Kurt.

*

The day of Kurt and Blaine’s departure from Dalton had been a long and strenuous one. Kurt had lost count of the number of times he’d checked and double-checked the things he’d packed into Blaine’s trunk and the amount of times he had folded and refolded the clothes according to Puck’s very exact and unrelenting instructions. His own trunk consisted of the barest of requirements - his liveries and night clothes being the only real things he’d needed to be sure he had - and he’d had everything packed before breakfast. Arranging for the departure of an Earl’s son was apparently more complex. Kurt’s path had crossed with Blaine’s numerous times throughout the day, Lady Dalton unnecessarily fretting with ideas of missing buttons, muddied riding clothes or unmatched cufflinks, and every time the two of them met again Blaine had rolled his eyes and smiled apologetically at Kurt. It seemed it wasn’t in Blaine’s nature to fuss over small, social details. Kurt felt almost positive that he could send Blaine to evening dinner in a mix of riding pants and sleepwear and Blaine would neither care nor notice. Kurt, on the other hand, had taken such care and precision in picking out what Blaine ought to take with him to Crawford House that it wounded him a little every time Blaine’s mother came back to fuss.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine had whispered in a fleeting moment they’d had together whilst Lady Dalton was out of the dressing room in search of her lady’s maid. “She’s not usually like this at all.”

Kurt had smiled and nodded, choosing not to say anything as he brushed down Blaine’s dinner jacket. What Blaine had likely meant to say was that his mother was putting in an obscene amount of effort in the hope that Blaine would win over Miss Fabray and her parent’s hearts so that the two of them could eventually be married. Kurt, however, had read it almost as an insult; that Lady Dalton either did not like him or did not trust his judgment. Of the time he had been away from Blaine and his mother, Kurt had spent the majority persuading himself that he was reading far too much into the interaction because of some nagging and guilty conscience in the back of his mind: she knows, everybody knows. But it wasn’t possible for anybody to know. Not when the two of them had been so careful.

The day eventually came to its end, the sun setting over the gardens of Dalton earlier than usual, draining the blood-red and copper-orange colours from the grounds to be replaced by a misty, blue-white chill. Kurt had helped load the motorcar with luggage by the light of the electric lamps hung either side of the door on the front of the house. In the moon’s glow, the house looked like something from a gothic novel, shrouded in patches of darkness set off by light, all the corners and ledges of the building casting shadows where the light bounced and flickered away from them. The house’s front door creaked upon opening, sending shivers down Kurt’s spine as he waited by the motorcar for Blaine to make his way over.

When he and his parents arrived at the car, Blaine offered his mother a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll write you when I arrive there safely,” he assured her, and she nodded, her lips pursed.

“Yes, yes. You must give Lord and Lady Crawford our gratitude for inviting you to stay with them for so long. And remember that you can invite Miss Fabray back here with you on your return.”

To Kurt, her tone indicated less of a reminder and more of a warning. Blaine simply nodded his agreement, though whether he had any intention of bringing Miss Fabray back to Dalton Kurt couldn’t tell. Lord Dalton, remaining as quiet as ever, made a swift goodbye to Blaine with a shake of his hand before backing away from the motorcar and allowing Blaine to get in and take his seat. Kurt climbed into the car after Blaine, and Hudson closed the door behind the two of them before making his way toward the front of the car.

Blaine made a hand gesture that seemed something of a half-hearted wave towards his parents as the motorcar hummed into life, and as the vehicle drove slowly away from the house his parent’s figures grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared entirely into the dark of the night. It was then that Blaine let out a low and contented chuckle.

“I needn’t see that place for another two weeks,” he said with a grin he was barely able to keep control of. “Can you believe that, Kurt?”

“You’re looking forward to your time at Crawford, milord?” it was Hudson who replied, quickly and sharply reminding Blaine that the two of them were not alone. His smile diminished slightly, and he looked toward the chauffeur whose eyes were trained on the road.

“Of course, Hudson. It ought to be something of an adventure.”

“If I lived in a house like Dalton Abbey, milord, I think I’d see every day as an adventure.”

Kurt smiled sympathetically, enjoying the simple innocence of Hudson’s words, and the way in which Blaine was so accepting and understanding of him.

“But you do live in Dalton Abbey, Hudson. And I think your life is far more adventurous than mine.”

“Perhaps you’re right, milord,” the chauffeur replied. Kurt had noticed that as soon as it was apparent that Blaine would not be marrying Miss Berry, Hudson had taken to liking Blaine again, as he always had. The chauffeur had rarely mentioned the lady since she had left, and though Kurt had never been sure whether that was because Hudson had simply forgotten about her, or because Ryerson had warned him not to speak of her again, he would have been willing to bet on the latter.

Their car trundled along through the countryside on the outskirts of Dalton for longer than Kurt could keep track of on the way to the train station. Blaine seemed to want to speak to Kurt, turning to him every so often on an intake of breath and looking at him for a while with his lips parted. Words never came forth - and the torn look on Blaine’s face led Kurt to believe that they never formed fully in his mind either. The journey was a quiet one, awkward enough surely for even Hudson to detect, though he did nothing to break the silence much beyond pointing out the gradual change in the weather over time. Occasionally Blaine reached out to run a finger along Kurt’s own hand where it lay between the two of them on the seat. Every time he did it, Kurt’s hand jerked a little, as though reacting to a static shock and then he relaxed into the brief touch, blushing faintly and looking in Hudson’s direction to ensure he wasn’t looking.

Finally the train station came into sight, and Hudson pulled the motorcar as close to the footbridge that connected the road to the station as possible. Hudson let Blaine out of the motorcar first, and Kurt followed, breathing in the scent of frost that lingered on the night air. He pulled his coat tighter around himself in order to keep out the cold breeze.

“I hope it’ll be warmer on the train,” Blaine said, pulling leather gloves from his pocket and covering his hands with them.

“I’m sure it will be, milord,” Hudson said. “All those fires and people.”

As Hudson turned to retrieve their luggage from the car Blaine smiled at Kurt. “Perhaps you could keep me warm on the train,” Blaine whispered with a wink, quickly and inconspicuously running his gloved hand along Kurt’s bare one. Kurt felt himself blush, looking around to see if anybody else nearby the station had noticed anything. There was no one around but the three of them, and Kurt sighed, turning back to face Blaine with his eyebrows raised but returning his smile. For a moment, the two of them stood quite still, Kurt watching as his slow and steady breath danced in the cold air with Blaine’s until Hudson eventually rejoined them, trunks in hand.

“I’ll take your things to the train, milord,” he said to Blaine, placing Kurt’s trunk down on the ground beside Kurt and holding Blaine’s up above his shoulder.

“Thank you, Hudson,” he said, without taking his eyes from Kurt’s face. “Shall we, Hummel?”

Kurt raised his eyebrows before picking up his trunk. “Certainly, milord,” he said, and the two of them followed a few steps behind Hudson, walking a quick pace across the footbridge and down the stairs onto the platform. The conductor issued them both with their tickets and wished them - though largely in Blaine’s direction - a pleasant journey.

“Thank you. My valet here will be seeing to me this evening and tomorrow morning,” Blaine told the conductor, who gave Kurt a single nod of recognition. “Go and see to your room, and then come to me within a half hour or so,” Blaine said to Kurt.

“Yes, milord,” Kurt replied, making his way to the third class area of the train. Behind him he heard Blaine thank Hudson for his help and say goodbye, until he disappeared into first class and Kurt boarded in third.

Though Kurt knew that the first class compartment would dazzle in comparison to his own surroundings he did not find himself at all uncomfortable. The train was not busy, and he managed to find a chair to himself in which he would be able to sleep quite comfortably. He set his trunk down in the storage compartment, ensuring that the pristine lettering ‘K.H.’ was easily visible from where it sat. The trunk had been his father’s gift to him for his leaving, and it had likely cost more than he ought to have paid, but it was comforting to know that a piece of his father was with him.

The train set off after another five minutes, and once thirty minutes had passed, Kurt began to make his way through the train toward Blaine’s compartment, passing through second class and then into first. The difference between Kurt’s own carriage and Blaine’s was immense - each person in first class had their own separate carriage with sliding doors and shutters at each window - most of which were already closed. The train conductor motioned Kurt over to Blaine’s compartment, and Kurt thanked him and knocked on the door. Blaine opened moments later, an undeniably beautiful smile lighting up his features at the sight of Kurt.

“Shall I come in, milord?”

Blaine rolled his eyes, as though Kurt’s attempt to be discreet was ridiculous, and he stepped back to allow Kurt room. Blaine’s shutters were already drawn and as soon as Blaine closed the door he spun around, caught Kurt in an embrace and pressed their lips together.

Kurt moaned into the kiss, thankful that it was muffled by the low rumble of the train’s engine and hopefully not loud enough for anybody to hear. Blaine placed one of his hands on Kurt’s waist, pulling him closer, and his other on Kurt’s cheek, fingers running through the short, fluffy hair at the nape of Kurt’s neck. It was too easy to stay as they were, engrossed in each other and needing nobody and nothing else, yet somewhere in the lust that could so easily consume Kurt there remained that niggling voice, and he soon pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” Blaine asked, his eyes dilated and his lips swollen. Kurt wondered if it was possible for Blaine - or any person, really - to be any more attractive.

“We should get you ready for bed,” Kurt said. “You oughtn’t be tired when you meet Miss Fabray in the morning.”

Blaine made something between a disgruntled groan and a laugh, shaking his head and moving back in closer to Kurt. “Don’t be silly. You know I honestly couldn’t care less about that, don’t you?”

Kurt let his lips be pressed into Blaine’s again, closing his eyes and feeling the warmth of Blaine’s breath on his skin.

“Mmm - no, Blaine,” he said eventually, pulling himself away once more and looking at anything beside Blaine’s eyes. “I can’t stay here for too long. I have to get you ready and then leave.”

“Don’t leave.”

Blaine’s tone of voice was pleading, and Kurt looked back at Blaine’s face, his eyes wide.

“I have to.”

“No. You could stay. Come on; nobody knows who we are here. You could stay with me all night and nobody would suspect a thing.”

“Nobody knows who I am here, Blaine, but I’ll be very surprised if there’s a single person on this train who doesn’t know the Earl of Dalton’s son.”

“They wouldn’t say anything, though,” Blaine protested, resting his hand on Kurt’s forearm. Kurt unbuttoned the cuff of Blaine’s shirt.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain. The train conductor saw me coming in - I think he’d be a little suspicious if he didn’t see me coming back out.”

“But what do you think he would say, anyway, if that were the case?”

Kurt laughed at that, though the sound was humorless. He pulled Blaine’s other arm up toward him, to unbutton the other side.

“Well I don’t suppose he’d leave it at ‘oh, how terribly unusual for a valet to spend the night with his master’,” Kurt began to undo the buttons at the front of Blaine’s shirt. “You are still aware of the illicit nature of us, aren’t you Blaine?” he asked, popping open the final button on the other man’s shirt and pushing it away from his shoulders to reveal the close-fitted white vest that lay underneath.

Blaine laughed. “I’m aware, thank you. I just don’t think you ought to worry so much. Nobody will find us out. Not here, where nobody is expecting you to be anywhere.” As Kurt pulled away Blaine’s braces, detaching them from his trousers, Blaine pulled Kurt closer toward him, his eyes filled with longing. “Please, Kurt. I could explain it away so easily. You're my valet,” he added with a laugh. “You have to do what I tell you.”

A voice in the back of Kurt’s mind told him that Blaine had meant what he said as a joke, yet his wording had struck a chord.

“I’m sorry, milord. I can’t stay with you tonight.”

“‘Milord’? Whatever happened to ‘Blaine’?” Kurt picked up Blaine’s night shirt and helped Blaine into it without another word. “What did I say, Kurt?” Kurt made no reply. “Please say something.”

“Goodnight,” Kurt said finally, leaving Blaine’s compartment and closing the door tightly behind him. The train conductor was stood where he had been before, nodding his recognition as Kurt left first class to return to his place in third.

“Thank you. I’ll be back in the morning,” Kurt said.

When Kurt eventually found his way back to third class he sank down into the soft blue seat with a sigh and rested his head against the cold window. He could see little into the darkness outside beside raindrops that had started to collect on the glass and the succession of tall trees speeding by outside that each in turn drowned out the moonlight.

It was the way Blaine had called him his servant. He hadn’t said it in a malicious or derogatory way at all; it was merely a fact that he’d tried to make light of. But the fact remained. Kurt was but a mere servant, and it made no sense for Blaine to be interested in him much beyond his work for him. A romantic connection between the two of them was not merely frowned upon but illegal. Any kind of revelation of their secret would mean the ruin of Kurt and everything he had already worked for. Blaine would get off more lightly - perhaps be rushed into a marriage that was already imminent and sent away to America until the rumours had died down entirely. As much as Kurt would have liked to deny it there was little that could be done to get around that fact that he two of them could never be on equal footing, and highlighting the point - even just for the sake of a joke - almost made Kurt physically ache.

*

Kurt was woken early and suddenly the following morning at the sound of the train passing closely to another, the wind turbulence making a loud gushing sound that startled Kurt out of a very shallow sleep. It had stopped raining outside by the look of it, though it was still dark. A faint light ran through the carriage and it took a few moments for Kurt’s eyes to adjust. When they did, he noticed the people he was sharing the carriage with. Surrounding him was every example of the lower class: a man snoring softly a few seats away whose hands were black and coarse - probably a factory worker; a young family whose two sleeping children wore grubby clothing that had likely been passed down to each young child as an older one grew out of it. By comparison, Kurt’s clothing seemed crisp and clean. Polished. Privileged. And yet he was among them, the poor country boy-turned-footman.

He was somewhat afraid to go back to Blaine’s carriage, worried that walking out on him so early the previous night would get him into trouble. Blaine, however, said nothing. He smiled when Kurt entered, as he usually did, and moved - albeit more tentatively - in to kiss him as soon as the door was closed behind them.

“I’m suddenly quite nervous,” Blaine said with a laugh after he was dressed, running his hand along his shirt sleeve to smooth it out.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t feel quite prepared enough to meet them all. I don’t feel quite prepared enough to leave you to fend for yourself among a new group of servants while I eat dinner without seeing your marvelous face.”

Kurt laughed, secretly cherishing the words. “You worry about yourself, Blaine. I’m quite used to ‘fending for myself’.”

Blaine smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Kurt, if you thought I was not worrying about myself then I’m afraid you think far too highly of me. Your absence at dinner will be a loss I’m unable to manage. You make my day just that extra bit brighter whenever I see you.”

“You flatter me,” Kurt replied, before opening the door to Blaine’s compartment. “I’ll see you again once we alight the train, milord.”

Blaine’s grin seemed to hide nothing, but the train conductor appeared not to notice, dark circles beginning to form underneath his eyes.

*

It was an Irish chauffeur who saw them off the train and ushered them into the motorcar.

“Flanagan,” he said by way of introduction as he started the engine. “I’m Flanagan. If you ever need a car into Crawford you can come to me.”

“Thank you, Flanagan. It’s good to meet you. Tell me, is it true the Fabray family has two motorcars?”

The chauffeur laughed. “Everybody who comes to visit, the first question they ask it’s always ‘do the Crawford’s have two cars?’ Of course it’s true, milord. The Stanley Steam Car, that’s for pleasure trips around the town. Beautiful car, imported from America, runs like a dream. And then there’s this one, the Ford, nice and formal. But why people are surprised that the Crawford family has two motorcars, I don’t know. I should expect there are richer folk than us who’ve got plenty more.”

Flanagan continued to chatter on, flitting from subject to subject seemingly whenever the fancy took him. He pointed out local landmarks, talked about Crawford House with a pride and dedication that impressed even Kurt. Blaine seemed to lean forward slightly throughout the journey, listening closely to every word, apparently devouring every bit of information that he could. Kurt watched the two of them, chipping in when asked for his opinion but mostly staring with a wide-eyed amusement.

Their journey took well over an hour until at last, Crawford House came into view from the village. Even from their distance, the place looked far bigger than Dalton Abbey, and Kurt could just make out some of the features; the windows, the vines running up the side of the walls. The morning’s dainty sunrise shone down onto the house, covering it in an orange-gold glow that made it look simply spectacular.

“That’s Crawford House, there, milord,” Flanagan pointed out to them. For once during the entire journey, the chauffeur seemed to have little to say. He simply uttered, “quite a sight, isn’t it?”

Kurt looked toward Blaine, to see his reaction. “It is...” Blaine said, “quite a sight.”

Their drive to the house, even from the village where it was visible, was long. The journey stretched on for a further fifteen minutes, the road winding up to the house seeming to pass an endless expanse of forest. The house disappeared behind the tallest of hedges, all neatly and precisely clipped, luscious and green despite the onset of winter.

When the house eventually came into view again Kurt noticed that the large and extravagant driveway, decorated with rose bushes aplenty, ran alongside a large, private lake that he guessed the gentlemen used for fishing.

The family, the butler and several footmen stood outside on the driveway waiting to greet them as they pulled up in front of the porch. Flanagan opened the door for Blaine, and he shot one quick smile at Kurt before stepping out of the car.

***

“Master Anderson, how lovely it is to see you again,” Lady Crawford greeted, stepping toward Blaine with her hand outstretched.

“Lady Crawford,” Blaine said in return, taking the lady’s hand in his own. “And Lord Crawford, how do you do?”

“Well, thank you,” Lord Crawford said when Blaine turned to shake his hand.

Blaine turned toward the butler at the sound of Kurt and Flanagan unloading the luggage from the car. “This is my valet, Hummel,” Blaine said as Kurt drew closer.

“Yes, thank you, Master Anderson,” the butler replied, motioning for Kurt to stand in line with his fellow men. Blaine fought the urge to smile in Kurt’s direction, turning back to see Miss Fabray who stood beside her mother, dressed simply in a plain white dress, orange trim marking out the empire waistline.

“Master Anderson, it’s lovely to see you again,” she said as he approached her. Though she looked lovely as ever, her eyes gave the impression that she was tired, faint circles underlining them. Blaine made his greeting and smiled briefly, quickly looking away from her face as though to pretend he’d not noticed. “Shall we go in for breakfast?” she asked. “I’m sure your journey was a long one.”

“What a good idea,” Lady Crawford chimed in, beckoning for Blaine to follow her, “yes, do come in, Master Anderson. We decided to have breakfast a little later today so that you might join us.”

“That’s very kind of you, my Lady, thank you,” Blaine said, making his way in through the entrance of the house and throwing another glance in Kurt’s direction before he disappeared out of sight completely.

The foyer of Crawford House featured a high ceiling, from which an ornate and overly impressive chandelier hung. Upon closer inspection, Blaine noticed that the ceiling had been intricately painted - likely by some famous artist of the seventeenth or eighteenth century. Lady Crawford walked the four of them through the house in quiet; the only sounds were the echoing of footsteps across the floor and the ticking of a large grandfather clock that took pride of place atop the first flight of stairs directly across from the grand entrance. The breakfast room - separate, presumably, to a much larger dining room - was a far more informal affair. It seemed light and airy in comparison with the grand hall. Lady Crawford gestured to Blaine’s seat and the rest of the family took their own.

“I hope you don’t mind this not being more formal,” Lady Crawford said with a polite smile. “We’ve laid on something far more grand for tonight, of course, but with your arrival being so early this morning we thought we would introduce you to our morning room.”

“Not at all, my Lady. It’s really quite generous enough of you to have waited for my arrival before you ate your breakfast.”

“Your journey was pleasant, I hope?”

“It was, thank you.”

“I must say I’ve never travelled overnight by train. I don’t think I should like to.”

“It isn’t something that vexes me a great deal, my Lady.”

Miss Fabray was sat beside Blaine, and from the corner of his eye, he could see her watching the back and forth exchange between himself and Lady Crawford. She was sat on the edge of her seat, as though eager for a silence into which she could speak out. Her fork lay idly in her hand, though she was yet to put any food onto her plate.

“So, Master Anderson,” she said at last, her lips twisting up into a smirk the instant the words left her lips. “What do you think?” She gestured around the room, by which Blaine knew she meant the house.

“It’s... impressive,” Blaine said in reply, looking toward Lord and Lady Crawford to see if either of them would say something about the house that would require Blaine to merely look impressed, as opposed to saying anything. They remained quiet, Lord Crawford seemingly lost to the conversation taking place, and Lady Crawford seemingly urging Blaine to go on with his compliments. “The painted ceiling in the grand hall is exquisite.”

“Eighteenth century,” Miss Fabray noted. “I can never recall the artist’s name. It is rather beautiful though, as is the rest of the house, I’m sure you’ll notice.”

Blaine smiled, though he said nothing in reply.

“And you’ve one of the best rooms in the house for your stay. You’ve a lovely view of the lake. I will show you there when you’ve finished breakfast.”

*

Miss Fabray led him up the grand staircase, Blaine admiring the hundreds of well-kept family portraits lining the walls as he went, until eventually the stairs branched off, and Miss Fabray led them right, up yet more stairs and down various corridors. The urge to explore the house would be overwhelming for Blaine over the fortnight, and he secretly hoped their encounter that morning would be concluded with an invitation to search the house at his leisure, though he imagined that Lord Crawford would be somewhat restrictive as to where Blaine could make himself comfortable and where he should keep his nose out.

Blaine followed Miss Fabray down a long corridor on the third floor and wondered to himself how he would ever manage to make his way to and from his room without help. Eventually she came to a door right at the end of the corridor, and she pushed her way through it, beckoning for Blaine to follow her.

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, as lovely - or possibly even lovelier - than his own bedroom at Dalton, though he would never let on as much. The room was decorated an olive green color, the dark oak furniture impossibly big and yet still leaving enough floor space in the room to walk leisurely - or dance, even, Blaine smiled to himself as he recalled the memory of he and Kurt dancing the night before the ball at which he met Miss Fabray.

The window reached from floor to ceiling, and looked out across the gardens of Crawford. The small village they’d passed on the way was just visible on the horizon, and there was indeed a lake covering an extensive part of the grounds outside. The view was idyllic; far more beautiful than Blaine would have expected, even considering the Crawfords’ social standing and wealth. He had not a word to say.

“Quite lovely, isn’t it?” she murmured, and Blaine suddenly realised how close she was standing beside him. He moved away, pretending to browse the rest of the room in a direction that led him close to the door through which the two of them had just entered. “When I was a little girl I used to want a window view like this one from my own bedroom. Alas, the master bedrooms are on a wing of the house that outlooks the gardens around the back.”

“You could always take a bedroom on this side of the house now that you’re older. I don’t suppose anybody in your family would mind a great deal,” Blaine said, running his fingers along the antique chest of drawers by the doorway.

“I’m afraid my family would mind a great deal. Don’t you know all sorts of bad things happen when one doesn’t behave in a traditional manner?”

Blaine looked up at Miss Fabray, who had turned to face him. She tried to smile politely, but found herself stifling a yawn behind her hand.

“Are you alright, Miss Fabray?”

“You know, we should just call one another Blaine and Lucy from now on, don’t you think so?”

Blaine dismissed her sentence entirely. “Are you quite well? You do seem tired.”

“I’ve not been feeling quite myself of late, but it’s nothing to worry yourself with, Blaine,” she said, waving off his concern with a small chuckle. “You know, I might even let you call me ‘Quinn’ if you’re very nice to me...”

“Quinn?”

“My middle name. So much more interesting, don’t you think?”

Blaine opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came to mind. It was difficult to think of her as anything other than Miss Fabray, the beautiful, and somewhat curious, but otherwise uninteresting girl his parents wanted him to marry. His thoughts were less on calling her by endearing nicknames as they were on finding the words to tell her he could not marry her. And then the words to tell his parents.

Miss Fabray yawned again, turning her face away as much as she could, as though her doing so would prevent Blaine from noticing.

“You’re tired, Miss Fabray, you ought to rest,” Blaine said. “Allow me to call for somebody.”

“No, no! Blaine, I’m quite alright. You’ll forgive me if I cut our tour short for today? I do feel a little indisposed but I’m sure a lie-down will be quite all I need to recover.”

“Of course not,” Blaine said, stepping aside for Miss Fabray to pass him out of the room. “Are you certain you’ll be okay?”

“Quite alright, thank you. Make use of our library or gardens in my absence, why don’t you?” she said as she walked along the corridor until she disappeared out of sight.

***

There was a kind of quiet in the servants’ hall at Crawford, one that Kurt found somewhat eerie, as though the tiniest utterance from him might be heard some miles away. It was probably more to do with the fact that the house was bigger and the ever bustling kitchen was situated much further away from the hall than it was at Dalton. Nevertheless, Kurt found himself making an effort to breathe in and out soundlessly as he waited for the butler, Mr Goolsby, to finish at the family’s breakfast.

“Must be like taking a holiday,” a male voice said on entering the room. Kurt looked up from the table to see that a young footman had joined him in the hall. “Smythe. Sebastian Smythe,” the man said as he placed a cigarette between his lips and struck up a match. With his first inhale of smoke he looked Kurt up and down, before puffing smoke into his direction and chuckling darkly. “S’alright for some.”

“Oh leave him alone, Smythe,” a young girl said as she entered the room, a plate of food in hand. A kitchen maid, by the look of her uniform. “He’s done better than you have, to be promoted to valet so young. I’m Miss Rose, by the way. I was told you were expecting this?” At Kurt’s nod, she placed the plate in front of him on the table, smiling sweetly as she did so.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Kurt said, returning her smile and leaving her blushing. “But I must confess to being only half valet. When I’m at Dalton Abbey I work as first footman, too.”

“Still, you should pay absolutely no attention to whatever Smythe might have to say. He’s second to our own first footman, Mr Clarington. And as you can tell, he’s none too pleased about it.”

“Miss Rose, why don’t you get back to work and leave the men to talk seriously, hmm?”

Kurt was about to object in the maid’s defense, but she only giggled as she scuttled out of the room, muttering something on her way.

The hall fell back into its quiet again, save for the careful sound of clinking cutlery and the exaggerated inhale and exhale of Smythe’s breathing. Kurt wondered nervously whether the footman would speak to him, and for how long the uncomfortable silence was to be maintained. He let his eyes survey the other boy - possibly a year or two older than himself, with a kind of self-assured confidence fitting of a man twice his age and far more socially above him. He was tall, his back ramrod straight even though he was out of sight of the family he served, and he seemed to savor every inhale of his cigarette, as though unconvinced that he would ever have time for another.

“So,” Smythe said finally. Kurt didn’t know whether to be relieved or yet more nervous. “First footman. How did you manage that one?”

Kurt swallowed down a piece of toast, resting his knife and fork against the side of his plate and reaching for his glass of water in an attempt at a more relaxed and confident stature. “Lord Dalton’s valet died. They promoted some of the staff and hired me as first footman.”

“His valet died, did he? Is that all it takes?” Smythe said, grinning in a way that made Kurt uncomfortable. He took a swig of water from his glass for an excuse not to provide Smythe with a comment. “First footman is quite a feat. For somebody like yourself.”

“Somebody like myself-?”

“Heard you were a farm boy.”

Kurt placed his glass of water back down on the table and locked eyes with the footman. A beat of silence passed before Kurt was able to respond. “How did you hear that?”

“Word travels. I think it was our own Miss Lucy-Q who told me. Heard it from your Master Anderson’s parents, I expect.”

Kurt tried to ignore the improper use of Miss Fabray’s name, picking up his cutlery once again and staring at his food, suddenly having lost his appetite. “And does it matter?” Kurt asked, as casually as possible. “Does it matter that I grew up on a farm, so long as I can do the job for which I was hired?”

“That depends on whether you are any good, I suppose, doesn’t it?”

A deep-throated cough cut short the chuckling at the end of Smythe’s words, and Kurt looked toward the entryway of the servant’s hall to see that Mr Goolsby had appeared at last. The butler’s arrival seemed to have shocked Smythe, who backed away from Kurt and remained silent.

“Are you ready to be shown around Crawford House, Hummel?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr Goolsby,” Kurt replied, setting down his cutlery and vacating his seat, keeping the other footman in his peripheral vision but never looking at him directly.

“Good. We oughtn’t be late, and I believe Master Anderson will want you in his room that he might change for lunch in just a few short hours,” Mr Goolsby said as he spun on his heel and exited the servant’s hall. “Come along!”