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acemapleeh · 3 years

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Christmas Tea with Bourbon and a Side of Expectations

Summary: Matthew is slowly but surely stepping out into the life of what it means to be more than just a colony. There were still so many things he didn't understand and he wasn't sure if he was quite ready to make these next steps. Freedom wasn't like how Alfred described it. It wasn't like an eagle with its seven-foot wingspan, making you feel like you were soaring. It was more like he had swallowed a chickadee that was desperately trying to fly out of his chest. He was afraid of how he was changing and how that would affect the life he's known for most of the 19th century.

Word Count: 10,057

Characters: Canada, England, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand

Read on ao3

Suffolk, England, A Week Before Christmas Eve, 1864

The halls glimmered with gold and silver tinsel with servants bustling about to make sure every detail was perfect. Every gingerbread man had each of his three buttons and stood upright, the evergreen garland hanging along the banister must be even, and of course, the tree had to have decorations that were evenly spaced all the way around it.

Matthew picked up another box from the stack of things that he had helped one of the maids bring down from the attic that morning. This was his job for the day, not that he minded. With a fire crackling not far away and the smells of ginger, pine, and cinnamon filling the house, everything helped put him in a festive spirit. It was almost distracting him enough from how the evening was to go. Distracting even from everything that had been going on this year.

He was surprised by how grand the parties were each winter. His father never seemed the holiday-loving type (or even people-loving), but he never failed to host a fantastic party. For the last few years, Arthur made sure his home was absolutely perfect for the holidays. Matthew, Jack, and Charlie had been under his direct care for most of the century, and though he loved them and raised them with care, it was not without his sternness and obsessive need for detail. Matthew loved his father regardless and would always be grateful for how much he’d done for him.

He sighed as he opened the box, carefully folding back the tissue paper to reveal a handful of various, doll-like ornaments. With great care, he picked up one of the porcelain figures, pinching the string of the ornament between two fingers. He loved these ones the most. They were so carefully and beautifully crafted, almost human-like in their faces. The ballerina woman that now hung from a branch, forever frozen in a dance of her own, was one that Matthew treasured. Arthur had spoiled them one Christmas and took the three to a ballet at the Theatre Royal. Matthew could remember the slight disappointment in that they weren’t seeing Pantomime but he wouldn’t dare voice being dismayed. He could hardly recall what the dance was about, it was French like most of the romantic ballets coming out but the setting was German. A woman had died of heartache and the man responsible had to deal with ghosts and hauntings of the like and that was as much as he could recollect. What he could remember better was his father promising the lot that they could each choose an ornament they were selling there for being well behaved (Jack and Charlie had been particularly fussy from sitting still for that long but had managed well enough). Unfortunately, by the time the four had arrived back in the main lobby, the majority of wares had already been sold. His siblings, of course, he allowed to pick the best of what remained while he selected the misfit dancer with a faded expression. To his surprise Christmas morning, his father had presented the ornament to him in pristine condition. Her cheeks were blushed a soft pink, eyes closed with lashes resting below like a delicate kiss, and even the costume she wore had a new skirt.

A small golden locket hung around the dancer’s neck caught the flickering light of the candle nearby and Matthew sighed in wonderment. He wished there were more peaceful times like these, more times where he didn’t have to worry about his future or where he stood in the growing world, but that dreamlike future was like gazing through a foggy window.

His thoughts were interrupted by the rustling sounds of tissue paper behind him. Turning around, he saw his younger brother rummaging at the gingerbread cookies he had helped bake that afternoon. “Jack!” he reprimanded, tone echoing that of their father. “You know you’re supposed to wait for the guests to arrive.” He snatched up the box. Not long ago, he towered over his brother and could easily hold things above his head that he shouldn’t be getting into. Over the last decade and some, Australia had grown from rapid economic expansion primarily thanks to gold discovered in New South Wales and Victoria. Despite his face slowly losing the softness of boyhood, it didn’t stop Jack from acting like one. Matthew knew that if Jack really wanted to, he could hold his own against his elder brother in a fistfight. “You know the trouble you’d be in if Father sees you with icing on your face.” He grinned and reached to pinch at the stained corner of his mouth. “You wouldn’t want him to insist on a bath would you?”

Jack scoffed and swatted the hand away. “It was Charlie’s idea! Christ, the things are going to be eaten anyway. Who cares if we’re missing a couple?”

At the mention of their name, Charlie rose from their hiding spot behind one of the armchairs, their flounced skirts falling about them wrinkled. “Don’t be blaming me now! You agreed to stash them so we can eat them when we hide from the guests.”

Matthew knew neither one of them had been looking forward to the party. It wasn’t like he was exactly looking forward to it either. Jack looked like he was both sweating and freezing in his three-piece suit, buttons undone and the collar loose about his neck. Matt had to admit, his own was digging into his skin rather uncomfortably. Granted, they used to be worse. His collar, at one point, had been starched so stiff that he nearly suffocated in the middle of a dinner party. He excused himself the moment the lack of blood flow made him waver in his seat and was found dead in the drawing-room later that evening, a glass of whisky staining the rug that had fallen from his limp hand. Arthur had let up on it since.

Charlie was dressed like every proper young woman should though the green and red Christmas gown looked like it was swallowing her whole. Like Jack, they had their own growth spurt in recent years though they were still a head shorter than their brother. He was also aware that their thoughts were entirely elsewhere, their country had been at war for nearly twenty years now and they were only able to temporarily go back home to try to aid their people. It was a delicate subject Matthew was unsure how to approach.

Glancing at the ornate grandfather clock, he knew the first of the guests should be there by the end of the hour. Matthew sighed to himself. Only so much quiet for so little time. Setting the box of treats aside, he strode over to his siblings. “Honestly the both of you. We have to at least pretend to be enjoying ourselves for the night.” He straightened the bow in Charlie’s hair and patted the wrinkles off Jack’s coat. “Please behave, just endure it for the first few hours. You’ll both be sent to bed sooner than I will.”

“Since when did the Queen die and put you in charge?” Charlie snickered.

“I’m in charge of the two of you when Father is running about the place like his head has been cut off.” It’d been over fifty years since his Papa’s very public beheading, Matthew was certain enough time had passed for him to make the joke again. “So help me finish decorating the room, it’s nearly finished and it’ll keep you from putting Father in a fit.” At least, postpone it.

Almost as though they summoned the devil himself, in burst Arthur Kirkland, cheeks flushed like he contracted hectic fever. He was muttering to himself, opening various cabinets about the place and seeming to not even realize his children were even in the room. “Candles, we need more candles... where the blazes did I put them?”

Matthew cleared his throat, gesturing to an open box not but a step away.

“Ah, good lad. Thank you.” They were hastily gathered in his arms and his eyes suddenly cleared of the hysteric he was in. “You three, please, you can’t be standing about. There are at least six gaps on that tree that can be filled and honestly, is that lace over the feathers? Bit butter upon bacon isn’t it? Oh, and the bloody ferns haven’t been dusted-” A chime resided throughout the house, stopping him from continuing the critique.

A pocket watch was retrieved from his waistcoat and a deep frown put wrinkles to his cheeks. “Seventeen minutes early. Retched manners.” His gaze returned to the three, eyes tired and narrow. “Quickly now. Matthew, your hair needs to be retied- your fringe is out of line. Jack, button your shirt and wipe that frosting from your lip. Charlotte, dear, fix your skirts. Your petticoat is showing.” Out of the room, he went like a puff of smoke, the door shutting with a loud slam. A collective breath was let out.

“Well, he’s not as hysterical as he was last year,” Jack muttered, fixing just one of the three buttons that needed tending to. “Don’t know how much that’s saying.”

“I think he’s just been sober for the past three days,” Charlie added, patting their skirts mindlessly. “Explains why he looks like he’s in hysterics to begin with. He’ll be passed out just after midnight I bet you lot.”

Matthew was fixing his hair in the mirror, studying his features carefully. He looked ghastly and pale, though, not more so than he normally did this time of year. He hadn’t seen proper sunlight in God knows how long and the natural melanin he did possess seemed to be lying dormant. He pinched his cheeks in hopes of regaining some color to his palette. “I’ll be joining him if that’s the case. I’ll need a laudanum and gin nap after this much socialization.”

The door of the drawing-room opened, all eyes shooting in its direction with backs straightened and prepared for another round of berating words. In stepped Alistair, the glowing fire catching the brilliant red hues of his hair and shadowing the lines of age on a weathered face. Matthew beamed though his smile was still a polite one, shoulders losing their tense edge as he let out a sigh of relief. His feet guided him away from the glorious fireplace and into the embrace of the man he loved so dearly.

“Uncle Alistair! I never thought I see the day you’d be attending one of Father’s Christmas parties.”

“Thought some of his kin should see once and for all if they’re any good or if they’re just a pile of tosh. Also, miss a chance to visit you three and vex my dearest brother?” Matthew could feel the rumble of his voice as he held onto him. The scent of tobacco that clung to his coat brought back memories of the pair spent curled up together in hunting huts from years ago. Even once he pulled away, hands were firmly placed on his shoulders and gripped in a familiar way. “My Lord lad! You’re at least a head taller than the last time I saw you! You’ve outgrown me.” Green eyes gazed behind Matthew at his two siblings. “Oh, this isn’t fair now. You two can’t be growin’ at that rate.”

Alistair was fondly embracing his other nephew and niece by the crackling fire, remarking the changes since their last visit. Jack’s laughter matched Alistair’s in tone and spirit, echoing off the walls. “You’ve finally filled out laddie, oh bless. You were too wild for that wee body to be runnin’ amok!” He affectionately ruffled the curls of Charlie’s hair. “And you lass, a proper lady your father has been makin’ you.” His grin was all-knowing. “I best take you to my place in the summer so you can have your proper greenery and be able to run barefoot in the hills. Really, I should take all three of you home with me this time ‘round. Sure Mother Kirkland wouldn’t mind a holiday from his rumbustious ankle biters.”

There was a not so polite cough in the open doorway and the four looked up to a stiff Arthur who was drumming his fingers over crossed arms. “There will absolutely be none of that. Really Alistair, barging here unannounced and uninvited. Why I best-”

“My manners, ach, they tend to just righ’ and fly off whenever I come to this damned country.” Alistair went to the box he had sent down by the door, retrieving now three wrapped gifts from inside, gracefully ignoring Arthur the entire time. “‘Tis the holidays and this is the reason I made the blasted journey here. For you children, hope these make staying here more tolerable.”

Matthew held the plaid-wrapped box in his hands gingerly, ignoring his father making the remark that Alistair hardly even celebrated the holiday outside of morning mass, the bloody papist.

Jack’s wrapping paper was on the floor in seconds, Charlie’s not long to follow in equal excitement and impatience. Warm-looking fabric emerged from the boxes, tins of shortbread and packages of tablet tumbling from their confines to the rug with a quiet thud . The burly coat was around Jack in a blink of an eye, elegant in form and he almost looked like a proper gentleman set for winter. Charlie was delightfully pulling the mittens and wool shawl on; they were on the tips of their toes to place their newly warmed hands on Jack’s smooth cheeks.

Alistair had leaned in towards Matthew at the display, watching over them tenderly. “I know you’ve plenty of warm clothes but your father doesn’t know how to dress those two poor things. Go on now lad, open yours.”

Seated on the couch, he undid the ribbon and paper, setting it aside to be tossed properly later. The first thing he noticed upon cracking the box open was the smell of leather. Laying beside his own share of Scottish sweets was a bound journal, the cover engraved in Celtic knots and animals that were worshipped in days of old, the initials M.M.J-L.W. were carefully curved on the back.

“Your Papa’s told me you had a knack for drawing as he does. Don’t ken how often you’ve the time but thought you could use the space if a moment finds you.”

Matthew was running the tips of his fingers over the homemade paper, wondering if he even had any charcoal or proper pens upstairs at his desk. He had filled his last journal on his last expedition with Arthur over a year ago and he hadn’t been able to find time to ask for a new one.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you Uncle, truly. I’ll have to think of where to even start.”

“Now that we are quite finished,” Arthur’s voice was like a grey raincloud in the cozy parlor. “Alistair really, I wish you could have at least sent me a telegraph or something of note announcing you were coming. I don’t have a room prepared for you or, apparently, for the rest of the lot coming.”

“We’re you’re kin Arthur, honestly.” the Scott stood from the seat, arms crossed and towering over his youngest brother. “You should always have room and board set aside for us. There’re only bloody four of us and I know for a fact you remodeled the nursery into proper rooms for these three. You’ve plenty o’ room.”

“I would if a single one of you properly announced you were coming in the damned first place! And what was that of sweeping my children off like some sort of pied piper? I’m trying to teach them to be sensible people. I do not need you and your barbaric ways undoing all I’ve done these past years.”

“Your children are smart, responsible, and practical and you’ve raised them well enough. If they want to go off, they have every right to explore the world and learn to be who they are. You’re holding them back at this rate. What’s the fucking point of letting them self govern if you still stuff them in this old place?”

“You cheeky blighter! Coming into my home, insulting me, and-”

A repeated chime silenced the room and Arthur’s mouth was left agape and cheeks flushed red. Alistair raised a hand to the other’s face before even another sound could be uttered. “I believe you have guests waiting, brother. Best see to them.”

Arthur stood frozen a moment longer, hand raised in a pointed, accusing gesture. He cursed, waving his hand away and turning towards the door. “We’re finishing this discussion later. Children, come. The room will be as it is.” With one last, disappointed look at the unfinished work being left behind, he straightened his cuffs and collar before stepping fully out into the hall.

The mess left behind from the presents was quickly put away, no one wanting to further Arthur’s anger anymore than it already was. As the three piled out of the room, Matthew stopped next to his uncle with a pleading look in his eyes. “Please, tell me you plan on staying past Christmas.”

“Just until Boxing Day, I’m certain your father would go mental if I stayed even longer. Off you are lad. I’ll be down in a tick.”

~~~***~~~

Matthew took his place right side of his father on top of the staircase, body rigid and upright to full height as he’d been scolded to be. ‘Shoulders back , lift the chin, eyes forward, let the room know of your height.’ He stole a quick glance to the man beside him, watching as he fidgeted once more with his evening gloves and adjusted the cuffs that didn’t need adjustment. As the doors to the foyer were opened, Arthur was collected and the very definition of an English gentleman. He greeted his guests with open arms. Matthew stared out at the sea of unfamiliar faces; earls, marquees, viscounts, and nobles that constantly needed to impress the other filled the grand foyer.

“Good evening and welcome honored guests. It is my pleasure to welcome you to, and, to thank you for attending, my little Christmas party. I am the lord of this manor Arthur Kirkland; I know we shall have an excellent evening together. I look forward to greeting and conversing with you all individually whether you are a new face, an acquaintance of long-standing, or family not seen in some years.” Amongst the crowd, Matthew was able to finally see three faces grinning up at them; Uncles Dylan and Sean, and Aunt Morgan were a breath of fresh air in the already stuffy room. Spotting people whispering and snickering amongst themselves made him dig his nail into the palm of his hand. “If you will please join me and my family in the ballroom. Mister Simmons and Miss Walker will be glad to take your coats.”

Like wee ducklings, the three fledging nations followed their father down the stairs, the accursed mingling already beginning. Matthew took note that Arthur was adamantly avoiding his family and, instead, indulging in dull conversations with strangers that were likely to die in ten to twenty years from now. The ballroom was a dreadful room that they had now piled all into. Yes, it was beautiful in both terms of architectural style and decor, but it was the coldest of the rooms in the large estate. Oh, it received plenty of afternoon sunlight with its plethora of windows and was located at the back of the manor adjacent to the gardens, but there was absolutely nothing in the room that felt like it belonged to the rest of the house. It had been refurbished at the turn of the century but Matthew had always known it in the current form it was now. It was a big, empty room that echoed every footstep and it being cleaned and readied was a sign that company was coming. Lessons regarding etiquette were also held in this room by their tutor, Ms. Boisney, who was a frightening woman. She was the one who had stuck out the longest of any of the nannies assigned to them. Jack hardly got her to even blink at his antics. Matthew, on a few nights when he couldn’t sleep, would find himself seated on the spiral staircase, wondering why his father had built this silly room instead of another collection gallery. Arthur was far more interested in knickknacks than socializing with aristocrats.

The raised stage hosted five musicians finalizing the tuning of their instruments, the room gradually filling with sweet melodies that senseless chatter and gossip were quickly overpowering. Matthew eagerly grabbed the first glass of champagne that was offered to him. He didn’t even have the pleasure of being able to look forward to a late-night visit with the newest hire, Johnathan Reading; the young man would be busy with the horses and stagecoaches until the last of the guests had left. Not even Matthew thought he could stay up and sober for that long. He glanced over the dance card that he had shoved into his pocket earlier, all dances he knew and would be happy if he could avoid. He wasn’t a rotten dance partner, only when he practiced with Charlie and the two were keen set at ending their lessons early did he step on toes and forgot his footwork. Really, he was happy with even with his last growth spurt, he was still able to idly linger along the walls and go unnoticed for most of the evening.

He watched as the evening went on, taking whatever drink and food were being offered to him. The music was pleasant once the actual dancing began and guests were focused on it rather than chattering like birds. Jack and Charlie tended to pair up together, Matt knowing Charlie was avoiding any young man in the room who so much as looked at them. Neither had the face of children anymore but weren’t quite adults either, a cumbersome stage in-between that Matthew was happy to have grown out of. It was rude for a man to dance only with one partner for the entire evening so once in a while, Charlie would stick to Matthew’s side snickering about pretending to be having a good time and he would treat them to a dance or two as Jack awkwardly danced with the daughters of nobles. The other saving grace was their family. Aunt Morgan would happily treat Jack and Matt to dance and Charlie had their three uncles that would remind them as a promised set so they could slip away from offers from unwanted partners. The only other pleasantry was country dances that didn’t leave any of them stuck with one person for a long period of time. They had limited physical contact with each other, came together to complete a figure, and then separated, returning home to their places in the line. Matthew would give himself a badge for participation before returning to his position next to the table of pastries.

What was annoying him the most of these Christmas parties was that they took place in the middle of December, too soon for the true social season to begin. Come January, the family would pack up and head back to their home in London for the season. Parliament took place at the same time, giving father work on top of social obligations. Those parties he talked about politics, he made allies and gained insight and Matthew could watch and learn his example. He couldn’t find the practicality of this. Not that he enjoyed the social season anyway. There were even fewer chances of him being able to take a horse out into the hills or get away from civilization.

This year had been a tiring one.

It had started as a conference in Charlottetown on Prince Edward Island back in September right after the season had ended. It was only supposed to be a discussion of a Maritime Union, it quickly turning into one regarding the Province of Canada being a part of it. It was just over a week of talk but at least the delegates from Canada were smooth-talking so Matthew felt his words came off more confidently. He was fine with the talks in government buildings but parties and banquets were held each night after the day's discussions with only one night being the exception. Matthew wasn’t sure how he walked into the conference the next morning standing upright each day.

By the next month, he was in Quebec. They discussed the union of British North America and talked of shaping his government. Matthew felt better here. There weren’t as many fancy frills or worrying about impressing governors with expensive drinks and dinners. He just had to talk and listen about his future for two weeks. He found his thoughts drifting to his brother more often than he would have liked. Alfred who could never sit still and spoke out of turn having to sit through these sorts of meetings time and time again. Part of Matthew was afraid, unsure if he was ready to be making these next steps. It was just unification, he wasn’t declaring independence. The other parts of him that made his heart race were filled with determination and a sense of pride. His people believed in what they wanted, making him feel like a whole and collective being. The talks tired him, made his hands shake and he always worried about what would be demanded next, but he rather this than the tiresome parties where he drank too much and never slept well.

He would always remember the pamphlet that was reprinted in the paper one tired morning. He had been exhausted, body aching and wanting nothing more than to go sailing or hiking and enjoy the nature of his home, skipping on the day’s meeting entirely as he sipped his morning tea with his father.

"Never was there such an opportunity as now for the birth of a nation."

At his fifth glass of golden, sweet champagne that was starting to make his head fuzzy, his eyes gazed listlessly over the lacquered floors. His father approached him with a young lady in a pale pink gown and brown curls in arm. She was eying him, a brilliant green and silver fan held in her left hand in front of her face. With a start, Matt quickly swallowed what remained of his drink and set the glass on the table behind him.

“Ms. Durless, this is my eldest son that I spoke of. Matthew, this is Ms. Emilie Durless, the daughter of Earl Alexander Durless, an old companion of mine. You might remember him from the last trek to the Artic we went on.”

Matthew did not remember him. “Oh yes, he’s quite the scholar. Very interested in the fauna and inspired by Mr. Darwin’s work.” He begged the Lord above he was correct.

Arthur gave him a curt nod. “Yes, that’s the man. I was speaking to him and he informed me his daughter has not been asked to dance for nearly half an hour now. I thought it only proper for you to have the honor of treating her.” The look he gave him told that Matthew had no choice in the matter.

Matthew gave the most polite smile he could muster. “It would be my pleasure, I’ll be sure she has a quality time.”

“Excellent. You’re in good hands miss.”

With a pat to the arm, he was left alone. He fumbled quickly for the dance card, not remembering which pocket he had stuffed it back into after the last dance he partook in. Ms. Emilie coughed politely, holding out her own. “I believe the “The Duke of Kent's Waltz” is next in the lineup.” Her voice was high-pitched, reminding Matthew of a sparrow. “Not to be too forward… Mr. Williams was it? Your cheeks are rosy from drink. I do hope you’re sober enough to lead.”

Ah yes, a swallow singing too early in the morning while he was recovering from a hangover. “I assure you I’m alright Ms. Durless. You needn’t worry about that.” He graciously offered his arm to her. “Shall I have the honor of dancing this set with you?”

She accepted his arm and the two made way to the other guests getting ready for the next dance towards the center of the room. With a polite bow and curtsey, Matthew took one of her hands in his own while the other rested gently on the small of her back.

They fell in step as Matthew silently counted his steps to the memorized music. Left foot forward, right foot right, bring left foot to right foot…

“So why is that you don’t sound like the Lord Kirkland? You sound like you’re from the colonies.”

“That’s because I’m from there originally. I was born in the Province of Canada if you’re familiar with it.”

He prayed for the conversation to be brief.

“Of course I’m familiar, my father spent good years researching there. He’s told me plenty of things. It sounds miserably cold and barren. I don’t know why it interests him so much.”

“If your father has studied it, then he should know of the vastness of its diversity. It’s a beautiful place.”

“Perhaps but there’s nothing like London there. It’s all so… barbaric and the parts that are civil are still so very French. I could never live somewhere like that. You must feel so lucky the Lord has taken you and your siblings here to England.”

Matthew swallowed the sarcastic comment and snide laughter.

“It’s not all forests and tundra. We do have cities; her Majesty has even declared Ottawa as an official national capital not even ten years ago now. It’s nowhere near as grand as London but it’s a growing city.”

“How do consider log cabins and igloos a city? I suppose things are just different there. Oh, how funny would it be if everyone had a little beaver or polar bear as their neighbor! Father says he ate seal and caribou while he was there. I don’t think I could ever eat such things! He wrote a whole book about the five years he lived there and was credited for great accuracy.”

He couldn’t recall being used as a source or proofreading this incredible piece of fiction.

“I’m sure it brings him a great many royalties, Miss. Shall we focus on the music now? It’s quite a lovely piece that we’re missing.”

“Yes of course! This was one of Jane Austin’s favorite pieces! It was named after her Majesty’s father Prince Edward Duke of Kent and Strathearn and Earl of Dublin. You should know all about him! He’s the first man to credit the term Canadian! It was very brave of him to be the first prince to live in the colonies.”

Matthew had just spent a month on Prince Edward Island and he found the name the land cradled by the waves, Abegweit , far more pleasant. It took years for him to stop calling it Île Saint-Jean, but enough looks from Father finally silenced the habit. The island was considered his birthplace and he felt a strong attachment to it even before the recent conferences. He really did not feel like chatting about it to someone who never in a million years could understand.

How tempting it was to tell her how he met the Prince and give her a proper fright.

“Yes, yes, all well and good. Let’s appreciate the man through listening to the piece written for him.”

Matthew was granted silence for all but a minute to enjoy the piano and violin. The song was over before he could thank the Lord for the silence.

They stepped apart for the social obligation of another bow and courtesy. He was very much looking forward to the plate of ginger cakes that he had yet to sample when his hand was entrapped by the petite woman.

“Oh please, you’re such a lovely dance partner and the Varsovienne is next. I absolutely adore polka and I know this one isn’t a pure one but it’s still such a lovely slow dance.”

How he wanted to lie that he promised a dance with someone else. How quickly it would be found out. Charlie was already partnered as well as his Aunt and he didn’t feel like approaching a stranger with such a request. He quickly gazed at his father on the other side of the room. He couldn’t read the man’s face properly enough for a clear answer.

Matthew assumed the position behind her with left hands at their side and right held up. He wasn’t retched at polka though he might just have to be in the next minute. At least the accordion sounded pleasant and inviting.

Slide, close, step, point, slide, close, step, point…

He counted the steps under his breath and was so focused that he forgot the small hops he was supposed to be adding. He quickly apologized and fixed his step but the clear focus on the music he had for all but thirty seconds.

“Were the lot of you adopted? Father’s said he’s never seen the Lord with a lady before and that there’s no Morning Room in the entire manor.”

The polite smile was starting to strain his cheeks.

“I believe that none of that is your business Ms. Durless. The two of us do not even call the other by their Christain name nor are we properly acquainted. My father’s personal business is his and his alone, as is mine.”

5,2,3, 6,2,3…

“You misunderstand Mr. Williams. Everyone is fascinated by what exactly the Lord is. No one knows his real title, yet, he’s seen with her Majesty time and time again. He’s like a character from one of Mr. Dicken’s works. Have you read ‘ Great Expectations ?”

“Yes, I have. It-”

“Anyway, he just seems to be quite the mystery. There’s an aura about him I have never felt with another person I’ve encountered in my entire life. I’ve been told he hasn’t aged a day in years and the funerals are all staged. Even his kin are an odd sort. Father’s heard tales from his own grandfather that he worked on the same ship as him a century ago.”

“You know how society is, gossip and rumors never quiet. Perhaps the Lord is actually a ghost and I’m the real host of the party, an estranged grandson brought from across the Atlantic to aid him in passing to the afterlife. If I say so myself, that sounds like a novel from Mr. Dickens or even Sheridan Le Fanu.”

“Oh those works frighten me so, my poor nerves can never get past but a few pages! I hope the Lord is not a ghost like you claim.”

“Perhaps he’s not a ghost but a man who made a contract with a demon like Faust. He is simply hosting a grand facade of a gentleman but only uses it to eat the souls of the innocent.”

Emilie was the one to miss the hops this rotation.

“That’s absolutely morbid!”

“Now, don’t tell anyone, but in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep, I’ll wander the halls and hear him chanting. There are ghostly bells and the tolling of charmed chimes. The Lord wears a hooded cloak, draws strange runes on the stone floor, and makes sacrifices each full moon. He was burned at the stake you know, back in 1650 and rumored that Cromwell himself arranged the conviction of him being a witch. That graveyard in the back nor the funerals are fake in the slightest Miss Durless and I know that personally.” Matthew leaned in closer as they made their next turn and made sure to squeeze her hands with his bare ones. “Go there yourself if you don’t believe me but I, myself, am buried there in an unquiet grave. I died of influenza ten years ago in this very house and my father keeps me here from guilt. I’m certain you can feel the chill in my hands. The rest of me is always absolutely freezing like the Northern winds. Please, don’t bring this up with him, it’s a very sensitive subject.”

She had all but yanked her hands out of his and took a step away. Matthew could catch the slightest hint of her shivering. “You’re a bloody liar! How could you say such awful things!”

The song was falling to its finale and the partners closest to them were slowing to look at why they had stopped their dance, their own movements coming to a slow halt.

“I don’t jest Miss Durless. This very house is cursed and I only warn you of such matters. We die in this house over and over and can never leave and that fate is shared upon any who fall the same.”

“You’re a horrid man and shall never find a wife or company in proper society.”

Matthew could feel the tension leave his shoulders as she turned her back on him and went to tattle on him like a child to either her father or his own. Perhaps if he was a normal person, that threat would actually mean something to him. The only company Matthew cared for in a romantic light was a good lay that could give him temporary bliss and feelings of love. He ignored his father shouting his name as he turned away to head straight for the door. The last thing he could make out in his ringing ears were Uncles Alistair and Dylan telling their brother to leave the lad alone for the time being.

~~~***~~~

The black suit lay in a crumped heap on the floor, piece after piece removed as he made his way out to the balcony. His bedroom faced the back gardens now flooded in light from the retched room he just barely made an escape from. Voices and laughter could still be heard from the open doors and he could see couples hiding out in crooks of the hedges, unknowing of the eyes on them. He struck a match against the old stone, lighting one of the cigarettes he snuck from Father’s desk some time ago. It was cold and damp out and not the bite in the air he was craving. He stood out in his shirtsleeves, trousers, and little else, wanting to feel cold, wanting to feel like home. His last visit there had been a miserable one, never having the time to simply be there. If it wasn’t the conferences and future of his confederation on his mind, he was worried about his brother who was in the middle of a civil war. Hell, there was a fucking raid while Matt was there and he barely had the energy to deal with it. The whole ordeal only added more talking points to these meetings. He hated feeling happy to leave for England. His foot bounced as he shifted most of his weight onto his left leg. There was a slight tremor in his body he knew to be from nerves and not the weather.

He let out a long drag of smoke, his free hand running through his recently untied hair.

Matthew stared at the garden below and knew for a fact the height wasn’t enough to kill him.

“Och now, don’t tell me you picked up that terrible habit.”

“Jesus Christ…!” Matthew nearly jumped out of his skin at the tapping of the glass door and the voice from behind him. There in the lit doorway stood Uncle Alistair holding a tray of hot tea and likely stolen cakes from the ongoing party. “You’re the pot calling the kettle black. Besides… I don’t smoke that often. Only when I nick them from father’s pocket. I haven’t had the chance to go to the pharmacy for what I prefer to use for my insomnia.” The bottle of chlorodyne was dry and empty in the depths of his wardrobe. He hoped the one in London had enough for at least one night’s sleep.

“I’m an old man, habits take too long to kill at this point. Prefer a pipe anyway. Pray you don’t catch young Jack with one.” He set the tray on the sturdy stone railing and pulled a flask from his inner coat pocket. Extra warmth of bourbon was added to the cups. “I brought some tea lad, thought you could use a warm cup in your hands.”

With a quiet thank you, he took the delicate cup and blew on the steam. Even just the presence of his uncle now standing beside him was beginning to calm him, be it, ever-so-slightly. He was quiet for a long time. There wasn’t even silent snow falling to fill the gaps of conversation, not that Matthew was that disappointed anymore. England was pretty useless when it came to having a proper snowfall.

“Tell me, what’s on your mind then?”

“Nothing. I was tired of being down there is all.”

Alistair hummed deeply in his throat, leaning forward slightly with elbows resting on the edge of the balcony as he sipped his at his cup. “Nothing? Nothing at all? You told quite the tale to that young woman.”

“What’s wrong with me Uncle Alistair?” Matthew stared at his reflection in the dark liquid. His eyes never seemed to open fully like they used to. Half cast in a depressed, tired gaze like they were a feature carved into a statue. Never to change, never to emote anything but what it was crafted to be.

“What d’ye mean? Something’s wrong with everyone in this whole goddamn world. I’ve told off a lass or two in my day. Lost track of the English nobles I’ve pissed off and made sure to get a hit square in the jaw so they stopped talking shite about my own home.”

His grip tightened on the saucer as he futilely tried to keep his hands from trembling, from forgoing the object in his hands to scratch at his flesh till his heart stopped pounding.

“Is it... is it wrong that...” The words were clogged, the vice grip of Father’s expectations around his throat. “Is it wrong that I... don’t hate every time that I die?”

“The weight of my responsibilities and the weight of my future is all crushing me to the point where I just don't want to do anything. It's not about really ending myself for all eternity- it’s the problems, the responsibilities, the pressure; all of it makes me want to just cease to exist or disappear at times.” He took a steadying breath. “Everything feels grey and I wish I could stop existing. I don’t want to die exactly, I just want to sleep for the rest of my life. I want to hike out into the farthest reaches of my north, bury myself in a bank of snow and only defrost by some miracle.”

Crying didn’t feel good anymore at these times but it still happened without his control. He despised how easy he was to tears.

“I’m supposed to be a nation, I’m supposed to be with people- I am my people but I’ve always felt so distant from everyone.” He thought of his Papa and how easy he always seemed to talk, how simple it looked to form pretty words that made those around him listen. Matthew never inherited that skill, that magnetic quality that made people give him a second glance. God, he wasn’t sure if he even got a first most of the time. He had hoped that he would simply grow into it, that when he got older and his country got bigger that he would just be better .

It was always the animals and the vast expanse of the tundra that understood him best.

The arm that wrapped around him was slow, testing the waters to see if he would run like a frightened fawn. The kiss to his temple was hesitant but firm, his head pulled to lay against Alistair’s shoulder. He didn’t fight the touch, the tenderness that he so rarely received was welcomed.

“Good gods above what did that bastard sassenach put in your head? Ach, my poor nephew. You’re too young to be havin’ these worries. You’re only a wee bairn in this bloody world. You shouldn’t have this many expectations at barely two hundred. I was running barefoot in the hills with my siblings; my worries were taking care of them, not political alliances and pleasing authority.” A rough and calloused hand brushed through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp that made his eyes tired. “Arthur is a… difficult man. I don’t agree with him most times, fight him every other time we meet and has always been hard to understand. Something I can say with certainty is that under all that hard shell and past his pompous arse, he does care for you and your siblings. He’s capable of love, just never so obvious at showing it.”

“He shows it well enough when I’m coming back from the fucking dead.”

“Well,” Alistair fumbled with his words for a moment, mumbling in Gaelic that Matthew couldn’t quite understand. They’ve had that talk before and it seemed not much had changed between this and the last one. “He means well. He’s been more or less than same since he was a wee thing. Vulnerability is a struggle I think with all of us. He’s supposed to represent the Empire till Kingdom come and he kens too well all the cracks in his crown. I wouldn’t call him the best father by far but Lord I’ve seen much, much worse. He loves you even if it’s not a clarion declare. Christ, I don’t remember the last time he’s said it to any of us- not that we’ve said it to him in decades.”

Matthew slowly pulled his head away from the hold so he could sip his tea properly once more. The touches were warmer but he already made his choice. “Thank you for the tea Uncle Alistair. You best get back to the party and return the cups to the kitchen before Mr. Walker catches you. Father has more than enough material to argue and berate you until the sun rises.”

“If you insist. We can talk more tomorrow if you need.” The rest of the drinks were finished in silence and they each took an additional shot of bourbon from the Scot’s flask. Alistair gave the young man one last kiss to the top of his head before turning to head out. “ Oidhche mhath agus bruadar aisling. I’ll talk to your father later tonight and I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Matthew stayed on the balcony for some time after Alistair had left. He missed home. He was the land of the evening star, the north, the land between seas but he felt like none of those things when he was hundreds of miles away; he couldn’t see the stars in London and he, too, felt stuck under a layer of smog and sleet. Even out here in the country, the clouds almost always seemed to hang about. In those moments of late-night troubles, he wanted nothing more than to walk into the dark and cold, his only proof of existence in clouds of breath in front of him as he stares at the stars and northern lights and silently prays for people to stop expecting things from him.

That was a reality only for his dreams that he couldn’t hope to achieve in fits of insomnia.

~~~***~~~

It didn’t matter if a party was held the night before, it was still a Saturday and Saturday meant taking afternoon tea with Father. When the weather was pleasant, they would sit outside under the white gazebo hidden among the roses. In the midst of winter, they would sit in the warm conservatory among his most prized tropical flora. Today was different in that when teatime came, Arthur requested for Jack and Charlie to wait- he wanted a private discussion with their brother. Matthew suspected the talk had waited for the late afternoon because both were suffering from hangovers at breakfast and had only uttered a few pleasantries at each other.

The two sat in their white iron chairs across from the other, the room silent other than the gentle flowing of water from the fountain nearby. Matthew stirred the milk and sugar in as he always did, acutely aware of every sound and adamantly avoiding the spoon scraping the bottom of the cup. Even after the maid left the two be, his father had yet to speak up. Arthur sipped his tea between bites of crumpet and spread jam without so much as a glance at the man across from him.

“Are you waiting for me to apologize?” Matthew spoke firmly, back straight in his seat. “You knew that woman and her father were ignorant about my home. Do you really expect me to stand there and listen to those people talk on and on about Canada when they know next to nothing on the matter? It was insulting.”

The fountain continued to lazily trickle water, the lilypads aimlessly floating on the surface and moving with the quiet ripples. A frog croaked and Arthur took another sip of tea.

“Yes, I expected you to handle the situation with much more grace and dignity,” he let out a hard sigh, his attention shifting away from the tower of cakes and sandwiches and all to his son. “Where the bloody hell did I go wrong with you? I spend my years teaching you proper manners and how to navigate these fools of the upper-class and what do you do? Get drunk during the first hour of the event. Matthew, for God’s sake, I expected better from you.”

“I’m not like Papa. I can’t talk to these people pretending to be interested.”

“I’m not asking you to be like him. ” His voice didn’t raise but it did harden in tone. “We spent the last several months having to navigate social circles in order to work on the unification of your territories. I had hoped you learned something from that.”

“Those stupid banquets at least meant something. These people just prattle on about nothing. You hate having company and entertaining. Social season be damned.”

“It doesn’t matter if I enjoy the chippering or find it a nuisance. It is part of my job to entertain these people and perform my duties for the season. These are my people whether or not I agree with them. They are not my friends or even acquaintances. You’re a grown man and must understand how to perform the part of a kindly gentleman. I second the notion for the season be damned to all hell but I don’t foresee that changing anytime soon. What are people deem important, we must follow suit. No telling nonsense stories to frighten them.” Those stormy sea eyes narrowed, the harsh light of the room emphasizing the bags underneath. “Son, whether either of us likes it or not, your little province is not just that anymore. You are no longer the colony I took in but a grown adult with, what I thought, was a good head on your shoulders. Your territories are uniting, forming a cohesive unit. I have been spending the last twenty years trying to reform your government. It has been a mess, conference to conference. The first time you’re back home in years and the second we’re finished in Quebec- the very discussion of the likelihood of you becoming a dominion or confederation or what have you- you run off with your own personal priorities. Your job was the discussion of unity and what your country and people wanted, not aiding the United States in the blasted war they got themselves into.”

“ Alfred could have been dead! You weren’t willing to do anything and he’s fucking dying! You always gave more of a shit about him than me but the second you get the chance- you refuse to help him from a bruised ego and stubborn pride! Whenever I go and help him it’s on me. Not Canada or behalf of the fucking Empire- Matthew fucking Williams!” He rose from his seat, the table wobbling at his speed. “You never had to teach Alfred how to talk to a room, how to stand up straight and look like he belongs in civilization and not the wilderness! He could wear the stuffy suits you gave him and play whatever part you wanted him to.”

“This conversation is not about Alfred, it’s about you boy.”

“For fucking once you actually give a shit about me and not him for once!”

“What part of me trying to get legislation for you to have your constitution said that I don’t care or look out for you? I have been doing my damnest to prepare you for this world. Empires don’t last forever in the way you think. I expect a year from now, the next phase of these conferences will commence. The constitutional proposals have already been brought forward to British Government this month and it’s been meant with great approval. Things will continue moving forward. You will have to continue speaking on your own terms without me always at your side.”

“What if I don’t want any of that!” he shouted, voice trembling. He thought of his brother and the current turmoil he was going through. Matthew could never shake those images from his head as he navigated the aftermath of a battle. The field stunk of decay and the ground was muddy with blood. He was afraid he would never find Alfred in the aftermath of death and violence. Even when he was safely recovered and brought to the nearest hospital, Matthew didn’t know how well Alfred would actually recover. He didn’t feel like his brother, he didn’t look like him, not really. Matthew could tell how afraid he was and, in turn, how afraid Canada was of the same thing happening to them if they went down the same path of freedom, flew out of the nest of the Empire’s safe hold. Getting these unions to work was enough of a headache and fear of what could be. Matthew slowly sank back into his seat, the anger that had been bubbling in his chest finally simmering out to be replaced with a tired sadness. “I don’t know what I want.”

“If Matthew doesn’t know, then what does Canada want? What do your people want to do?” Arthur’s voice was surprisingly gentle, understanding of his son’s frustration and confusion. “Our existence demands much from us, makes us feel and understand but somehow leaves us confused and unknowing of our nature and purpose.” He lifted the steaming cup to his lips and finished what remained. Almost on pure muscle memory, he poured himself another cup and even refilled the other with enough room for more sweet milk. “I taught you confidence and how to carry yourself better so the commanding presence we can take actually means something. We know what our people desire, what they fear. We help the morale when times are hard so we can keep on. I’m certain you are more than aware our existence can be a brutal and unkind one. Difficult choices must be made and nary do we get to make them. We are not lawmakers, simply odd leaders that know all the history. These conferences are far from over and I’m certain you can feel the debates over what should be done. So tell me, son, what does Canada foresee for their future?”

Matthew was silent for a long time, watching languidly as his father fixed his tea exactly how he liked it. His thoughts again were back to the pamphlet printed in the paper and the fluttering it had sent to his chest. It was akin to the feeling of navigating turbulent rivers. It made his heart race in joy and excitement but at the same time, his stomach felt like it was ready to turn itself inside out. His people wanted many different things, some were of a similar motivation that had made Alfred rebel and head the calls of liberty. Others were the strong desire to preserve their ties with Great Britain.

“I can’t tell yet, it’s all such a mess. You might as well change my patron Saint from St. Joseph to the Saint of Never Getting it Right.”

“None of that now.” Arthur quickly shot down. “I want you to think about it. Think past all the turmoil. Politics will always be a rotten mess, nothing can be done about that. Not everyone walks away happy no matter what you say or try to do. Despite the muck of it all, it will come to you and when that time comes, you’ll know. I don’t need your answer this second Matthew but these upcoming years will surely test your nerves and patience. That is what I expect from you at this moment in time. Know your next journey home I will not be accompanying you. You’re grown my dear boy and that is the last I’ll say on the matter for the time being. The holidays are here and you should be able to spend time with the rest of our family, seems their quite keen on staying for a while longer. Our other guests will be leaving in a shorter time.”

The cup of tea his father had prepared for him was different than the one Alistair had given him the night before. It was lighter in color and sweet, with no traces of warming alcohol but there was still a bitter aftertaste he couldn’t quite ignore. He gazed into the liquid and he could just barely make out his own face. He couldn’t understand it any more than he did last night. What changed? Who was this? Questions like it have been plaguing his mind each time he caught glances at his reflection, something always seeming off and wrong but he couldn’t quite place what it was. Maybe it was something as simple as his own cheeks losing the boyish softness of youth and his eyes mimicking his father’s more and more each sleepless night.

The pot was half-finished when Matthew rose from his seat with his usual quiet disposition. “Thank you. I think I shall take a walk before it gets dark and think about what you said. I hope you have enough lecture left in you for my siblings.”

Arthur let out a breath through his nose with a smirk pulling at the corner of his thin lips. “It’s miserable out. Go make sure the fire is lit in my study and that no one accidentally wonders inside. I can’t have anyone finding my ritual dagger or dear Oliver’s head amongst the clutter.”

“I’m sure I can manage that, sir. Shall I also warm the chesterfield?”

The Englishman waved his hand. “Do as you wish as long as you are on time for supper.”

Matthew withdrew to his father’s study, easily navigating the halls and passageways to the silent retreat without a single soul stopping him. With the fire now blazing in the hearth, he sprawled out along his favorite spot like a tired, old cat. Arthur would find him later in the evening, ready to bring him down for tea only to find his son fast asleep with an old edition of ‘ Punch ’ spread across his chest, dangerously close to sliding and crumbling to the floor. He set the magazine on a nearby pile of books after getting a polite chuckle from the cartoon it was open on.

“We serve as those before us and teach it to our young and hopefully, in doing so, watch them grow despite our mistakes.” He tentatively brushed some of Matthew’s fringe from his face, the curls just as soft from when he could still be held in Arthur’s arms. “Some just take their while like a northern summer.”

#hws canada #hws scotland #hws england #hws australia #hws new zealand #hetalia #writing #ace writes #hey can you like not make matthew sad this time #how bout i do anyway #christmas is over so here's my christmas fic #happy 500 posts to me

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