angelic_gabe (angelic_gabe) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-07-14 09:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden, gabriel allen |
Who: Bertram Eden, Gabriel Allen
What: Two gentlemen meeting for lunch who discover some mutual secrets and come to an entirely agreeable arrangement
Where: The Old Cheshire Cheese, a restaurant
When: 14th July, 1888
Rating: G; understated flirting (naturally)
Gabriel hadn’t been certain whether the young man who’d fallen into his arms would take him up on lunch or not; on the one hand, he seemed quite honor-bound, but on the other, he had been rather coy on certain details about his life (including his last name), and seemed to imply (through a rush of speech that constantly seemed to bubble forth) that he’d rather they kept their meeting secret -- the combination of which told him that his chances of seeing Bertie again were slim to none, even though he did pass along his card on the off-chance.
It was a funny set of circumstances -- should they have met in another sort of park of an evening, for instance, Gabriel would be a little clearer as to his intentions -- as it was, all he really knew was that the young man had a bit of a crush, and no end of enthusiasm.
The rather polite (and effusive) letter he received a week later with an invitation to lunch, then, signed by ‘Mr Bertram Eden’ no less, was a pleasant surprise, and he found himself at the appointed hour waiting at the door of the place the letter had indicated.
Bertie's favourite haunts were all a half-day's journey away, in Cambridge, but he had to admit that London was full of surprises. He'd found The Old Cheshire Cheese early on his quest for dining establishments that catered well to werewolf palates, and found it charming even when dining without werewolves.
Mr Allen was waiting outside for him, and Bertie fought down a flush of remembered embarrassment at the broad chest he'd been held against like a fainting maiden after his misadventure in the graveyard. He was grateful that none of his fellow investigators seemed to have heard about that.
"Mr Allen," Bertie called happily, hastening up to meet him. "Have you been waiting long? Please, do come inside, I should have told you they would seat you without a membership. I did promise you lunch at my club, but I'm afraid this isn't it--they make the most delicious beef-steak puddings here, and I thought you would enjoy a treat. How have you been? Well?"
Bertie rushed to hold the door, for some reason needing the gentleman to see that Bertie was capable of such an act without injuring himself.
“You clean up rather nicely, Mr Eden,” Gabriel replied with a grin. “Dry clothes suit you, and it’s good to see you with both feet firmly on the ground. No lingering difficulties, I hope?” He added, nodding as the door was adroitly opened.
“And beef-steak puddings will more than make up for not getting the opportunity to regale your clubmates with the story about how you broke both your legs and an arm,” he added, laughing a little. “Truly,” he added, looking over at him, “it is good to see you looking so much better, and I’m glad to get the chance to share a meal under decidedly better conditions.”
There was no helping the flush this time, as it started at the unexpected compliment and only grew worse from there. "I should never have told you my name," Bertie lamented, not for the first time, although he'd managed before now to keep it to himself. "I should have claimed to be Barnabas Pickering from Suffolk. I look like I could be a Barnabas. My humiliation could have died with Barnie's disgraced return to Suffolk. Traveling by carriage, of course, on account of the broken leg. Legs. Both of them, you are quite correct."
They were shown to a table with white linen that Bertie hoped he would not drizzle with beef broth, and Bertie paused for a moment just before sitting to make a slight bow of introduction. "Bertram Eden. I suppose I might as well admit it, now that I've sent you a letter with the evidence. And it is a pleasure to see you again as well, Mr Allen. I shall hope that I do not provoke any misfortunes here which might result in another loan of your coat, as it looks very well on you."
That had possibly been ill-considered, but in his defense, Bertie had still been flustered by Mr Allen remarking upon his looks, and it had come out without his thinking to censor it.
Gabriel laughed again and took Bertie by the hand to shake it. “Quite pleased to formally make your acquaintance. And stuff and nonsense,” he said, warmly, taking a seat. “After all, you had me at quite a disadvantage, walking away with my card and my full name, and now we’re on more even footing. Besides,” he added, “if our options were for you to simply fade embarrassed into the ether forevermore, or for us to have a pleasant lunch together, I’d vote for the latter.”
“Please, Mr Eden,” he said, “I’d hate to think you’d suspect I’d be indiscreet, or that I’d find you somehow lesser than for your unfortunate accident. I swear on my wife’s grave that the circumstances of our meeting will be kept entirely between us and that baffled old codger who was working at the bar, and I might be owed the rights to tease you just a little about it now and then, but only ever in private, and not because I would want to laugh at you.”
Bertie blinked, taken entirely off-guard. "You are very honest," he said, once again without thinking at all, surprised into honesty himself. "I...I would not have asked that of you, truly. And I wasn't trying to keep you from my club, for fear you'd tell any tales. I don't mind if you do." All right, that was entirely a lie, but he could wish it were true, which was a step closer to making it so. His cheeks pinked when he admitted, "I really did just want to eat beef-steak pudding."
Bertie took up his water glass to help wet his throat, and cleared it before changing the subject, though his question was still hesitant and a little subdued. "Was that why you were at the graveyard? To visit your wife? I had thought..." He wrinkled his nose, feeling foolish. "I had thought, with your visiting graves and rescuing half-drowned invalids, that you might be a vicar."
Gabriel laughed at that, heartily, and shook his head. “No,” he said, grinning, “decidedly not,” he added, before laughing again, clapping Bertie on the back for good measure, for making such an unintentionally hilarious joke. “And yes, I hadn’t brought by flowers in a while, and I got to talking, and it got dark on me.”
He grinned over at Bertie. “Those must be some awfully good puddings, then,” he said, “although honestly, English cuisine can sometimes leave a little to be desired. So much boiling -- it leeches out all the flavor, which is such a pity.”
Bertie always caught himself wondering, in situations such as these, whether or not he should volunteer to visit the grave of a loved one, to see if there was anything remaining there. But then, ghosts often haunted the places where they died, or possibly lived, not where they were laid to rest. There would be nothing at a grave for Bertie to find, and certainly no peace of mind for a grieving widower.
While his mind spun on that wheel for a moment, his mouth talked about puddings.
"Believe me, I have tried nearly everywhere in London with a claim to good beef, so I know exactly what you mean. If it is not plain, it is overcooked, or stringy, or too heavily salted, and it is so difficult to find something so simple." Or at least it had felt so, on the quest for werewolf-approved chunks of tender meat. Bertie had nearly made a vow to eat nothing but vegetables for a year after.
"Wait," Bertie said a beat later, his mind finally leaving off the worry over Mrs Allen's possible ghost and joining his mouth in the conversation. "You speak as though English cuisine is not your own. Which cuisine is it that pleases you best, then?"
“My mother’s side of the family is French,” Gabriel replied with a vague wave of his hand after they’d placed their orders for beef puddings, because after all that talk of them, how could one not.
“I tend to find food on that side of the Channel much more to my liking, although I may be biased, because I did quite adore her,” he added with a smile. “The sauces alone tend to add so very much, and the consideration of how wine would compliment… and vegetables that taste like vegetables,” he added. “I must sound frightfully snobbish,” he added. “But yes, I’d agree, London has an utter paucity of good beef.”
"Oh, well, the French," Bertie replied inanely, thinking about pastries and delicate little puffs of flaky crust, and, "Do they really eat frogs, or is that just a story?"
And then, because sometimes it took him a moment, but the wheel was spinning again, "Do you...speak...French? Oh, but you've said...have you been there? To France?"
“Oui, mon canard, Je parle bien ma langue maternelle,” Gabriel replied, grinning. “And yes, I’ve been there often. For the record, frog legs are delicious when prepared properly -- light and flaky, like a mix of chicken and fish -- and snails in butter sauce are divine.” He leaned his chin on his hand. “I very much hope I haven’t put you entirely off your lunch,” he said, with a smile, “but I certainly have found it to be true. And if you’ve never had boeuf bourguignon or pot-au-feu, or even a decent au jus, you are indeed missing out on what is possible with beef.”
Bertie blinked at the onslaught, torn between keen admiration at Mr Allen's fluency and dismay at how poor his schoolboy French was by comparison. He could understand perfectly well, and reply in kind, but his accent had none of the careless flow which had just been demonstrated.
Speaking of understanding: "Did you just call me a duck? And then go on to tell me of all the sauces you'd like to cook one in?"
Bertie was smiling though, teasing in kind, and already moving on. "I fear I shall have to make a trip to France very soon. I have been writing for one of my investigations, but it is such a long wait for a reply, and I know hardly anything more than I did when I began writing. I only hope they will suffer my French, which sounds very much as though I studied it at English schools, and won't throw me back out across the Channel."
Bertie took another sip from his water glass, and added, "I shouldn't worry about putting me off my lunch. It takes a great deal to turn my stomach, and I have eaten with those who...well." He thought of the wolves of Black Park tearing into pheasants, delicate and precise in their own way, their muzzles covered in blood. "Let us just say that I have witnessed a great variety in table manners. And that if I may eat after visiting a crime scene, I believe I may eat nearly anywhere.
"So please," he continued, grinning now, "do go on rhapsodizing about recipes, I'm certain it shall only make me look forward to an otherwise worrisome first trip abroad."
Gabriel laughed pleasantly. “Apologies for my familiarity,” he replied, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in amusement. “I tend to be much more effusive in French. A hazard of the language, I’m afraid. And, my dear Mr Eden, I’m quite sure they will appreciate the gesture -- far too many Englishmen hardly make an effort at all, so even if one’s attempts are a bit stilted, it will be far more than what is typical, and even though they will certainly not show their appreciation, it will be there.”
The puddings arrived then, along with a halfway decent bottle of wine, and he raised a glass in a bit of a toast. “To a successful journey,” he said, grinning. “I might pass along some restaurant recommendations should you find yourself in Paris.”
He took a sip of wine. “So your investigation is international in scope?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, curious. “How intriguing. What sort of investigation is it, then?”
"Murder," Bertie sighed, which was safer by far than encouraging Mr Allen to continue being familiar. "Two murders, which may be related. And an attack upon a lady. It is not..." He took up his fork and poked despondently for a moment at his pudding. "Not a pretty business. But it is one I wish to see put to rest, for the sake of a gentleman's peace of mind. And mine, now," he added, because the more he looked into the matter, the more he wished to know the truth of what had happened.
"It is the writing which worries me," Bertie admitted. "Translating the file reports. I hope that I may interpret all of the terms correctly, but there are certain to be some which are new to me, medical and so on, and I cannot be guaranteed the time or permission to copy them directly and bring them back to England for translation. I'm afraid I shall simply have to hope for the best."
Bertie cut into his pudding and realized he had led the conversation to quite a grim turn. "I do apologize for my poor luncheon conversation. I would be grateful for your recommendations, sir, particularly if you can share with me where is best to find all of that beef you mentioned." He grinned across the table. "Have you been there in recent years, then? I'm sorry, did you already say?"
“Murder, you say?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow, trying to remember possible news stories that would coincide -- such a case involving both the murder of gentlemen and lady being attacked on French soil would’ve been quite sensational, but none immediately came to mind. “That is a serious undertaking,” he added. “Was this recent? I’m sure it’s quite a credit to you, to have that much responsibility on your shoulders, and I’m sure that the gentleman and lady in question will appreciate your efforts. And yes, I can imagine that the challenges involved in translation take on additional difficulty when there’s so much riding on it.”
Gabriel shrugged. “And yes, I’m over there quite often -- sometimes for pleasure, sometimes for business, but more often than not, I’m stuck filling out endless paperwork and wrestling with lawyers and government officials.” He grinned, shaking his head. “The estate which ought to be rightfully mine by inheritance is under dispute due to the inherent recalcitrance of French bureaucrats, who somehow manage to maintain their nature despite God knows how many shifts in power over the years, and a court system that has been broken and remade far too many times to count -- it is quite labyrinthine, and endlessly complicated. So you see, I can most certainly sympathize.”
"Oh, how dreadful," Bertie replied without thinking first, appalled. He coloured at once, and stammered an apology. "Is there anything I could...should you need a courier for any papers, I mean, to speed up the process, or..."
Now here was a pretty tangle, because officially, Bertie could not offer anything, but Mr Allen might well think he could, which would make a denial quite rude. The Night Watch was not an authority Bertie could claim to a member of the general populace.
"I am not precisely a member of Scotland Yard," Bertie hedged at last, after thinking it over and delaying by way of a mouthful of excellent pudding. "I could not take action on your behalf in any official capacity. But you have shown me a great kindness and I am in your debt, so if there is any way I may be of assistance, I pray you will let me know."
He cut another bite upon his fork, and added after a pause, "One of the murders I am looking into is a cold case; I cannot remember if I mentioned it. But there is one more recent as well, as the possibility that they are connected is what concerns my...my patron." He began to say more and cut himself off, unwilling to make too much mention of Lord Black, even without his being named.
"And I believe," Bertie finished with a rueful smile, "that it may be less a credit to my skill, and more that I have refused to let go of the matter, when others have already done so. But I thank you for the compliment, in any case."
“Truly, Mr. Eden, my case is complicated enough I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy,” Gabriel replied with a smile and a shake of his head.
Bertie’s evasiveness about the organization he worked for (as well as his general hesitancy to divulge much of substance) made Gabriel ponder -- he could understand that a young man who had a reputation to be concerned about might wish to keep certain cards close to the chest as a precautionary measure, but he’d hardly given Bertie a reason to be concerned for said reputation (yet).
A shoe dropped, and Gabriel pounded on the table as he looked over at Bertie, a beaming grin on his face. “I say,” he said, quietly -- “You aren’t B. F. Eden, are you? The one who publishes occasionally in The Shade?”
He was a great lover of poetry in general, and the one he’d read in the paper recently had been wonderfully wistful in a mournful sort of way, one that’d spoken to him, and made him take note of the author. He looked over at Bertie in anticipation, eager to see if he’d hit on something.
Bertie's reaction was lamentably not one of a genteel and accomplished poet. At the name of the supernatural paper, his knee jerked reflexively up into the table and he nearly overturned his glass, grabbing after it hastily and dropping his fork with a clatter onto his plate in the process.
"What?" he squeaked, feeling caught out red-handed, though it occurred to him belatedly that it was not his doing at all if this gentleman had read that publication, so he needn't panic quite so badly. Clearly if the man knew his work, and the paper, then there was nothing to be gained by denials and empty claims of ignorance.
"Oh, damnation," he muttered aloud, wondering if he'd spilled Lord Black's secrets to someone--a French spy, even, sent over to follow Bertie into graveyards and butter him up with talk of foreign beef and familiar pet names in romantic tongues. Then he flushed at the thought, because Mr Allen had been nothing but a gentleman, and here Bertie was worrying over the improbable worst. And cursing at him.
"I beg your pardon," he rushed out. Lowering his voice, he admitted sheepishly, "That is not a name I hear very often, from those I meet casually about town. Or in graveyards, for that matter, though I must say I do not meet anywhere there very often. I do apologize, I should not have taken that so badly. You, ah." This time the warmth in his cheeks was a different kind of flush, tentatively warm and pleased. "You've read my work?"
It had not escaped Bertie's notice that he had no notion of whom, or what, had joined him for this meal, but it was not his business to ask. He might hope the information did not come to light in a startling way, as Bertie was not known for his steady nerves, but otherwise it had very little bearing on their conversation thus far.
“Oh, I’ve been a subscriber for a good long while now,” Gabriel replied, laughing a little, his voice low and conspiratorial. “When we first met, I assumed -- well. How fascinating,” he exclaimed, leaning on his hand again and giving Bertie a discerning look. “I wouldn’t have expected you to have been aware of such a publication, let alone writing for it.”
Bertie’d managed to surprise him on a couple of fronts -- he wasn’t terribly surprised that the man wrote poetry, but it was tolerably good, and Bertie’s familiarity with a supernatural publication was intriguing and unexpected -- he wondered if Bertie was descended from a witching family, which seemed the most plausible explanation, for the young man seemed quite ordinary from what he could sense.
“You have hidden depths, Mr Eden,” Gabriel said, a slow grin spreading on his face. “And yes, of course I’ve read your work -- your latest in particular was most moving, and quite unexpectedly resonant. I think it’s one of your better ones -- although the collection a few months back was most intriguing, too,” he added.
"Oh." Bertie flushed anew with giddy pleasure, though he tried to hide it unsuccessfully in the depths of his water glass. "Yes, I...thank you."
He hardly knew how to reply, and the intent focus of Mr Allen's gaze and the warm timbre of his voice left him off-balance and scattered. He knew which collection Mr Allen had referenced -- Bertie had gone into the depths of a writing frenzy after Mal and the pack first went absent from his life, desperately seeking understanding and some form of comfort from the pen that he could no longer find in the company of another.
"I...lost something," Bertie managed after a moment, fiddling with his napkin. "Back then. I suppose it was cathartic, to get it all out onto paper. The Shade has been very good to take my poems." He looked up a bit shyly. "Thank you for the kind words. I began that one after we met, actually, the one published this week. I had a...a thought, in the graveyard, that led me to it."
Forcing himself to stop fussing, Bertie huffed in minor exasperation at himself and squared his shoulders, meeting Mr Allen's gaze without, for once, darting away again. "I suppose I can tell you, then, that I work for the Night Watch, so I may stop sounding like such an illicit, unsavory sort of investigator. It's difficult to explain one's profession when the organization is not technically known to most."
He flashed a smile, one with a hint of light mischief in it. "Well, now I believe you know all of my secrets, Mr Allen." At least, the ones Bertie did not keep quite so close to his heart. There was no reason to share those, although if Mr Allen had read his poetry, he perhaps already knew more than most. "I assure you, my depths are not so terribly hidden. Shallow, really; just difficult to explain to most people. But then," he remarked, looking sly and sideways now, without any malice, "I presume from your subscription that you are not most people, are you?"
“Too right,” Gabriel replied with a grin and a wink. “And that makes a great deal of sense -- that French gentleman who was killed so unfortunately a few weeks back -- he’s a link in your case? The reason you’re venturing across the Channel? When might you be going, then? I go there often enough, I very well might run into you again -- although I’d rather prefer your ankle be uninjured this time around, naturally. If so, I’ll have to treat you to a proper dinner, and you can make me translate something or another. I think I’d find that quite agreeable.”
He took a bite of his pudding, hardly paying it much attention, but figuring it shouldn’t go entirely to waste.
The loss the poems from a few months back spoke of, judging from the gentleman’s demeanor, was still a sore topic, so he chose not to press too hard on the matter. “It is quite something,” he said, quietly, “that I should read a poem that resonated with me, and it turns out I was present at its conception. I find that fitting.” He looked over at Bertie evenly. “I do enjoy poetry,” he added, his voice dropping in tenor, “and poets.”
It was more than a little daring -- supernatural circles were decidedly more open and liberal as a general rule, but just because a human was privy to them didn’t mean he had similar attitudes -- but he found the younger man intriguing, and he hadn’t forgotten the thrill that he’d felt as their eyes had met in the back room of the bar.
Bertie went very hot, and then very cold, or perhaps the reverse, it was difficult to tell with Mr Allen's attention fixed so very directly on him. He knew that it must be a relief for Mr Allen to know he should not have to hide something of himself, now that Bertie had been revealed--and he wondered if perhaps he had unwittingly revealed something else of himself, which Mr Allen found held similar appeal...and an appeal not to have to keep hidden.
"Mr Allen," Bertie murmured almost without thought, entirely unable to break away from that gaze; "should you like to go to France with me as a translator?" His heart was beating too quickly, and Bertie wasn't certain whether or not to hope that Mr Allen was not a vampire, able to hear it. "I could go...whenever it would be suitable, if it would be convenient for you. I should..." He swallowed, and admitted, "I believe I should very much enjoy your company."
Intimate company, was what they were now deftly dancing around, with a care for both propriety and the chance that one of them could be mistaken in the other's interest. Bertie's interest, however, he felt could not possibly be in doubt, even if he had yet to express himself as directly as Mr Allen had managed.
"I could arrange passage for us," Bertie went on, heart speeding up slightly as he braved adding, "And...a room." His lips twitched into a small, hopeful smile. "And dinner, of course. We could not cross the Channel only to miss out on the cuisine. I hope we may have...similar tastes?"
He held his breath after he said it. They were both daring now; Bertie only hoped he had not dared too much.
“I do enjoy mixing business with pleasure,” Gabriel replied mildly, although his eyes flashed and the corner of his mouth went up to return Bertie’s smile with one of his own, both gratified and a touch relieved that he hadn’t misread things too badly -- Englishmen of a certain stock could have proclivities, and yet abhor even the slightest suggestion they indulge a little, regardless of assurances of discretion -- he tended to steer clear of human men until he was quite sure for that very reason, but Bertie’s responses were blessedly straightforward.
“I’ll check my schedule, Mr Eden,” he continued, taking a sip of his wine and brushing lightly against Bertie’s knee with his own by way of assurance. “I’d be able to get away for a few days easily enough. I’d consider it a privilege to be of assistance to the Night Watch, and I do believe I’d enjoy your company as well.”