“Hummel,” Blaine replied, his head lifting up from the top of a hefty book that he looked to be almost half of the way through. “Is it morning already?”

Kurt took in the scene before him. Sat in his usual chair by the window, Blaine’s eyes were red and puffy. He had a candle, still lit - though burnt down almost to its end - beside him on the table in just the right position to allow light to flicker onto the page of his book.

“Have you been awake all night?” Kurt asked, immediately rebuking himself for being so forthright with his question. Blaine either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He simply nodded, yawned, stretched and smiled somewhat guiltily toward Kurt. “Perhaps we should attempt to conceal that fact,” Kurt replied, pulling out a tie that he knew would bring out the brown in Blaine’s eyes rather than the red surrounding them.

“I would appreciate that,” was all Blaine could muster in reply, quickly licking the tips of his fingers to snuff out the candle before dragging himself from his chair and over to Kurt.

In truth, Blaine couldn’t put his finger on quite what had unsettled him. When he’d retired to his bed the previous night, rather than falling gratefully into a slumber as he often did after an evening of entertaining guests, his eyes simply refused to close, stuck to the ceiling upon which he could make out faces in every etch and scratch in the paint, or rather: a face, singular. That of Miss Berry. What it was about her face in particular that refused to leave his mind, he couldn’t tell. There was nothing spectacular about it. There was no resounding feeling of pleasure at her appearance, no spark or delight he could feel whenever she spoke, or smiled, or even sang - though her voice was excellent, that much was true. Perhaps his mother was right; that he did read too many novels, that he was preparing himself for some distinct feeling of having been ‘altered’ somehow, a friction or heat, or something, when really there would be no such thing, that he would simply know, without any involvement of real emotion, that she was ‘the one’ when the time came. Maybe that’s why his parents chastised him for wanting to be in love with the person he married. Perhaps there was no such thing.

There was, however, a distinct uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of nausea so chokingly unpleasant that Blaine was fairly certain whatever it was he was feeling toward Miss Berry was not love or anything remotely close to it. Every time he saw her smile somewhere in the scratches on the ceiling, he felt his stomach tie into knots. The lady, her hair, her smile were by no means unattractive, yet the very thought of eventually marrying her, spending every day for the rest of his life with her made him uneasy, nervous. And he knew that she deserved far better than him for a husband.

And so, after some two hours rolling restlessly back and forth, eyes unwilling to stay shut and figures of Miss Berry refusing to disappear, Blaine had got up out of bed, lit a candle and sat reading Richardson's ‘Clarissa’, right through from the first chapter until the moment when Hummel had entered the room, several hundred pages later.

“Master Anderson,” a voice greeted him as he descended the stairs.

Blaine hesitated, taking in the sight of the girl before him. She was smiling brightly, a colorful summer dress shining in the sunlight that streamed through the grand window. A few locks of her hair fell loose around her shoulder - by design, Blaine didn’t doubt, so that attention was drawn to the soft, pale skin of her long neck.

“Miss Berry,” he replied with a smile. “I trust you slept well?”

“Very well, thank you,” she said. She seemed to look over him before she continued. “Yourself?”

“Delightful,” he said, fighting the temptation to scratch at his itching eyes. He caught sight of his mother, standing someway off in another room behind Miss Berry, looking pointedly at the two of them. Miss Berry didn’t notice her.

“Perhaps,” Blaine began, taking his eyes from his mother and looking at Miss Berry as earnestly as he could, “after breakfast you might accompany me on a walk?”

The girl smiled. “Of course.”

Blaine’s mother walked out of sight.

The two of them found themselves in silence when they eventually stepped out into the gardens and looked out onto the stretch of open fields and cobblestone pavements that led toward the village. If he could, Blaine would remain silent and focus on the sounds around him; birds chirping, leaves rustling in the gentle breeze, squirrels scurrying through the trees. All of nature in its eternal freedom, none of it ever feeling the constraint of human society. It was his constant awareness of the lady beside him, her lace-gloved fingers rolling the handle of her parasol between them, that instilled him with a sense of obligation to talk. This, he supposed, was the idea of their walking together.

“So is your mother not to join us, Miss Berry?” he ventured.

“My mother passed away when I was very young.”

Of course, Blaine thought, turning his face away as subtly as he could to breathe out a curse not loud enough for Miss Berry to hear.

Congratulations on asking the worst question you possibly could - and as your first one! Why did nobody ever tell him these things?

“My—my apologies,” he stuttered. “I’m - I had no idea...”

“It’s okay,” she said, and he could see that she was almost laughing at his discomfort. “It was too long ago; I was hardily old enough to know her. I’ve no memory of her.”

“Still,” Blaine said. “I couldn’t have picked a more embarrassing question.”

“Sometimes they’re the best ones to begin a conversation,” she replied. Blaine looked at her then, surprised. She smiled back, her eyes glinting playfully, before she turned to look back out at the path they were following. “So, do you walk often?”

“I ride,” he replied. “I usually bring my horse out every day.”

“Last night I noticed you staring out at the gardens a lot.”

Blaine winced. “Am I so obvious? You weren’t supposed to notice that.”
“I’m observant.”

“I meant no disrespect, of course. I was still focused on your company, I merely-”

“You merely like the outdoors. It’s not a crime, Master Anderson.”

He laughed, eyes darting down to stare at the cobblestones moving beneath their feet as he allowed his embarrassment to subside. She seemed not to notice.

“What is it you like about being out here?” she ventured, curiously.

Blaine had to think for a moment before he responded. “I like the freedom. Sometimes I find society... how can I put it?” he mused. “Oppressive.”

She smiled, but a sad look passed across her eyes. “Don’t we all?”

Blaine raised his eyebrows, startled by her response. His insides ached to call the girl up on it, ask her what she meant, what she was alluding to, why she - of all people - found the society in which they lived as oppressive as he did. He opened his mouth, closed it again and looked over at Miss Berry. Her eyes were trained on the route ahead, no trace of the former sadness left in them, and it was the first time he’d had the opportunity to wonder if Miss Berry’s predicament was just the same as his; if she were here against her will, being thrust towards the most eligible bachelor her father could find in the hopes that Blaine would marry her.

It was a while before either of them spoke - Blaine couldn’t be sure how long exactly - but he eventually cleared his throat, forced himself to break the silence.

“Do you enjoy riding?” he asked, a continuation of their previous conversation.

“I’ve a horse,” she replied sheepishly, looking at Blaine. The two of them caught one another’s eyes for a moment and looked away from each other again, giggling.

“Should I take that as a ‘no’?”

“I don’t dislike it,” she said. “I just- for me it’s just too - dirty?” Blaine nodded, pretended he understood the concern. He didn’t. Getting dirty was part of the fun of horseback riding. For him, at least. Miss Berry continued, “My horse is beautiful. I couldn’t bear to see her looking dirty. I shall have to keep to my music.”

“Well, in that I have to agree with you. Your voice is outstanding.”

She grinned. “Thank you. You were surprisingly good yourself. For a gentleman.”

“As I mentioned before, I have little else to do with my time.”

She shook her head. “I still can’t believe you with that one.”

Blaine stifled a yawn as the two of them continued walking; the fresh air was having an opposite effect to what he’d hoped, and the warm, humid air was coaxing him back into drowsiness.

“Am I boring you with my company, Master Anderson?” Miss Berry asked.

Through his sleepy haze, Blaine couldn’t tell if her tone was jovial or if she was, in fact, horribly offended. His bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop another yawn from escaping. He swallowed hard, blinked a few times, his eyes becoming more blurry every time he reopened them.

“You are observant indeed, aren’t you?” he joked. “I’m sorry, I-” he looked at the young lady, who returned his glance with concern etched on her face. “I didn’t quite tell you the truth earlier.”

“Oh?”

“When you inquired as to whether I slept well last night, I said that I had,” Blaine said. There was a short silence while Miss Berry continued to look at Blaine, puzzled, as though she were expecting there to be more to the story somehow. “I hadn’t,” he finished.

“I see,” she said, nodding her understanding. They continued to walk, heading out of the grounds belonging to Dalton Abbey and down a slight decline that led to the village. “Well, we’ve gotten off then to a rather bad start, don’t you think, Master Anderson?” Blaine didn’t know where her train of thought was leading, so he made no reply. “Perhaps, if we’re to be friends, we should tell one another the truth?” she smiled playfully.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he replied with a relieved smile. “Just never tell my mother any of our secrets.”

She laughed, a full and hearty outburst that brightened every feature on her face and Blaine would have thought it the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen if he was at all attracted to her.

But he wasn’t.

Kurt had settled into routine fairly quickly in the three weeks that he’d spent at Dalton. He and Sam had become good friends, and Kurt liked to think of some of the other staff as friends, too. Finn, although Kurt could only stand so much of his simple chit-chat at any given time, had certainly declared himself Kurt’s friend. He and Brittany had crossed paths so many times each morning in the setting up of the house that the two of them had, after about a week, simply started to work their way through the rooms together, enabling them the opportunity for conversation. Miss Lopez and Kurt had taken to friendly banter over whether Lady Dalton or Blaine were better dressed on any given occasion. And it turned out that Mrs Sylvester hadn’t been joking when she’d asked to call Kurt ‘Porcelain’; it had begun just occasionally once or twice a day, until eventually it was simply how she addressed him, so long as no member of the family were around.

Kurt tended to send a letter home to his father twice a week, and always received one back just a few days later. They pulled at his heartstrings, making him homesick every time he received a reply - not necessarily because of the content of the letter, but because of the promptness of its return. Kurt could tell that his father missed him. He was alone in their house with nothing but memories and it pained Kurt to think of him like that.

On the subject of Blaine, Kurt had, over the weeks, managed to push all thought of wanting to sing with him from his thoughts. He’d tried, even, to forget altogether the memory of his performance with Miss Berry, but he’d failed spectacularly at that; Blaine’s voice was still hauntingly clear in his mind. Kurt felt he had to be commended for his progress over the weeks; he was at a point where he could focus on his responsibilities everyday without thinking about it; he could see Blaine every morning, every evening and around the house at any given time of day and his mind barely hinted at the memory; he’d very much separated ‘Master Anderson’ from ‘Blaine’.

But whenever Kurt was back in his room of an evening, whenever he wrote his father, whenever he lay back in his bed, closed his eyes and began to drift off to sleep, Blaine was there. Blaine was singing. The voice refused to leave him.

“What are you writing so sneakily over there?” Kurt asked Sam one evening, sitting up in his bed to focus his attention on the other footman, the book in his hands propped open.

Sam was sat hunched over the desk, continually tearing up pages of unsatisfactory writing until they were in so many pieces on the floor that the text on them was indecipherable.

“Nothing,” came Sam’s mumbled reply as he spoke into his arm. He huffed, jotted down a sentence, scribbled it out, tore it up and eventually contradicted, “I’m writing a letter to my family.”

“Are you always so meticulous in writing to your family?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s the fifth page in a row I’ve seen you tear up,” Kurt explained.

Sam made no reply, so Kurt went back to his book. It was a short while later that Sam’s voice penetrated the silence.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Kurt looked up, surprised by the outburst. Sam was looking directly at him, another sheet crumpled up in his hand.

“No,” was all Kurt could think of to respond. It was the truth; Kurt had never fallen in love with anybody - there had seldom been the opportunity to meet anybody at the farm. Sam looked deflated. He turned back to the desk and returned to his writing, but no sooner had Kurt dropped his head back to his book when Sam let out a loud, exasperated sigh.

“Is that what this is about?” Kurt asked. He felt easy in asking the question; their no-secrets policy had been sincere enough, and Kurt already felt close enough to Sam to treat him as a brother.

“I - well - it isn’t - yes,” Sam stuttered.

“You’re in love with a girl,” Kurt stated, more than questions. Sam answered him anyway.

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

Sam’s dopey smile said everything. He was smitten. “She lives in my village, the one I grew up in. Her father runs a postal office.”

“So she’s distinctly middle class, then,” Kurt said.

“Yes.”

“And you’re... not middle class. Anymore.”

“No.”

“I see your dilemma,” Kurt concluded.

“Quite,” Sam agreed. Kurt didn’t even point out the fact that footmen were generally expected to be single, unmarried. Sam didn’t need another issue to think about.

“Does she love you?”

Sam smiled. “Yes. She loves me.”

It was all the two said on the subject that night: Sam returned to his letter writing and Kurt returned to his reading and eventually the two retired to their beds and prepared themselves for another day.

Miss Berry and her father had been at Dalton for around the same time as Kurt had. It was the last day of her third week in the house, and, to Kurt, Miss Berry’s lady’s maid and her father’s valet were as much a part of Dalton’s house staff as the others. There was talk among the servants that Miss Berry would be leaving soon, and Kurt couldn’t help feeling a little sad at the idea of Miss Motta and Mr Karofsky leaving.

Kurt usually visited Blaine three times per day under Lady Dalton’s strict instruction for him to look presentable for every occasion - and every one of Blaine’s daily habits, from dinner to visiting the library, counted as an ‘occasion’. To Kurt, it seemed as though Blaine spent his every waking moment with Miss Berry and Blaine had certainly never given any sign that he was unhappy or underwhelmed by his experience with the young lady - indeed, why should he?

In fact, it didn’t surprise Kurt at all to find that Blaine had grown to enjoy the lady’s company. Kurt had listened to many a tale over the past few weeks about his and Miss Berry’s walks, his and Miss Berry’s horse rides, he and Miss Berry sharing favorite books. Three weeks was enough time to form an attachment, enough time to ask a lady’s father permission and enough time to propose the idea of marriage, and Kurt fully expected to hear of the announcement within just a few days.

It was Kurt’s twenty-second day at Dalton when he arose to his first dull morning; no sun shone through the wide windows of the house, only a few speckles of rain clung to each glass pane as the grey skyline frowned over the grounds of Dalton.

“I’ll be sad when she leaves,” Brittany commented as she set up the first in the dining room. She was staring wistfully into nothingness, not focused entirely on the task she had at hand, and Kurt hoped that she didn’t burn the house down as he continued to lay the table.

“Miss Motta?” Kurt asked, thinking of how the lady’s maid’s smile always cheered up the room no matter how gloomy an atmosphere had befallen it.

“No, silly,” Brittany replied with a sigh. “Miss Berry.”

Oh, Kurt thought. Perhaps that had been obvious. The maids had all been so taken by the young lady, willing her to be part of the family from the moment she had arrived, that of course it made sense for them to be saddened by her departure.

“I’m certain she’ll not be away for long,” Kurt assured the parlor maid.

She gasped. “Do you know something?”

“It would not be for me to say, even if I did,” he teased, laying down the final place setting and making his way toward the door of the room.

“You’re too cruel,” was all he heard Brittany respond as he made his way out of the door and along the corridor.

“Hummel.”

“Master Anderson.”

Kurt came into Blaine’s room to find him, as he always did, already awake.

“Dreary weather this morning,” Blaine commented as he stood up from his chair and walked over to Kurt who carefully picked out yet another striking outfit for the young man.

“Quite, milord.”

“I shall probably have to stay indoors all day.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I will if my mother has anything to do with it,” Blaine joked, and Kurt felt a smile pull at his features. “I shouldn’t think even you could keep me from looking decent for our guests if I went out in this weather. Short of galloping about after me with an umbrella.”

“No, milord,” Kurt replied, holding back a chuckle.

Blaine laughed, and then, as though he’d forgotten who he was speaking to, said, “you’re so formal.”

Kurt looked up from the two ties he held in his hand and shifted uncomfortably as he comprehended Blaine’s face. He made a stuttered, confused reply.

“Y-yes? Milord...”

“Sorry,” Blaine suddenly said, shaking his head as though to re-align his thoughts. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ve made you uncomfortable... only, I-” he paused, laughed again - more to himself than with Kurt - and finally spoke. “Everybody speaks to me like that. It’s expected, of course, with the whole social order of things. Sometimes it just feels... really formal.”

Kurt made no reply. He smiled meekly at Blaine, before shifting his attention back to the two ties he was torn between. Eventually he chose the one in his right hand, noticing that its honey-color brought out the shine in Blaine’s brown eyes.

“You’re a good valet,” Blaine said at length, as Kurt helped him into a jacket, readjusted the way it sat on his shoulders and then brushed it down. Kurt’s lips curled, ever so slightly, into a smile. “Never leave, will you?”

“I’ll try, milord.”