Fic: A Fish Out of Water - part 1
Mar. 27th, 2005 02:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lonelybritRight, so, to quote a favourite song, this bunny has 'been chaffing my ass' for quite a while. Set in the same verse as a drabble I did a while back - basically relocating AtS characters into a Wodehouse!verse for no real reason other than I had been obsessively reading Jeeves - I suppose it's the prequel.
Huge thanks to the lovely lovely lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eloise_bright who's patiently listened to me fret and ramble and gnash teeth over this fic. A most wonderful enabler and bunny feeder, she also beta-ed this for me. *hugggles*
Title: A Fish Out Of Water - part 1
Rating: PG
Pairing: Eventually Liam/Pryce
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Notes: Set in some indeterminate time period, possibly early 20th century. Because it's a la Wodehouse, most characters have wound up being English. A puzzlement and a bugger to write, but there you go. I guess this my indulgence fic.
Chapter One:
“You can’t be serious?”
Will paused in the act of running a comb through his already pristine and crisp hair. I could see his expression in the mirror. One of amused puzzlement.
“Liam,” he said kindly, “I told you that I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”
“But… but… It’ll look absurd, that kind of thing isn’t done any more!”
He gave me The Look.
“Is it?”
“I have tried to explain,” he said, with the air of one who knows his patience is that of the divine. The comb resumed its easy path. “These people live in a time all of their own. Changing fashions, tastes, the outside world and general evolution are mere curiosities. Woe betide the fool who tries to intrude. He’ll be eaten alive; torn limb from limb.” He thoughtfully pursed his lips. “Though they would at least be polite about it.”
I sank back into an armchair and lowered my face to my hands. “I’m doomed.”
“Nah,” and some of the old cockney crept back into his voice. My shoulder got a not exactly gentle but I suppose bracing knock. “You’ll be fine, mate. Just try not to speak too much. And for love of Pete, do not sing.”
I opened my mouth to deliver a stinging response, only then the door opened and a tall snappily dressed chap wafted in, his face as joyful as a turkey’s at Thanksgiving.
“Your taxi is here, sir.”
“Thank you, Greylings,” said Will in that plum voice that took some getting used to. He looked back at me over his shoulder. “Come on then, Liam, you old sod, we have a boat to catch.”
*~*~*~*
“But… Rupert. An American?”
“I know, it’s hardly normal practice, but you are… Well, to be frank, Wesley, you’re hardly in a position to be picky about prospective employers.”
“Yes, I do realise that! It’s just… Well. I thought…”
“Apparently this ‘Liam’ is a good man. Lord Cusplip and his wife received a very positive account of him from their nephew William Davis. And you know how much they dote on him.”
“Very well. Best foot forward and all that. Of course one mustn’t let the side down.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Wesley.”
“Sorry. Although, I am curious. Lord Cusplip is notoriously particular when it comes to employing staff. Why on earth would he recommend me?”
“Because of a recommendation from a third party.”
“But who… No.”
“Jeeves is good friends with you mother, Wesley. He believes this could turn out to be to your advantage.”
“Jeeves thought of this?”
“He did indeed.”
“Hmm. And he is very rarely known to come up with a dud idea, Rupert.”
“I know.”
“Well, it always pays to have faith in a higher power, I suppose.”
“You could say that.”
“Though he is certainly moving in very, very mysterious ways.”
*~*~*~*
I had a nightmare about what our first meeting would be like. Actually I had several nightmares, but the most memorable and spine-chilling one had me going into some kind of store. A bit like a pet shop, except that instead of stocking puppies or small clawed felines, it stored potential future valets. So in I went, and there was a long line of silver-haired, frighteningly distinguished-looking men in spotless suits. In the shadows, Will was holding a whispered conversation with the proprietor. Finally, the chosen man was beckoned forward and then I was called. And the man looked me up and down… and if he were a puppy then that would be the moment he whined, ran back to the others and hid.
In the end, the actually first meeting was really quite normal. Which considering the events that would later occur, was rather unfair of Fate. Lulling me into a false sense of security. There was no thunderclap. No ominous ticking clock. Just a room with a polished coffee table and thick drapes, and then a soft cough.
“Yes, Greylings?”
The only kind of valet I had seen up close until Greylings was either on the silver screen or scribbled in a book. So far, Greylings had lived up to all my expectations of men in that trade. He had the suit, the lance straight back, the refined grey hair, the face that showed all the expression of a stuffed wombat. However when I turned to look at him, in spite of his sculpted features, he still managed to look rather ‘put out’. The kind of ‘I Can’t Believe I Have To Do This’ look you often see on people too polite to say anything out loud.
“He’s arrived, sir.”
“Ah, excellent!” Will turned and flashed me a grin. “Show him in, Greylings, show him in!”
“Will,” I began pleadingly. “Are you really sure this is-”
“Oh, put a sock in it, maggot.”
We both turned as the ‘he’ entered the room.
The first thing that hit me was the definite lack of grey hair. The suit, polite expressionless expression, rigidly straight back and everything else were all in place. But several years seemed to be missing. The face was smooth, the hair dark, the figure trim. He looked almost our own age.
“Mr Pryce, sir.” And I could hear the distaste. “Will there be anything further?”
“No, no, Greylings. That’s fine.”
“Very good, sir.” Greylings withdrew with the air of one escaping a bad smell.
A ripe silence settled over the remaining three of us. Pryce stood; quiet and still, looking like a good taxidermist had just parked him by the wall.
“Well,” Will began heartily – hearty being something he had quite a knack for in this country and in that accent - grabbing one fine boned hand and shaking it firmly. “Good to make your acquaintance, Pryce old boy.”
Will really was playing it to the rafters.
Pryce withdrew his hand with infinite care, maintaining an immobile expression not unlike the moose head that hung in the main dining room.
“Thank you, sir.”
Will was already waving him silent. One hand reached out and firmly hooked me by the elbow, dragging me forward like a neatly caught carp.
“And this miserable looking bugger is your new boss.”
One of the things I knew I’d be facing when coming over to this side of the pond? The notorious British Stiff Upper Lip. Or Fellowship of the Emotionally Repressed, as Will puts it. For some reason I’d expected it to be the upper class, the lords and ladies, to be the masters of this art, never showing even the smallest quiver.
It was one of the first illusions shattered.
Lord Whatshisface might be stoic, but his brave face paled when compared to that of his butler. Passing gentry might gasp and sputter, but their staff will always maintain icily perfect manners. No matter what happens, they will never show shock, horror, or let slip some colourful word. Even if an employer’s frankly foul to them, their gaze will never carry even a hint of hostility or resentment.
At least, that’s what I first thought. Until I learnt how to really look. Because scratch the surface and you see a whole new side to these guys.
For example, one trick staff have is not what words they do or don’t say; it’s simply how they say them. It’s all in the smallest lift of the voice. ‘Yes, sir’ can either be cooed like some epic Shakespearean love sonnet. Or it’s lightly clipped and thus rendered into a virtual slap about the head with a brick.
The same goes for facial expressions. The tiniest quirk of the eyebrow, a lowering of the eyes, when you know to look for it, can speak more than odes and sonnets combined.
So when Pryce blinked while at the same time there was the faintest hint of a quirk of the left eyebrow, I knew I was sunk. The man was appalled, horrified, completely stunned that a man of his class had to answer to someone he obviously thought of as possessing all the charm and intelligence of a trodden-on slug. He struggled for a while to find an answer to Will’s frank introduction, and eventually settled on the universal, ‘Sir.’
“Um, yes, er, hi.” I scratched the back of my neck as I sought for some words or even, please God, a sentence or two. “So, you’ve… er. Nice suit.”
“Thank you, sir, I am gladdened that my attire merits your approval.”
My stomach sank even further. It seemed Pryce too was a master of turning polite words into serious words of war.
“Right,” and Will rubbed his hands together. He seemed to be enjoying the scene enormously. Swine. “Well, I’ll let you two get to know each other, and I’ll go see if I can’t rustle up some tea.”
Pryce nodded respectfully as Will all but skipped from the room. His eyes flickered my way for a second, and for a moment I was pinned to the spot by one endless intelligent and piercing look, and then he fixed his gaze on some distant point over my right shoulder.
“So,” I said, trying to echo Will’s cheerful voice. “I suppose you’re from a long line of distinguished valets? Greylings here is always going on about how his great-great-great-”
“I’m the first in the family to take up this profession, sir.”
Something in his tone alerted me to having made an unintended blunder.
“Oh… I’m sure they must be proud?”
And this time I could feel the temperature in the room drop.
“I really could not say, sir.”
“Well, I’m glad to have you, you can help me out, you must have had loads of experience-”
“This is my first official engagement, sir.”
“Oh. Well, that’s great! Means we can both learn together.”
“As you say, sir.”
Silence resettled over the room.
Pryce still kept his gaze on that object only he could see. Probably his fading sense of professional pride. I took the opportunity to examine my new companion a little more closely; there wasn’t much else to do as conversation had gone belly up in record time.
When he had first walked in, Pryce seemed to tower over me; shoulders back and head high in the posture of the horribly well bred. A posture that automatically makes anyone nearby feel about two inches tall. At a second look, though, I saw that he only topped me by a few inches. Two. At the most. If at all. His general build was along the same lines as Will; slender and fine boned, though with dark hair rather than blonde. It was not hard to picture him as a gangly prim teenager standing to in some smart uniform. Hell, he looked like he’d be born in a suit, not a hair out of place. He also looked like if you blew too hard he’d fall over. Unlike Will, who had this way of standing so that anyone with half a brain could see that he’d easily hold his own. These pale hands were designed to hold a pen and turn a page, not punch someone’s lights out or dig in the dirt for a dropped key.
Yes.
Oddly delicate hands for a man really. Nicely shaped. Knuckles pale and defined, the fingers long and sensitive looking…
“Sorry?” I started, realising that Pryce had been saying something. “What?”
He showed no sign of impatience, and I got the impression that he’d already reconciled himself to the fact that I was an idiot.
“I was enquiring as to whether you are quite well, sir,” he said, without any trace of sarcasm. “You went oddly quiet and looked very thoughtful.”
I eyed him in case there was a hidden insult, but he just met my inspection with blue-eyed innocence.
“Sorry,” I repeated. “I’m just… a little tired, time difference and all that.”
“I understand, sir. I could possibly suggest some remedies to help you adjust to your new time zone, if you wish?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” I waved my hand hastily. It suddenly hit me that this would be our life from now on. This was now his job: looking after me. Oh hell. “I’m taking plenty of water and that. Leave it, I’ll be fine.”
“Very good, sir.”
And of course, then I felt like I’d just kicked a puppy. Squashed this newly fledged valet before he had barely started.
“Although, Pryce, maybe later, when we’re alone you could…”
The door crashed open and Will entered, closely followed by Greylings who bore a tray that clinked and steamed from china, silver and tea.
“How are you two getting on? Planning to take over the world yet?” He gave Pryce a serious look. “You want to watch out for that one, he’ll have you assisting in robbing the local jewellers if you’re not careful.”
Pryce shot me another look, just as I shot one of the ‘So-Help-Me-You-Will-Pay’ variety in the direction of Will. Pryce’s lip twitched ever so slightly; the left-hand side managing half a quirk towards a smile.
“Thank you for your advice, sir,” he replied politely, then moved forward to help Greylings set out the tea.
After the tea had been poured, both valets withdrew and left me and Will with our teeny cups of dry leaves soaked in hot water.
“So,” said Will smugly, “that wasn’t so bad, was it.”
I was watching his fingers as they carefully held the pale china. Thinking over things. Pryce really did have the most lovely hands. I know my Father would have scorned them, called them a woman’s hands or something like that. But they really were quite fine; skilled hands, you could tell. And despite his schoolboy appearance, when I had looked into those eyes, if I didn’t see a flash of humour then I was a lemon. And Pryce really did have the most clear eyes, a cool iron grey-blue gaze…
Oh God, no. Oh no, no no.
“Are you alright, Liam old chap? You look a little green about the gills.”
“I’m doomed.”
*~*~*~*
You know, I’m thinking that maybe some readers might be a little surprised over by vocabulary used so far. So a little word on that.
My family is Irish, and I’m proud of that heritage. I spent my early years in Galway before being packed off to some dingy cold cavernous cave that passed for an ‘elite’ English school. I was too young and too angry at being packed off to fully understand the reasoning behind such a move. My father was an ambitious man, I think there was a great uncle involved somewhere and a general wish to have the Connor family take over the world. Starting with London. Where I was duly sent. And to put it mildly, my language was ‘colourful’ when I first slouched onto this damp isle.
The only reason I remained sane was thanks to a rather odd friendship I struck up with a boy in my year. William Davies. A blonde-haired lad with blue eyes, alabaster skin, soft well-cultured tones, and a mind as low and dirty as the gutter. Despite the fact we fought and disagreed and backstabbed each other at least twice every waking hour, we stayed friends throughout school. Possibly because we were the only people who could stand ourselves. Over the years, the backstabbing grew less – or slightly less vicious anyway - and by the time we blew up the school lavatories on the last day of our last term, we realised that somehow we had become what writers call ‘bosom pals’.
Naturally our parents weren’t too pleased with our antics. Nor were the authorities who were called in to inspect the smoking ruins of the privies. So Will and I quickly scarpered to pastures new and safe. Namely the Americas. And we stayed there, until the funeral of Will’s favourite aunt summoned him back to England. The poor lady had doted on her nephew; I think she always remembered him as the angelic looking grub she’d bounced on her knees eons ago. And Will was actually very fond of her; her name always cropped up whenever he waxed on lyrical about good old England. Something that occasionally happened after a good night out. So, he plucked up his courage and returned to this unsunny isle. Naturally I went with him, fool that I was. I hadn’t much to be proud of at that stage, but I was proud of how I treated my friends, or friend.
They say time is the great healer. Which is utter tripe when it comes to the English aristocracy. Because these guys pride themselves on how long they can hold a grudge. But thankfully, the mood back home had changed. Whereas before our pranks had been looked upon with horror, the new generation found them a source of great amusement. If anything, we gained respect. And, in the end, Will decided to stay on after the funeral. And suddenly the gentleman’s gentleman that I had obtained when first arriving looked like he would be a permanent fixture in my life. Because there was no way I could go back to America without Will.
There was a point to this. It’s slipped past me somehow…
Ah yes. The vocab.
Blame Will. Blame his family. Blame the English, frankly.
See, thing is, in this place, you have no choice but to start using words that previously you thought only appeared in old books or black and white flicks. An English aristocrat has mannerisms that can only be described as ‘distraught’, ‘enraged’ or ‘full of beans’. When an aunt draws herself up and summons you, she doesn’t ‘call’ or ‘shout’. She thunders, no question about it.
So, before you know it, these words are rubbing off on you. It’s like visiting a foreign country. You try a few new phrases, and before you know it even your dreams are in a completely different language. That’s how it was for me when I wound up surrounded on all sides by Will’s old world.
I’ve lost the plot again. Sorry.
Okay, so, funeral.
Will was summoned back to England for the funeral of a favourite aunt. He accepted the offer of use of a pair of cottages owned by some uncle-or-other on a nearby estate. Which meant that we didn’t have to pay much rent, a huge plus. But the downside was it meant we’d have to mingle with The Family.
I was sat down by Will and told, in no uncertain terms, that I’d need to get a new wardrobe, and also a personal gentleman of my own.
“I’m to get a what!”
“Don’t give me that look, Liam. It’s not what it sounds like. Think of it like a butler. Every decent bloke round there has his gentleman’s personal gentleman.
And I’m not going to give those idiots any excuse to look down on you. You’re getting a gentleman.”
And a week and a bit later, in walked Pryce. Just like that. There he was. I, um… No, let’s try and keep this in order.
It would be nice to say that there was a spark straightaway, but there wasn’t. He was pretty, of course I noticed that. Tall, dark hair, clear eyes, wonderful looking hands. But other than that, he was just a valet.
Now it’s different, well, obviously. Now it’s a case of I can still see him even with my eyes closed.
*~*~*~*
“Oh, you poor sod!” Will was actually doubled over he was laughing so hard. “Oh, that’s just priceless.”
The irony of the sentence obviously hit him at once, and he collapsed in another fit of the giggles.
“Thanks,” I snapped coldly, keeping my eye on the road as the two-seater pegged it down the country lane.
We’d been in the car only five minutes, heading into the village to have a wander round, when Will had turned to look at me.
“All right, what’re you brooding about now?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t try that on me,” he said reprovingly, “I know you too well.”
“I’m concentrating on driving, Will, can we talk about this later?”
“Most definitely not now you’ve just said that.”
“Fine. It’s Pryce.”
Will gave a sharp sigh and returned to normal seating position.
“Look,” he said peevishly, “will you just stop moaning about this for one minute? It’s not as if he…”
My silence finally clued him in. He studied my face with growing glee.
“Oh, you poor sod!”
And there you are.
“Liam, you’re not the first bloke to crush on his gentleman,” Will, eventually, said in what I guess he thought a comforting voice. “Hell, Lord Fippleston is practically married to his. He bought a tie, one time, that his man Woods didn’t like, and he was bloody heartbroken when Woods gave him the cold shoulder over it. Tie was ceremonially burnt that very afternoon. And don’t get me started on Mr Wooster…”
“Will!” I said desperately, “stop trying to make it better!”
Will’s expression sobered and we drove on in silence for a few seconds. I kept my eyes firmly on the road in case some feathered or furred creature decided to try a game of chicken; a common and popular pastime for the wildlife in this area.
Beside me, Will tapped his fingers on the window frame. Clearly something was on his mind and when the drumming abruptly cut out I braced myself for another one of his ‘talks’.
“You know, I was speaking to Greylings earlier, when you were with Pryce,” he began, ominously serious. “You do realise who he is?”
“Greylings?”
“No. Pryce.”
I shook my head, making a slight swerve to avoid an ambling pheasant.
“Pryce? Wyndam-Pryce? Son of Lord Roger Wyndam-Pryce?”
I made it clear that the name still meant nothing to me. Will pursed his lips and frowned out at the passing hedgerow, planning how best to tell his tale.
“They’re an old family, the Wyndam-Pryce’s. Used to be rolling in it too, until the previous Lord lost most of it on an Australian goldmine. Lord Roger’s always been quite bitter about that. Made a point of living the perfect life. Very vocal in the House of Lords, all for deportation and hangings and anything to keep people in line. He’s his own party, a magistrate and a cross-bencher, and the high class love him. A real gentleman, they say. Utter bullshit, if you ask me. He treats a few people well and the rest of us like dirt. And if his son’s anything like him…”
I swallowed, remembering that rigid back and cool gaze. That hint of a smirk. Then a thought smote me.
“In which case, Will, why the hell is Pryce Junior going around as a valet?”
Will gave me a significant look.
“Roger has connections, or so they say,” he said in a low tone. “One rumour has it as some old Council-or-other left over from the Civil War. A few key families still keeping an eye on things and all that. Not entirely sure why. Keeping us safe; keeping us under control, who knows. And there’re hints they’re unofficially linked to the government. The eyes and ears?”
A nasty cold feeling went down my spine at the thought of having to live under the same roof as such a man for the next month. Could he, had he been sent to spy on me? Or was he simply taking Living The Humble Life one step further?
“I want to get another one.”
“Dream on, mate. It’d raise too many questions if you did, we can’t exactly tell them why. Anyway, you can handle him. And it’s hardly going to be forever.”
Will flicked dust off his shoulders, signalling the end of the discussion.
“Looks aren’t everything, Liam old boy,” he concluded. “Enjoy the eye candy, but don’t let your guard down around him. That family isn’t one to be trusted.”
Next part here.
Huge thanks to the lovely lovely lovely
eloise_bright who's patiently listened to me fret and ramble and gnash teeth over this fic. A most wonderful enabler and bunny feeder, she also beta-ed this for me. *hugggles*Title: A Fish Out Of Water - part 1
Rating: PG
Pairing: Eventually Liam/Pryce
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Notes: Set in some indeterminate time period, possibly early 20th century. Because it's a la Wodehouse, most characters have wound up being English. A puzzlement and a bugger to write, but there you go. I guess this my indulgence fic.
Chapter One:
“You can’t be serious?”
Will paused in the act of running a comb through his already pristine and crisp hair. I could see his expression in the mirror. One of amused puzzlement.
“Liam,” he said kindly, “I told you that I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”
“But… but… It’ll look absurd, that kind of thing isn’t done any more!”
He gave me The Look.
“Is it?”
“I have tried to explain,” he said, with the air of one who knows his patience is that of the divine. The comb resumed its easy path. “These people live in a time all of their own. Changing fashions, tastes, the outside world and general evolution are mere curiosities. Woe betide the fool who tries to intrude. He’ll be eaten alive; torn limb from limb.” He thoughtfully pursed his lips. “Though they would at least be polite about it.”
I sank back into an armchair and lowered my face to my hands. “I’m doomed.”
“Nah,” and some of the old cockney crept back into his voice. My shoulder got a not exactly gentle but I suppose bracing knock. “You’ll be fine, mate. Just try not to speak too much. And for love of Pete, do not sing.”
I opened my mouth to deliver a stinging response, only then the door opened and a tall snappily dressed chap wafted in, his face as joyful as a turkey’s at Thanksgiving.
“Your taxi is here, sir.”
“Thank you, Greylings,” said Will in that plum voice that took some getting used to. He looked back at me over his shoulder. “Come on then, Liam, you old sod, we have a boat to catch.”
*~*~*~*
“But… Rupert. An American?”
“I know, it’s hardly normal practice, but you are… Well, to be frank, Wesley, you’re hardly in a position to be picky about prospective employers.”
“Yes, I do realise that! It’s just… Well. I thought…”
“Apparently this ‘Liam’ is a good man. Lord Cusplip and his wife received a very positive account of him from their nephew William Davis. And you know how much they dote on him.”
“Very well. Best foot forward and all that. Of course one mustn’t let the side down.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Wesley.”
“Sorry. Although, I am curious. Lord Cusplip is notoriously particular when it comes to employing staff. Why on earth would he recommend me?”
“Because of a recommendation from a third party.”
“But who… No.”
“Jeeves is good friends with you mother, Wesley. He believes this could turn out to be to your advantage.”
“Jeeves thought of this?”
“He did indeed.”
“Hmm. And he is very rarely known to come up with a dud idea, Rupert.”
“I know.”
“Well, it always pays to have faith in a higher power, I suppose.”
“You could say that.”
“Though he is certainly moving in very, very mysterious ways.”
*~*~*~*
I had a nightmare about what our first meeting would be like. Actually I had several nightmares, but the most memorable and spine-chilling one had me going into some kind of store. A bit like a pet shop, except that instead of stocking puppies or small clawed felines, it stored potential future valets. So in I went, and there was a long line of silver-haired, frighteningly distinguished-looking men in spotless suits. In the shadows, Will was holding a whispered conversation with the proprietor. Finally, the chosen man was beckoned forward and then I was called. And the man looked me up and down… and if he were a puppy then that would be the moment he whined, ran back to the others and hid.
In the end, the actually first meeting was really quite normal. Which considering the events that would later occur, was rather unfair of Fate. Lulling me into a false sense of security. There was no thunderclap. No ominous ticking clock. Just a room with a polished coffee table and thick drapes, and then a soft cough.
“Yes, Greylings?”
The only kind of valet I had seen up close until Greylings was either on the silver screen or scribbled in a book. So far, Greylings had lived up to all my expectations of men in that trade. He had the suit, the lance straight back, the refined grey hair, the face that showed all the expression of a stuffed wombat. However when I turned to look at him, in spite of his sculpted features, he still managed to look rather ‘put out’. The kind of ‘I Can’t Believe I Have To Do This’ look you often see on people too polite to say anything out loud.
“He’s arrived, sir.”
“Ah, excellent!” Will turned and flashed me a grin. “Show him in, Greylings, show him in!”
“Will,” I began pleadingly. “Are you really sure this is-”
“Oh, put a sock in it, maggot.”
We both turned as the ‘he’ entered the room.
The first thing that hit me was the definite lack of grey hair. The suit, polite expressionless expression, rigidly straight back and everything else were all in place. But several years seemed to be missing. The face was smooth, the hair dark, the figure trim. He looked almost our own age.
“Mr Pryce, sir.” And I could hear the distaste. “Will there be anything further?”
“No, no, Greylings. That’s fine.”
“Very good, sir.” Greylings withdrew with the air of one escaping a bad smell.
A ripe silence settled over the remaining three of us. Pryce stood; quiet and still, looking like a good taxidermist had just parked him by the wall.
“Well,” Will began heartily – hearty being something he had quite a knack for in this country and in that accent - grabbing one fine boned hand and shaking it firmly. “Good to make your acquaintance, Pryce old boy.”
Will really was playing it to the rafters.
Pryce withdrew his hand with infinite care, maintaining an immobile expression not unlike the moose head that hung in the main dining room.
“Thank you, sir.”
Will was already waving him silent. One hand reached out and firmly hooked me by the elbow, dragging me forward like a neatly caught carp.
“And this miserable looking bugger is your new boss.”
One of the things I knew I’d be facing when coming over to this side of the pond? The notorious British Stiff Upper Lip. Or Fellowship of the Emotionally Repressed, as Will puts it. For some reason I’d expected it to be the upper class, the lords and ladies, to be the masters of this art, never showing even the smallest quiver.
It was one of the first illusions shattered.
Lord Whatshisface might be stoic, but his brave face paled when compared to that of his butler. Passing gentry might gasp and sputter, but their staff will always maintain icily perfect manners. No matter what happens, they will never show shock, horror, or let slip some colourful word. Even if an employer’s frankly foul to them, their gaze will never carry even a hint of hostility or resentment.
At least, that’s what I first thought. Until I learnt how to really look. Because scratch the surface and you see a whole new side to these guys.
For example, one trick staff have is not what words they do or don’t say; it’s simply how they say them. It’s all in the smallest lift of the voice. ‘Yes, sir’ can either be cooed like some epic Shakespearean love sonnet. Or it’s lightly clipped and thus rendered into a virtual slap about the head with a brick.
The same goes for facial expressions. The tiniest quirk of the eyebrow, a lowering of the eyes, when you know to look for it, can speak more than odes and sonnets combined.
So when Pryce blinked while at the same time there was the faintest hint of a quirk of the left eyebrow, I knew I was sunk. The man was appalled, horrified, completely stunned that a man of his class had to answer to someone he obviously thought of as possessing all the charm and intelligence of a trodden-on slug. He struggled for a while to find an answer to Will’s frank introduction, and eventually settled on the universal, ‘Sir.’
“Um, yes, er, hi.” I scratched the back of my neck as I sought for some words or even, please God, a sentence or two. “So, you’ve… er. Nice suit.”
“Thank you, sir, I am gladdened that my attire merits your approval.”
My stomach sank even further. It seemed Pryce too was a master of turning polite words into serious words of war.
“Right,” and Will rubbed his hands together. He seemed to be enjoying the scene enormously. Swine. “Well, I’ll let you two get to know each other, and I’ll go see if I can’t rustle up some tea.”
Pryce nodded respectfully as Will all but skipped from the room. His eyes flickered my way for a second, and for a moment I was pinned to the spot by one endless intelligent and piercing look, and then he fixed his gaze on some distant point over my right shoulder.
“So,” I said, trying to echo Will’s cheerful voice. “I suppose you’re from a long line of distinguished valets? Greylings here is always going on about how his great-great-great-”
“I’m the first in the family to take up this profession, sir.”
Something in his tone alerted me to having made an unintended blunder.
“Oh… I’m sure they must be proud?”
And this time I could feel the temperature in the room drop.
“I really could not say, sir.”
“Well, I’m glad to have you, you can help me out, you must have had loads of experience-”
“This is my first official engagement, sir.”
“Oh. Well, that’s great! Means we can both learn together.”
“As you say, sir.”
Silence resettled over the room.
Pryce still kept his gaze on that object only he could see. Probably his fading sense of professional pride. I took the opportunity to examine my new companion a little more closely; there wasn’t much else to do as conversation had gone belly up in record time.
When he had first walked in, Pryce seemed to tower over me; shoulders back and head high in the posture of the horribly well bred. A posture that automatically makes anyone nearby feel about two inches tall. At a second look, though, I saw that he only topped me by a few inches. Two. At the most. If at all. His general build was along the same lines as Will; slender and fine boned, though with dark hair rather than blonde. It was not hard to picture him as a gangly prim teenager standing to in some smart uniform. Hell, he looked like he’d be born in a suit, not a hair out of place. He also looked like if you blew too hard he’d fall over. Unlike Will, who had this way of standing so that anyone with half a brain could see that he’d easily hold his own. These pale hands were designed to hold a pen and turn a page, not punch someone’s lights out or dig in the dirt for a dropped key.
Yes.
Oddly delicate hands for a man really. Nicely shaped. Knuckles pale and defined, the fingers long and sensitive looking…
“Sorry?” I started, realising that Pryce had been saying something. “What?”
He showed no sign of impatience, and I got the impression that he’d already reconciled himself to the fact that I was an idiot.
“I was enquiring as to whether you are quite well, sir,” he said, without any trace of sarcasm. “You went oddly quiet and looked very thoughtful.”
I eyed him in case there was a hidden insult, but he just met my inspection with blue-eyed innocence.
“Sorry,” I repeated. “I’m just… a little tired, time difference and all that.”
“I understand, sir. I could possibly suggest some remedies to help you adjust to your new time zone, if you wish?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” I waved my hand hastily. It suddenly hit me that this would be our life from now on. This was now his job: looking after me. Oh hell. “I’m taking plenty of water and that. Leave it, I’ll be fine.”
“Very good, sir.”
And of course, then I felt like I’d just kicked a puppy. Squashed this newly fledged valet before he had barely started.
“Although, Pryce, maybe later, when we’re alone you could…”
The door crashed open and Will entered, closely followed by Greylings who bore a tray that clinked and steamed from china, silver and tea.
“How are you two getting on? Planning to take over the world yet?” He gave Pryce a serious look. “You want to watch out for that one, he’ll have you assisting in robbing the local jewellers if you’re not careful.”
Pryce shot me another look, just as I shot one of the ‘So-Help-Me-You-Will-Pay’ variety in the direction of Will. Pryce’s lip twitched ever so slightly; the left-hand side managing half a quirk towards a smile.
“Thank you for your advice, sir,” he replied politely, then moved forward to help Greylings set out the tea.
After the tea had been poured, both valets withdrew and left me and Will with our teeny cups of dry leaves soaked in hot water.
“So,” said Will smugly, “that wasn’t so bad, was it.”
I was watching his fingers as they carefully held the pale china. Thinking over things. Pryce really did have the most lovely hands. I know my Father would have scorned them, called them a woman’s hands or something like that. But they really were quite fine; skilled hands, you could tell. And despite his schoolboy appearance, when I had looked into those eyes, if I didn’t see a flash of humour then I was a lemon. And Pryce really did have the most clear eyes, a cool iron grey-blue gaze…
Oh God, no. Oh no, no no.
“Are you alright, Liam old chap? You look a little green about the gills.”
“I’m doomed.”
*~*~*~*
You know, I’m thinking that maybe some readers might be a little surprised over by vocabulary used so far. So a little word on that.
My family is Irish, and I’m proud of that heritage. I spent my early years in Galway before being packed off to some dingy cold cavernous cave that passed for an ‘elite’ English school. I was too young and too angry at being packed off to fully understand the reasoning behind such a move. My father was an ambitious man, I think there was a great uncle involved somewhere and a general wish to have the Connor family take over the world. Starting with London. Where I was duly sent. And to put it mildly, my language was ‘colourful’ when I first slouched onto this damp isle.
The only reason I remained sane was thanks to a rather odd friendship I struck up with a boy in my year. William Davies. A blonde-haired lad with blue eyes, alabaster skin, soft well-cultured tones, and a mind as low and dirty as the gutter. Despite the fact we fought and disagreed and backstabbed each other at least twice every waking hour, we stayed friends throughout school. Possibly because we were the only people who could stand ourselves. Over the years, the backstabbing grew less – or slightly less vicious anyway - and by the time we blew up the school lavatories on the last day of our last term, we realised that somehow we had become what writers call ‘bosom pals’.
Naturally our parents weren’t too pleased with our antics. Nor were the authorities who were called in to inspect the smoking ruins of the privies. So Will and I quickly scarpered to pastures new and safe. Namely the Americas. And we stayed there, until the funeral of Will’s favourite aunt summoned him back to England. The poor lady had doted on her nephew; I think she always remembered him as the angelic looking grub she’d bounced on her knees eons ago. And Will was actually very fond of her; her name always cropped up whenever he waxed on lyrical about good old England. Something that occasionally happened after a good night out. So, he plucked up his courage and returned to this unsunny isle. Naturally I went with him, fool that I was. I hadn’t much to be proud of at that stage, but I was proud of how I treated my friends, or friend.
They say time is the great healer. Which is utter tripe when it comes to the English aristocracy. Because these guys pride themselves on how long they can hold a grudge. But thankfully, the mood back home had changed. Whereas before our pranks had been looked upon with horror, the new generation found them a source of great amusement. If anything, we gained respect. And, in the end, Will decided to stay on after the funeral. And suddenly the gentleman’s gentleman that I had obtained when first arriving looked like he would be a permanent fixture in my life. Because there was no way I could go back to America without Will.
There was a point to this. It’s slipped past me somehow…
Ah yes. The vocab.
Blame Will. Blame his family. Blame the English, frankly.
See, thing is, in this place, you have no choice but to start using words that previously you thought only appeared in old books or black and white flicks. An English aristocrat has mannerisms that can only be described as ‘distraught’, ‘enraged’ or ‘full of beans’. When an aunt draws herself up and summons you, she doesn’t ‘call’ or ‘shout’. She thunders, no question about it.
So, before you know it, these words are rubbing off on you. It’s like visiting a foreign country. You try a few new phrases, and before you know it even your dreams are in a completely different language. That’s how it was for me when I wound up surrounded on all sides by Will’s old world.
I’ve lost the plot again. Sorry.
Okay, so, funeral.
Will was summoned back to England for the funeral of a favourite aunt. He accepted the offer of use of a pair of cottages owned by some uncle-or-other on a nearby estate. Which meant that we didn’t have to pay much rent, a huge plus. But the downside was it meant we’d have to mingle with The Family.
I was sat down by Will and told, in no uncertain terms, that I’d need to get a new wardrobe, and also a personal gentleman of my own.
“I’m to get a what!”
“Don’t give me that look, Liam. It’s not what it sounds like. Think of it like a butler. Every decent bloke round there has his gentleman’s personal gentleman.
And I’m not going to give those idiots any excuse to look down on you. You’re getting a gentleman.”
And a week and a bit later, in walked Pryce. Just like that. There he was. I, um… No, let’s try and keep this in order.
It would be nice to say that there was a spark straightaway, but there wasn’t. He was pretty, of course I noticed that. Tall, dark hair, clear eyes, wonderful looking hands. But other than that, he was just a valet.
Now it’s different, well, obviously. Now it’s a case of I can still see him even with my eyes closed.
*~*~*~*
“Oh, you poor sod!” Will was actually doubled over he was laughing so hard. “Oh, that’s just priceless.”
The irony of the sentence obviously hit him at once, and he collapsed in another fit of the giggles.
“Thanks,” I snapped coldly, keeping my eye on the road as the two-seater pegged it down the country lane.
We’d been in the car only five minutes, heading into the village to have a wander round, when Will had turned to look at me.
“All right, what’re you brooding about now?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t try that on me,” he said reprovingly, “I know you too well.”
“I’m concentrating on driving, Will, can we talk about this later?”
“Most definitely not now you’ve just said that.”
“Fine. It’s Pryce.”
Will gave a sharp sigh and returned to normal seating position.
“Look,” he said peevishly, “will you just stop moaning about this for one minute? It’s not as if he…”
My silence finally clued him in. He studied my face with growing glee.
“Oh, you poor sod!”
And there you are.
“Liam, you’re not the first bloke to crush on his gentleman,” Will, eventually, said in what I guess he thought a comforting voice. “Hell, Lord Fippleston is practically married to his. He bought a tie, one time, that his man Woods didn’t like, and he was bloody heartbroken when Woods gave him the cold shoulder over it. Tie was ceremonially burnt that very afternoon. And don’t get me started on Mr Wooster…”
“Will!” I said desperately, “stop trying to make it better!”
Will’s expression sobered and we drove on in silence for a few seconds. I kept my eyes firmly on the road in case some feathered or furred creature decided to try a game of chicken; a common and popular pastime for the wildlife in this area.
Beside me, Will tapped his fingers on the window frame. Clearly something was on his mind and when the drumming abruptly cut out I braced myself for another one of his ‘talks’.
“You know, I was speaking to Greylings earlier, when you were with Pryce,” he began, ominously serious. “You do realise who he is?”
“Greylings?”
“No. Pryce.”
I shook my head, making a slight swerve to avoid an ambling pheasant.
“Pryce? Wyndam-Pryce? Son of Lord Roger Wyndam-Pryce?”
I made it clear that the name still meant nothing to me. Will pursed his lips and frowned out at the passing hedgerow, planning how best to tell his tale.
“They’re an old family, the Wyndam-Pryce’s. Used to be rolling in it too, until the previous Lord lost most of it on an Australian goldmine. Lord Roger’s always been quite bitter about that. Made a point of living the perfect life. Very vocal in the House of Lords, all for deportation and hangings and anything to keep people in line. He’s his own party, a magistrate and a cross-bencher, and the high class love him. A real gentleman, they say. Utter bullshit, if you ask me. He treats a few people well and the rest of us like dirt. And if his son’s anything like him…”
I swallowed, remembering that rigid back and cool gaze. That hint of a smirk. Then a thought smote me.
“In which case, Will, why the hell is Pryce Junior going around as a valet?”
Will gave me a significant look.
“Roger has connections, or so they say,” he said in a low tone. “One rumour has it as some old Council-or-other left over from the Civil War. A few key families still keeping an eye on things and all that. Not entirely sure why. Keeping us safe; keeping us under control, who knows. And there’re hints they’re unofficially linked to the government. The eyes and ears?”
A nasty cold feeling went down my spine at the thought of having to live under the same roof as such a man for the next month. Could he, had he been sent to spy on me? Or was he simply taking Living The Humble Life one step further?
“I want to get another one.”
“Dream on, mate. It’d raise too many questions if you did, we can’t exactly tell them why. Anyway, you can handle him. And it’s hardly going to be forever.”
Will flicked dust off his shoulders, signalling the end of the discussion.
“Looks aren’t everything, Liam old boy,” he concluded. “Enjoy the eye candy, but don’t let your guard down around him. That family isn’t one to be trusted.”
Next part here.
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Date: 2005-03-26 06:52 pm (UTC)You posted it!!!! You know how much I love this. The Liam voice is perfection; Bertie and Angel and Liam and you all rolled into one. I'm so excited about this fic it's hard to put it into words. And if I haven't said so before - squee at Giles. I love that he found Pryce the position - with the help of Jeeves.
*hugs you so hard you squeak for breath*
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Date: 2005-03-27 01:35 pm (UTC)LOL, yep, well Giles had to be in the mix somewhere. I like the idea of him in the background trying to poke Pryce onto the right path. Although, obviously, the real mastermind behind the whole thing is the all powerful Jeeves... And thank you too! You were so much help when writing this! *hugs*
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Date: 2005-03-26 07:47 pm (UTC)::whines::
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Date: 2005-03-27 01:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-27 03:16 pm (UTC)::waits like a good girl, or at least tries::
::whine::
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Date: 2005-03-26 07:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-27 01:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-27 03:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-27 01:41 pm (UTC)*hugs* Thank you! Glad you're enjoying it. It's been gently eating my brain for weeks now, so it's great to finally pin the wretched thing to paper. Well. So to speak. LOL!
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Date: 2005-03-27 08:54 am (UTC)Will this be NC-17 yes please?
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Date: 2005-03-27 11:54 am (UTC)NC17? LB? *collapses again*
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Date: 2005-03-27 01:47 pm (UTC)I am so glad that I provide you with amusement... ;)
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Date: 2005-03-27 07:24 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2005-03-27 07:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-27 10:05 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2005-05-19 05:33 pm (UTC)