Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Alex grumbles as his boots hit the gravel, a barely attempted whisper in deference to the fact that they’re now in sight of the house. It’s the same refrain he’s been repeating for the last several hours as they sat in the back of the carriage, being swiftly delivered to their terrible, terrible fate.

“Really? I had no idea you felt that way,” June replies flatly, shaking out her skirts and straightening her hat.

“You know they only invited us because Mom married an industry magnate,” he says with a whine that he knows makes him sound about five years old. He doesn’t care right now. “And they think they’ll get… clout or influence or something, by having us here. Contacts, and more money for their already overstuffed pockets so they can buy…” He looks around at the obscenely large house in front of him, the neatly dressed servants standing by to help them alight from the carriage—as if they were unable to take a couple of fucking steps without help. “…who the fuck knows what more these people need to buy. Like they haven’t got way more than their fair share already.”

“Stop acting like you’ve lived in poverty your whole life, Alex,” Nora pipes up. Her own costume is much more plain than June’s frilly lavender dress, and therefore less in need of fixing, so she’s just standing by the carriage, picking at her nails and waiting to make her way to the front door. “We can all see the shiny new buttons on your jacket and the buckles on your boots. The lace on your collar, too. You’re not fooling anyone.”

“Fuck off, Nora,” he says, rubbing his thumb over one of the aforementioned buttons. It had been an expensive jacket, but he really loved it and honestly… the money was burning a hole in his purse. What’s the point of having so much of it if he can’t buy himself nice things once in a while?

“You know that we’ve met Lady Beatrice and she was exceptionally nice, Alex,” June cuts in, trying to de-escalate their argument. “The invite came from her brother and sister-in-law, sure, but I’m certain it was her doing and not some sort of plot to re-colonise us by offering dinner and tea and garden games or whatever.”

“Yes, Alex, what a terrible destiny,” Nora says. “To be hosted for a week by all these charming rich people, who have bent over backwards to accommodate us, including sending their own carriage into town to fetch us. How very dare we drag you into their nefarious scheme.”

Nora might be teasing him, but he thinks she’s hit the nail on the head precisely. He’s not sure what the scheme is here, but there’s got to be a catch. People, particularly this kind of people—filthy rich aristocrats, dyed-in-the-wool snobs every last one of them—don’t just invite strangers to spend a week in their country house out of friendship. Brown and Jewish strangers like them? It’s probably unheard of in these parts.

“What if I don’t want to play games? What if I don’t want to drink tea? What if—”

A loud, piercing squawk rings out from behind the carriage, and Alex shuts up sharply, all his finely tuned senses perking up in search of the danger. He ducks down to look underneath the chassis and finds what he knows is only a peacock, but might as well be some prehistoric predator for the way it is stalking between the wheels, making its way directly towards him with an aggressive, obviously menacing gait.

“What the f—” He just manages to stop the profanity spilling loudly from his lips.

The thing screeches loudly and Alex jumps up, looking around to check that one of the household staff is making a move to sort out this wild animal situation, as they surely must be—but finds that no one is rushing to catch the rabid beast, no one else seems concerned. No one is coming to his rescue. June and Nora, traitorous and fickle, have, in fact, started to walk carelessly away from him, leaving Alex as the last line of defence.

He turns to the footman standing nearby. “Is that… is it normal?” he says, gesturing in the vague direction of the bird.

The absurd creatures shrieks. Alex takes several rushed steps back, sweat prickling on his neck.

The footman’s face does some sort of complicated contortion, and Alex can tell he’s fighting to suppress a smile. “Yes, sir. His Grace keeps a healthy stock of peacocks and peahens in the estate, as well as other birds more well suited for shooting. I believe there is a hunt planned for later in the week and your party will be able to enjoy them then.”

Alex takes a few more steps back, still turning to see if anyone is as concerned as he is over the bird’s determined charge towards the humans.

No one is, unfortunately.

He straightens his lapels and starts walking backwards in the direction of the house, catching up to the girls and letting June take one of his arms at the elbow as Nora takes the other, sparing one last look behind himself to make sure the peacock isn’t following them. The animal’s tale flicks up for a moment, as if it knows Alex, smelling his fear; a little warning that says I’m coming for you.

Alex narrows his eyes at it, trying to return the glare—but then it squawks once more, this time even more loudly than the first, and Alex finds himself hurrying forward at speed, holding tightly to the girls’ arms and dragging them towards the house.

As much as he’s dreading getting this weekend of high country living started, he would much rather be inside, where at least there should be no beasts waiting to ambush him.

Or so he hopes.

The household staff is pouring out of the house, assembling in a neat line at the foot of the wide steps that lead up to the front door, framed by two huge Greek-style columns. There are a lot of them: five young women in what he thinks are housemaids’ uniforms, four more young men in the same uniform as the young guy who’d helped them out of the carriage, a matronly older woman with an enormous bunch of keys hanging off a chain at her waist who he knows must be the housekeeper, and a man in a penguin suit at the top of the line—the butler.

From behind them, in a much more chaotic manner, emerge the members of the household, all wearing relaxed day clothes. At the head of them, the Duke of Windsor.

Because that’s who’s hosting them. The Duke of Windsor—or just plain Windsor, as he apparently is meant to be called—and his wife, the Duchess of Windsor. The Duke’s sister, Lady Beatrice—June and Nora’s new friend—is also here, of course, as well as the Duke’s two young children, Amelia—or Lady Amelia, as Alex has been told—and Arthur—who despite being only six years old is apparently Earl of Kingham, because that is how these things seem to run, or so June says. It has certainly been a time, learning the intricacies and subtle distinctions of the English aristocracy. What kind of backwards country is this, where little children are handed titles like that at birth? And why does the boy’s sister only get to be called lady when her older brother already has a big fucking title to go with his name? Alex despises all of it.

He hovers in front of June and Nora, because apparently that is the proper way, and the duke is the first to reach him, one hand held out and a broad smile on his face.

“Mr. Claremont-Diaz, welcome to Foxden Park. We are delighted to have you,” Windsor says, shaking Alex’s hand enthusiastically. His face is fairly nondescript, pleasant in a forgettable sort of way, but he is a lot younger than Alex had been expecting, and a lot less stuffy too. His coat doesn’t even have tails.

“Your grace,” Alex says, giving the most perfunctory bow he thinks he can get away with without getting them all kicked out on their asses.

“May I introduce my wife, the Duchess of Windsor,” the duke says, gesturing to a pretty—if just as boring-looking as her husband—woman standing a polite step behind him.

“Your grace,” Alex says again. “Thank you for inviting us to your lovely estate. What we have been able to see of it so far is beautiful and we are very happy to be here.” He turns to look for June and Nora so he can make the introductions, only to find them already giggling with Lady Beatrice, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. “Uh, may I introduce my sister, Miss Claremont-Diaz, your graces,” he says, leading the duke and duchess over to June. June drops into a note-perfect curtsey, including a demure dip of the head that Alex feels constitutes false advertising, given what he knows about his sister’s true character; “and our family friend, Miss Holleran,” he says with a sweep of the arm in Nora’s direction. The curtsey Nora manages is much less polished—and, in Alex’s opinion, much more honest. He knows if she had it her way, Nora would slap her palm against the duke’s and call it a day.

Windsor inclines his head smoothly towards each of them in turn, taking their hands and dropping a kiss a polite inch away from the fabric of their gloves. He then turns to do the last few introductions and finally they’re done with the dull formalities. Alex only hopes everyone will fucking relax as the week goes on. Because, right now this is for sure the stiffest bunch of people he’s ever met.

Their party is led up into the house, past the line of servants, none of whom are asked to introduce themselves or even lift their eyes up to say hello, only bowing their heads and bobbing their knees, because this is just the kind of backwards situation that this is. The only person who is allowed to have a name is Howard, the butler, a stiff old bird if Alex has ever seen one.

The house itself is probably the largest he’s ever seen, certainly the largest house that isn’t also a palace, or some sort of government building. It’s built of pale blond stone, weathered over decades or centuries into grey and white in patches, and stretches widely in both directions away from the front door. There are at least a dozen windows to either side, three stories above plus the tall roof he knows must house the household staff in its attics. The gate at the entrance to the estate had been just as imposing, set beneath a wide tower, and they had driven on for at least fifteen minutes after passing it, until they’d reached the main building. They’d seen a few small cottages dotted throughout the grounds as they went by, presumably meant for caretakers and gamekeepers and whatever else is needed in an estate as grand as Foxden Park.

It’s impressive, and part of Alex can’t quite believe he’s been invited to stay, but the rest of him thinks it’s all abhorrent, and fights very hard to shut down his provincial, awe-struck side.

The entrance hall is a large, double-height space, walls half-lined with dark wood and the upper sections with a deep, rich burgundy wallpaper; a profusion of boring portraits of dukes and duchesses of yore hanging on them, all pasty complexions and weak chins. A double staircase climbs into the upper floor, the panelling carrying up and leading the eye through until it splits into two separate hallways, into the depths of the house proper.

The duchess indicates that the staff is to show them to their rooms so they can change out of their dusty travelling clothes, and then requests they join her for tea in the Gold Parlour when they’re ready—wherever that may be. She departs the hall, leading her daughter by the hand and ruffling her son’s hair with a giggle, which gives Alex a little bit of hope that this weekend might indeed become more relaxed.

A footman leads them up, though Lady Beatrice walks ahead of June and Nora, talking the whole way. They turn left at the top—the right-hand corridor being the family wing, she explains—and June is deposited in the first room to the left, hand-painted lettering on the door proclaiming it the Yellow Room. Nora is led into the second—the Green Room—and Alex to the last door on that side of the corridor—the Red Room.

The large bedroom certainly lives up to its name. It is decorated tastefully in shades of red—autumnal hunting scenes hung on the walls; thick, maroon damask draped over the canopy of the bed; soft pink upholstery on the settee and chairs by the fireplace. A pair of large windows opposite the door face the front drive where they just arrived, and Alex spots their carriage disappearing in a cloud of dust as it makes its way to the stables.

Within a minute a pair of footmen appear to deliver his trunk and cases, followed by a housemaid who starts unpacking his things into the wardrobe. She sets aside a few shirts which she says she’ll freshen up and bring back and then departs, leaving Alex with the footman, who is clearly expecting Alex to need help getting dressed.

Alex is twenty-one years old.

He has been getting dressed by himself for as long as he can remember.

He dismisses the man, who looks so thoroughly offended it makes Alex feel bad, and sets to washing himself at the basin and changing into what June calls house-party clothes.

Alex is still trying to get used to all of this. It’s been a few months since they arrived in England, brought over by his mom’s new husband, Leo, and the demands of his various business ventures. They could have chosen to stay in America, of course, but neither Alex nor June had wanted to miss out on the opportunity to visit Europe. Nora had been brought along as her parents thought it would be a good opportunity to be escorted through English society by friends. To see the world, meet new people.

The people—and the society—part of the trip has turned out to be much more significant than any of them had anticipated.

Alex had pictured himself walking through historic sites, wandering around museums, soaking in all of Europe’s ancient history and culture. He had not imagined most of their time would be taken up in… frivolities.

Since getting off the ship, they’ve made the circuit of balls and dinner parties in the city, cafés and restaurants, theatres and clubs, all facilitated by Leo’s business contacts. It’s been strange for the three of them, so unlike their upbringing in Texas. But they have been trying to make it work, June especially, and finding a real friend in Lady Beatrice has clearly been good for her and Nora.

For himself, Alex still can’t get comfortable in these surroundings, still can’t seem to find his feet. He worries all the time that people will spot him for an impostor—which he knows he is, if he’s being honest. He’s not got a title or land. Nobody knows his name.

He can’t decide if he wants them to or not.

After what he thinks is an appropriate interval, he makes his way back downstairs and follows the sound of voices to what must be the Gold Parlour, finding that he is the last of the party to have made their way down. The room is certainly worthy of the name. Beyond the same ornate golden frames that surround all pictures in this house, there is golden upholstery on the settees, curtains of a heavy cream fabric embroidered in gold thread, and not a single accidental patch of bright or primary colour in all of the décor. The floor, shiny blond wood, is covered by thick rugs, all in shades of white, pale yellow and gold, of course.

June, Nora and Lady Beatrice have taken over a small circle of armchairs, congregating around a tray that holds a tower of cakes and treats. The duchess is sat with her daughter, Lady Amelia, who's currently doing something akin to braiding her mother’s hair, and the duke is with the tiny little lord, Arthur, at a games table, a board for checkers set up between them.

“Mr. Claremont-Diaz!” the duchess calls out when he enters. “Come in, come in. Would you like some tea?” A maid tries to reach for the teapot, but the duchess waves her off, saying, “We’re fine, Eliza, thank you. I’ll ring if I need anything, but you may go back down for now.” The girl looks a little suspicious, but she bobs a neat curtsey anyway and walks out of the room. The duchess watches her leave and then turns to Alex. “We’ve been trying for years to get rid of a lot of the formalities here, but some habits die hard,” she says with a slightly conspiratorial tone and a pleasant smile, passing a cup on a saucer to Alex.

“Thank you, your grace,” he says.

“Oh, please! Call me Martha,” she says breezily. “That’s another formality I’d be rid of in a second if I could.”

The duke abandons his game of checkers and crosses the room over to them.

“Howard, bless the man, was trained in my grandmother’s household,” he says, leaning over the low table and pouring his own cup of tea. “She is incredibly strict. I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to make the man loosen up, and so the rest of the household staff follows his lead, I’m afraid.”

Alex knows less than zero about running a house like this one. He offers up what he thinks is a polite, sympathetic smile in response to the duke’s woes with household staff and the severe difficulties of his aristocratic upbringing, and chances a glance over to June and Nora in case one of them fancies coming to his rescue.

“That must be difficult, your grace.”

“Oh, no, it’s Philip, please. Like Martha said. This is not a formal occasion and to be honest there’s just too many your graces around here, and I often get confused if people are talking to me or my wife.”

The duchess giggles next to him and takes up the conversation.

“Now, I have to apologise, Mr. Claremont-Diaz, as the house party is rather female-heavy at the moment. We are expecting two more guests: my brother-in-law, who should have already been here to welcome you, but seems to be awfully late, and another family friend. You must know how hard it is to find suitable bachelors to make up a balanced party in the countryside.”

Must he? Alex has not a single fucking clue what she’s on about. Is he suitable?

“Oh, yes. I’m sure it is.” He’s going to pull a muscle trying to be on the level with these people.

The tiny earl comes to his rescue.

“Papa, Papa, I think someone else is coming,” he calls to his father from the window. “Another carriage’s just pulled up.”

“Splendid!” Windsor says, getting up and walking out towards the entrance hall to inspect the new arrivals, followed by his wife and their children.

Alex cannot say he’s looking forward to the arrival of more rich snobs who will undoubtedly ask him questions about what club he’s a member of and… how many deer he killed in the last year? Most of the men he’s met in gatherings like this seem to drift between those two topics—that is, when they’re not complaining about their tenants, or about parliament trying to do outrageous things such as enacting taxes ensuring working people can earn a decent living.

Lady Beatrice drifts over to his side of the room, drawn by the teapot.

“Settling in alright, Mr. Claremont-Diaz?”

“Lady Beatrice! Yes, thank you.”

She gives him a cross-eyed look that makes him feel like he’s just said something very wrong.

“Oh, please don’t call me that. Only people I don’t like call me that, and I’d rather think you’re not about to join that club,” she says, raising the cup of tea to her lips and positively slurping. Alex thinks he might be a little bit in love. “It’s just Bea.”

“Okay, then please can you get everyone here to stop calling me Mr. Claremont-Diaz and call me Alex instead? Because I feel like I’ve committed a crime and I’m being called up in front of the Bench.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Well, Alex. I think we’re going to have fun this week,” she says with a wink.

A rumble of deep voices drifts in from the entrance hall and Bea straightens up.

“Oh, Henry’s here!” she squeals, already halfway to running out of the room.

Alex gets up and walks over to where June and Nora have taken possession of the seat by the window. Nora scoots to make room for him.

“How are you doing, Alejandro? I feel like that chip on your shoulder’s grown to full boulder size at this point. And we’ve only been here a couple of hours!”

He sticks his tongue out at her. “I maintain that you owe me big time for letting you drag me to this.”

“No, but you’re my protector,” June says dramatically. “The guardian of my virtue, the keeper of the family’s honour! Without you, how could I ever leave the house safely? How could I be trusted to not ruin myself and drag the whole lot of us into disrepute?”

He wiggles his eyebrows at her. Of the two of them, he’s certain she’s the least likely to cause any sort of reputational damage. “Do you know who this Henry is who’s just arrived?”

“The younger brother, I think,” June says. “Bea says he’s a delight.”

“Oh, great. Is he an earl too? A count? Please tell me he’s not a fucking prince.”

Nora narrows her eyes at him. “Do you even know how titles work?”

“I have made a point not to learn it and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me to my ignorance, thank you very much,” Alex answers. Nora cackles.

June pokes at his knee. “Come on. They’re not so bad. I know the whole thing is a bit…” She gestures at the grand room around them, the high ceilings, gilded picture frames—gilded everything “…extravagant, and the formalities are very weird. Just try and see beyond it, maybe then you’ll be able to enjoy the people.”

“I don’t think they want me to see beyond their titles, June, or my lack thereof. That’s sort of the point of it.”

A soft, girly laugh flows in through the open door, followed by a child's cackle which Alex thinks must be from the mini-earl. Then the whole family comes back into the room, the duchess leading them, still mid laugh, followed by the duke, and finally a tall, windswept blond man who walks in slowly, with an odd, dragging limp—caused, Alex quickly realises, by the fact that he has Arthur wrapped around his left leg and Lady Amelia around his right, sat on his feet so that he’s obliged to heave them along as he goes. He’s laughing and ruffling the children’s hair and the whole thing is somehow absurdly wholesome.

The man straightens up when he finally notices that they have company in the room.

“Right. I do apologise for this,” he says to June, who’s standing closest to him. “I was assaulted by barbarians when I came in, and I had no choice but to engage.”

June lets off an embarrassing giggle, clearly taken in by this toff’s height and looks and apparently charming personality. Alex might grudgingly admit the man seems nice, playing with the children, but he's withholding judgement until he gets more information.

“I see no problem at all with what they’re doing,” June says, and the children laugh and tighten their arms around the man’s thick thighs.

“No, indeed. You must be Miss Claremont-Diaz,” he says with a tip of the head. June dips a little curtsey and he takes her hand. His hair flops freely over his forehead as he ducks down to kiss her glove, and Alex can see that this guy’s probably got all the debs in London eating off the palm of his hand. He doesn’t even appear to be trying to woo June, and yet—even Alex struggles to see past his charm.

“This is my brother, Lord Henry Fox-Mountchristen,” Windsor says, introducing June and Nora. “And this is Mr. Claremont-Diaz.”

Alex steps over, holding his hand out, yet again plastering on his best ‘in company’ smile—but instead of being welcomed with a grin as charming as the ones June and Nora got, he finds himself on the receiving end of a flustered look, followed by something akin to panic—and then a blank, stern face. Lord Henry gives Alex an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement then drops his eyes down to his niece, curls his hands back around the children’s shoulders.

“Ah, uh, yes, Amelia, darling, that’s a bit of a tight squeeze, do you think you’d mind letting go? I might find myself in a compromising position if you keep tugging on my trousers like that.”

He turns away from Alex, whose hand is still hanging mid-air, resolutely unshaken.

Alex’s mouth gapes. There’s a shift of discomfort around the room, as all the adults register what’s just happened, but the children’s laughter and utter disregard for formality propels them past it, so that within a minute Alex feels like maybe he just hallucinated the whole thing.

But he’s pretty sure he hasn’t. The duke’s brother has just given him the cut.