Chapter 13 Francis, called Frank #2
The Blue wasn’t the most imposing guest room, but Ned considered it one of the best due to the view of the gardens.
It was, delightfully, also not that far from Ned’s own room, which opened up all sorts of interesting possibilities for the evening.
He had this thought in mind when he lightly rapped on the door. “You decent, Charlie?”
A slightly frazzled Charlie opened the door, damp hair sticking up in various directions and cuffs hanging loose. “Come in and help me with this nonsense.”
For a moment Ned saw double, the dishevelled man standing in front of him, and a dark-headed boy on his eighteenth birthday, pleased as punch with the cut of his new jacket. The mixing of happiness and grief made him dizzy.
The act of helping Charlie, of feeling around the collar, pulling the jacket straight in the shoulder, clipping in place the shirt studs, seemed to bring the two images together.
Like in those stereoscopes he played with as a child, where if you held the two images just far enough from your face they merged into a three-dimensional image.
The suit wasn’t a perfect fit, and the style was dated, but it gave Charlie a refined air.
Ned couldn’t help but think that Francis would have been delighted to help rough-and-ready Charlie play the gentleman.
As Ned finished the last of the buttons and smoothed Charlie’s hair into place, he leaned in for a slow and gentle kiss.
“I’m sorry if being here makes you uncomfortable. ”
“I always knew that you were upstairs and I downstairs, but it’s still quite the thing to be dining in a house that has more art than the National Gallery.
” Charlie’s blunt appraisal wasn’t wrong; the social gulf between them—of money, status, accent, and literal power—was one of the constants of their relationship.
Charlie bent his head towards Ned’s chest. “I promise I won’t embarrass you. ”
Ned gripped Charlie’s shoulders. “That would never be possible.”
???
Dinner was an intimate affair, albeit a five-course one.
The dining room wasn’t as imposing as others in the house, as his mother had long since insisted that she would not be glowered at by paintings of Tudor ancestors while trying to eat her dinner.
Instead, gentle pastorals hung on the wall, which, when paired with the sturdy oak furniture that was a necessity for Pinsent-sized men, created a welcoming warm ambiance.
An atmosphere that had an effect even on Ned, much to his disconcertion.
By the standards of the British upper classes, he had a warm relationship with his parents, and genuinely enjoyed their frequent dinners and trips to the theatre.
Yet Ned couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation with them that was more than an exchange of empty pleasantries and updates on common acquaintances.
Tonight, Ned found that he had ideas and stories to share around the dinner table.
“Papa, do you think that the Prime Minister will call an election? It seems to be all London can talk about.”
After several spirited conversations on the topic, Ned and Charlie both agreed that the Tories had to go, but Charlie had more faith in Labour doing good for the working man than Ned. Charlie had called Ned apathetic, and Ned had retorted that Charlie was na?ve.
“The man wants a mandate.” Ned’s father took his responsibility in the House of Lords seriously, unlike many peers, so Ned was genuinely interested in his views.
“The 1922 Committee has already brought one Prime Minister down, and they won’t respect this one until he proves he has the support of the nation. ”
“Is an election really the best idea with the Norfolk farmers’ strike still smouldering?” Charlie’s tone was the perfect balance of politeness and honest inquiry.
Ned, however, wanted to needle his father a bit. “Baldwin needs to start thinking about the one million unemployed.”
“Balderdash,” Ned’s mother cut in sharply. “Bankrupting landowners to pay their fieldworkers will not do anything to help anyone.” His mother was aghast by the suffragettes, but never felt the need to hold back on her own political opinions.
“And the veterans left begging on the street? What does Baldwin or his landowners have to offer them?” Ned retorted, unable to get Billy McLean or the sheet of war souvenirs out of his mind.
“If you are so passionate about the unemployed, Edmund, why don’t you tell the Prime Minister yourself?” his mother replied, deboning Ned like the white fish in front of her.
She was closely followed by his father, with his own, softer, version of the same attack.
“Baldwin always liked you. He remembers you from when you were Secretary of the Oxford Union. He asked after you the other day at the club.” Showing that no pressure tactic would be avoided, Ned’s father turned to Charlie and explained, “Edmund was always involved in politics at university. Of course, not the honourable, conservative kind, but all sorts of radical nonsense. Didn’t stop him from getting elected to the Union, though. ”
Ned nodded and changed the topic. His parents were experienced at this gentle warfare, asking without asking for him to get on with his life.
They were about to start the roast beef when Ned’s mother raised her glass. “I really think we should make a toast to you, Mr Villiers. I haven’t seen Edmund this keen on annoying his father in years. You should come to all of our dinner parties.”
Ned thought he saw a light blush on Charlie’s cheek, which probably matched Ned’s own, as they all clinked their glasses.
“So, Mr Villiers, while we are on the topic, are you one of my son’s Bright Young Persons?” Ned’s father’s tone was courteous, but Ned knew him well enough to hear the undercurrent of curiosity regarding who exactly Ned had brought to the table.
One subject his parents seemed to scrupulously avoid was who Ned socialised with, which of course spoke volumes. Still, whatever they thought, Ned was sure they didn't suspect his friendship with Charlie as transgressing anything more than class lines.
“I’ll accept the compliment about my age,” Charlie responded evenly, “but I’m afraid my existence is much more mundane. I make hats. Family business in Marylebone.”
“We served together in the 1st London Territorial.” Ned didn’t know why it was so important that his parents knew Charlie wasn’t some accidental acquaintance.
His father’s face remained placid as ever, but there was a focused interest in Charlie now, as if he were trying to assemble a puzzle in front of him. “You were in the Kensington Regiment, Mr Villiers?”
“London Scottish, if you can believe it. It has been suggested to me by some around this table that only a particular kind of contrarian Englishman would specifically join a regiment of lost highlanders.” Charlie shot a small smile directly at Ned and then continued, “Our officers weren’t as good as your son, though, even if he did make his men march farther and dig faster than anyone else. ”
“We were so surprised when Edmund went into the Expeditionary Force, to be honest.” Ned’s mother's voice had gone soft.
“When he ranked so highly on the Civil Service exams, it felt like every ministry wanted him. But Edmund insisted on being up at the front. Barely waited for his final exam results to be published before he signed up.”
“Francis skived off school for me, waited for the examiners to post their results.” The words were out before Ned could stop them. For the first time, a proper silence fell on the table.
“Foolish boy,” his father said as he shook his head, and Ned wasn’t sure which of his sons he was talking about.
???
After dinner, Charlie and Ned retired to the library for port. When he had left London that morning, Ned could not have imagined finishing the day in Heyworth, and now all he wanted to do was crawl into bed with Charlie and find the calm that only existed in falling asleep across his broad chest.
Charlie’s gaze was lost in the comically tiny glass of port where he sat in the chair by the fire, legs crossed. Ned’s flirtatious glances, normally a guaranteed way to elicit a blush or response, went unnoticed.
“What’s got you all thoughtful then? You seem to be trying to find the meaning of life in the bottom of that glass.”
Charlie paused before answering. “Did you ever think about taking those ministries up on their offers?”
“It was a long time ago.” Ned threw back his port, letting it burn on the way down. The last thing he wanted to discuss was what he might have dreamed of a lifetime ago. “What’s this interest? Worried I might bring down the whole country with my radical politics?”
“You’re not just another posh tosser.” Charlie was still lost in the swirls of port in his glass.
“You’re so bloody talented. Properly smart, too, and not only because you went to fancy schools.
You figure out how to make things happen.
You convince other people to want them to happen.
I’ve never met anyone else who could do that. ”
Ned forced a joking tone into his response. “One dinner and my parents have you hypnotised to my virtues.”
Charlie snorted. “I work in a hat shop because that’s all I’m good for.
If I work really hard, I can make a few old women feel pretty, and give my family a good life.
But you, Ned, you are one of the few people who should be running the country.
You’ve the tools to do it. You know the bloody Prime Minister!
So what I don’t understand is why you spend your days sitting in bars and writing cheques to mediocre artists? ”