Not a weed was in sight and the blooms were lovely and robust and he could do nothing more that night to support their growth. He supposed it was time to head into the greenhouse, to check on his latest pea specimens and record their daily growth with observations and data analysis. As Phillip cleaned up around the peony garden and started moving toward the greenhouse, he noticed movement around the swing that hung from a great, mature, robust oak tree that was probably two hundred years old. An earlier ancestor, that had more whimsy in their lives than perhaps the more recent generation of Cranes were fortunate to experience, had hung the swing from that oak. It hung rather uselessly most days, except for when the twins decided to push each other some fine, rare afternoon. The twins, however, did not play very often on that swing, as it held particularly painful memories of the various and sundry injuries that had been sustained from too vigorous and too energetic of play. The last time they played on the swing, it resulted in a fractured wrist for Oliver, after landing incorrectly when jumping off the swing trying to fly up to and touch the white puffy clouds one day last October upon a bet from Amanda.
As Phillip moved closer to the tree swing, he could smell tobacco in the air, and then he noticed his wife swinging quietly, slowly, silently, one hand on the rope, the other hand holding a cigarillo. When she heard his approach, he could see her visibly startle. She moved to stub out her cigarillo, but he spoke to reassure her that it was not necessary.
“No, please, don’t let me interrupt. Please feel free to continue. I hold no objections.”
“You are not horrified that your wife smokes tobacco late at night when she should be sleeping?”
“No, as long as you are not horrified that your husband is awake and weeding his flowers.”
Phillip was not sure where to stand. He did not want to stand too close and scare her off, but there was something so inviting about her at that moment and it seemed to ease some permanent loneliness that resided in his soul since birth. She was wearing a blue dressing gown, perfectly acceptable and perfectly modest, but he tried not think about the fact she was probably wearing a night dress under this ornate robe.
“We are both insomniacs tonight, it would seem. My brother gifted me these cigarillos upon the occasion of our wedding. He thought I could benefit from a relaxing smoke now and again as I transition into this new life as mistress of Romney Hall.”
“Which brother was this?”
“Benedict. Truth be told, he is my favorite brother. Second son and second daughter. Always failing to live up to expectations and always disappointing Mama somehow and in new and ingenious ways. After a stressful day of avoiding societal expectations, we’d go out to the swing in my father’s garden and talk about the failings of humanity and how people disappointed us and situations let us down. Benedict is more an optimist than I am. It must be the artist in him. He sees beauty in everything. Always prepared to make anything into a portrait or landscape. Even when his heart is breaking, he sees beauty in despair, and makes it into art. I am wearier and more cynical. He would try and talk me down from the edge of madness.”
“He sounds like a wonderful brother.”
“Oh yes, he is. Did you enjoy a close relationship with your brother?” Without thinking, Phillip reached over and took the cigarillo from her fingers before answering. He took a drag for himself, breathing in the tobacco deeply before exhaling. He passed it back to her without a word. He could feel her staring at him, with those fathomless, greyish blue eyes that saw too much and understood too much. He stared at the sky instead and tried not to feel her gaze. The sky was black and the stars were brilliant, white gold. Eloise placed the cigarillo back to her lips and took a drag for herself, closing her eyes as the tobacco entered her system. He tried not to think how that was the closest their lips had been, sharing the same cigarillo. At their wedding, he kissed her cheek, right near the corner of her mouth, when the vicar pronounced them husband and wife. He knew she would not welcome a more personal, intimate kiss. However, he’d be lying if he said the thought had never crossed his mind. Summertime and the deep stillness all around them seemed to amplify the notions, but he took a deep breath and shook his head to clear such nonsense.
“George was a fine brother, yes. I was very fortunate to have a kind, supportive older brother growing up. He always looked out for me. Our father. He was often a difficult man to please. Very exacting and demanding. George helped me avoid our father, sometimes, when he was in his grim and determined moods.”
Phillip was surprised by how much he had just shared. He never felt comfortable sharing things about his childhood or family. Frankly, no one seemed to care, as everyone had their own concerns to contend with. There was something about her depthless eyes that night, with the tobacco drifting between them and fragrance of the roses sweet and cloying, he just felt like sharing a bit of his soul. She smiled and didn’t press him for details he wasn’t ready to divulge in just yet. He was thankful for her discernment, seeming to know when to ask questions and when to hold back.
“It would appear that we were both blessed with benevolent and thoughtful older brothers.”
“One more thing in common, it seems.”
Eloise was almost finished with her cigarillo. She handed it back to him and he took one more drag and then she ground it under the heel of her slipper with a sigh.
“I love staying up late before Midsummer. Days seem so endless. It is an intoxicating feeling, like nature tricks you into this illusion, thinking summer is here forever and beautiful, growing things will continue growing and the sunshine will stay sweet and the trees will retain their perfect green leaves for the rest of time. Baby geese will waddle after their mamas for eternity and deer will find plenty of berries to eat and rain and snow and cold will remain but a distant memory.”
“You have a bit of the poet in you, it would appear.”
She smiled at him and hastily jumped out of the swing. She stepped closer to him for a moment and before he could realize what she was doing, Eloise leaned up on her tiptoes and hugged him. A quick, brief hug that involved placing her arms around his shoulders. She had pulled back before he could respond. A shiver traveled down his back, starting in his shoulders where she had hugged him.
“Good night, Phillip. I should try and actually sleep now. Thank you for sharing a cigarillo with me. Enjoy your plants in the greenhouse. Try not to stay up too late. Do try and get some sleep, please. Good night.”
He murmured his goodnights and watched as she drifted back into the house, knowing that sleep would elude him for the rest of the evening, playing over those words and that touch and her haunting eyes that he wanted to drown in and never resurface from.