His Lordship's Gardener (UPDATED- Part 2!)

[Dusty15]

His Lordship's Gardener

by Dusty15 and Salamander

This is a fic that is a long time in the making. Salamander and I have been co-writing this for over a year now. It's quite long, but we're both proud of it and we hope you enjoy reading it! This is set in the late 1800s in England (think season 1 of Downton Abbey). I primarily wrote Lord Elder and Salamander wrote for Mister Cartwright. These two posts involve the more general fic portions of our writing with these two and if anyone is interested, we have more chapters suitable for posting on the Adult board if you'd like to read them.

If you're interested in more about hayfever during this era (it was a fairly new diagnosis), you should check out this thread: http://www.sneezefet...showtopic=43783

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The sun is climbing towards the middle of hot June day. The countryside here is rolling and green, the lanes so thickly hedged that it is almost impossible to make out the pony and trap which moves ponderously along them. It moves in and out of dappled sunlight, setting a course for the most, indeed the only, notable building in the immediate area- a handsome stately home set in acres of untouched parkland.

The trap makes its ponderous way up a long drive, through the bars of shadow cast by the even rows of lime trees which flank the road, and comes to a halt at last with a crunch of wheels on gravel. It's occupant emerges stiffly and stands blinking in the sudden light, casting a critical eye over the imposing building ahead of him. He self-consciously checks his appearance as reflected in the window of the coach, and sees only a slender young man, tall, fair of complexion with a head of chestnut hair which refuses to cease falling into his eyes no matter how often he sweeps it back. He pauses to brush the dust of travel from his jacket, which is in the modern London style though growing threadbare, the shirt underneath it thin but well-laundered. Long fingers tweak the cravat at his throat, which must be stifling in this high weather. He gives a nervous swallow as he approaches the heavy oak front door. Then he squares his shoulders and gives the bell-pull a good yank, his greeting already on his lips;

“Isaiah Cartwright, of London. Your master should be expecting me; he wrote for a landscape gardener.”

An imposing figure in formal service attire stands in the doorway of the ornate entryway. He's in his sixties, with a shock of white hair slicked back with great precision.

“Do come in, Mr. Cartwright; His Lordship has been expecting you,” the butler says. “I am Mister Bishop. Miss Smith will show you into the study.”

He steps back to reveal a young woman waiting patiently to escort the guest. She curtsies and leads the way down a wood paneled hallway with huge urns sitting atop pilasters and several heavy drapes swagged around gilded-frame paintings.

Mr. Bishop disappears into a dark hallway in the opposite direction, in search of his Master.

The Master in question is Lord Jacob Elder, the only son of a long line of nobility in control of the estate at Woodhaven. He was married once, to a young woman of equal social standing, but she’d died of consumption with no heir, and the Lord Elder never remarried.

There was still time for such things, of course. Lord Elder is barely twenty-eight, far from past prime, and is much admired in social circles for his looks and intelligence. He has no intention, however, of remarrying. His attention is much more devoted to his studies and a passion for science and invention than it is to wooing the fairer sex.

In the eastern wing of Woodhaven in a row of rooms on the upper floor, Lord Elder maintains a second study of sorts wherein he conducts his academic experiments and studies. It is there that Mr. Bishop finds his Lordship slumped over a notebook, scribbling furiously.

“Lord Elder?” he asks. “Mr. Cartwright has arrived from London to serve as his Lordship’s gardener.”

Jacob looks up at the interruption, his thin spectacles sliding off his narrow, long nose. It’s past noon but he’s still in his silk dressing gown, feet bare and raven hair all askew. Sweat is beaded on his forehead and dark locks stick there in curled tendrils.

“Is he?” Jacob asks.

“He’s in the study. I can serve him lunch in the servant’s quarters and let him know that his Lordship will receive him later.”

“That won’t be necessary, Bishop,’ Jacob says, shutting his notebook and smoothing back his hair, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. “Bring up some lemonade. I cannot bear hot tea in this weather.”

“Very good, sir,” Bishop says, and departs for the kitchens. He isn’t surprised that his Lordship intends to receive the guest in only his dressing gown and pajamas, but it never ceases to make the butler feel very embarrassed indeed.

Lord Elder ties the sash of his dressing gown and goes down to his library. The room is one of his favorites in the house, besides his east quarters, and the numerous shelves are stacked up to the ceilings with old volumes of academia. Some of the upper ones are novels and inherited tomes that haven’t been touched in ages. Only the occasional cleaning keeps those from gathering too much dust.

“Mr. Cartwright?” Lord Elder asks, entering the room and circling to stand beside his favorite armchair.

“My Lord. An absolute pleasure to see you in the flesh.”

He offers a quick but firm handshake. If Mr. Cartwright is surprised by his Lordship's informality of dress he does not express it, except perhaps by an amused twist to his mouth.

“I apologise for my late reply to your letter, I was detained briefly in the Americas. You will be pleased to know that my admission to the Royal Horticultural Society has finally been completed, and so I find myself completely at your disposal. It is pleasing to find a man with an interest in the science of horitculture as much as in the fads of design.”

He speaks with quiet intensity, holding Lord Elder's gaze almost to the point of discomfort. Even in the low light of the library his eyes show an unusually pale green, flecked with hazel like those of a cat.

“I am rather interested in the science of it, yes,” Lord Elder says, taking a seat in the armchair and indicating for his guest to do the same. Slim fingers extract a cigarette case from the pocket of his robe and he reaches for a match from a nearby box, lighting one with a quick strike. He takes a long drag and continues. “I have extensive grounds here at Woodhaven and little use for them in terms of sport or entertaining. Previously, I had a labourer plant the lime trees out front and a small garden in back, but I have much interest in cultivating a more prodigious garden of herbs and other plants for use both medicinally and for scientific research.”

Bishop enters with the lemonade and offers a glass to each man before setting the silver tray and pitcher on a nearby sideboard.

“Thank you, Bishop,” Jacob says. “I’ll ring if I require you further.”

“Very good, sir.”

He leaves, shutting the door behind him.

“Did you enjoy the Americas?” Lord Elder asks, turning his attention back to his guest as he flicks a bit of ash from his cigarette into the nearby standing ashtray. “I have not been; not since I was a small boy and the sea voyage was enough to scare me off for a good deal longer. I must admit I have a weak constitution when it comes to sailing. I have done a great deal of reading about the rain-forests of the south, though, and I should like to see them someday.”

Cartwright pinches nervously at the tip of his nose, but replies with enthusiasm.

“I can recommend it if your Lordship ever has the opportunity. The extent of must be seen to be believed. I spent a little time in the rain-forests, though frankly it was not pleasant- the humidity was quite insufferable and there are more species of venomous insect than I had believed possible. Indeed, I have come to conclusion that the only civilised way to study the species found there is back on our native soil. It is truly remarkable is how well many of the species can thrive on our continent, given the correct conditions, and they are becoming easier and easier to replicate as technology advances.”

His reserve of conversation runs dry around the same time as his cup of lemonade, which he sets aside with a decisive movement.

“If your Lordship is ready perhaps you could show me the grounds, give me a better idea of what I am working with.”

His eyes narrow fractionally as they register Lord Elder's state of dress and he struggles for diplomacy, “Unless you- that is, if you quite are ready to do so?”

“I do doubt if the humidity could ever rival that of a summer spent in London, but I’ll trust you know what you’re talking about,” Lord Elder quips, draining his glass and extinguishing his cigarette. “I will happily show you the grounds if you’ll be kind enough to wait until after I’ve had my lunch. If you are hungry, I am happy to have Bishop set you up with some food in the servant’s hall.”

He’s slightly conflicted about where to rank the young man in the hierarchy of the house. A university education puts Cartwright well above the other employees, but under his Lordship or other visiting persons of the upper class. Jacob decided previously that he’d house the new gardener in one of the guest quarters rather than with the footmen and livery, but dining was a slightly more difficult matter.

“I’m going to ring the bell for Bishop to come clear the drinks away, and if you want to eat, he’ll show you where to go. I’ll meet you in the front foyer in forty minutes.”

He stands, tightening the sash on his dressing gown.

“I look forward to it, Mr. Cartwright,” he says, nodding his head to the young man before he turns and heads upstairs, yanking the pull for the servant’s bell as he leaves the study.

His own chambers are not far from his rooms in the eastern wing. He takes lunch every day at twelve-thirty in his sitting room unless he’s working in which case he takes it in his private study. The dishes are already laid and a footman waits by the table. Lord Elder eats to his satisfaction while he has his valet lay out a linen suit in the dressing room. Lunch finished, he dresses and has his valet trim his moustache before heading downstairs to meet Mr. Cartwright.

By the time they have both eaten the sun is high in the sky. A little wind has arisen, bringing some relief from the heat as it ruffles the tops of the trees. The air holds a hazy, golden quality and the sweet, clean scent of summer grass.

Isaiah Cartwright waits by the door, which is open, allowing him gaze out over the grounds. The sunlight forces him to squint a little, but he stands straight and gracefully despite his height. He has shed his suit jacket and stands in only his shirt and waistcoat, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms for practicality. The exposed skin is tanned a light, golden brown. As Lord Elder had observed, being neither as pale as a scholar nor ruddy as a farmer he occupies that peculiar place somewhere between a labourer and gentleman. Now he holds a notebook open to a clean page, the previous one being already filled with a rough pencil sketch of grounds and some annotations.

Despite his watchful waiting, the very moment at which Lord Elder arrives is one in which Isaiah is momentarily distracted by removing his handkerchief from his pocket. Upon seeing his host approaching he returns it quickly as he turns around.

“Good afternoon, your Lordship. I hope you dined well. I was able to acquaint myself my staff and

have made some preparatory sketches curtesy of your excellent head gardener. He was surprisingly helpful, although I fancy he senses I am about to make his job a good deal more difficult.”

He offers Elder a fleeting, nervous smile, before averting his gaze and pinching at his nose in what is becoming a characteristic gesture.

“Wonderful,” Elder says, heading out into the sunshine. “I’m eager to see what you think you can do with the place.”

As they walk, he shrugs off his jacket, hooking it on a finger as he slings it across his shoulder. The light breeze ruffles his thick curly hair and he squints as the sun glares off his glasses.

The pair make their way down the front lawn, pausing as they get to the wide expanse of land to the left of the property where a huge willow tree dips its branches to the earth. In the distance, a young man paces the far south lawn pushing a grass trimmer.

“It’s a lovely old tree,” Lord Elder says. “I’d quite like it to be trimmed properly. I can’t bear to have the hired man just hack it up willy-nilly. I’m sure you can recommend to him the best way.”

The tree is a favorite of the Lord’s, providing shade and a place for reflection on spring afternoons. Occasionally, he brings his studies outside and stretches out on a blanket with his books.

“The boy there is one of the hired hands,” he adds, pointing to the young man pushing the clipper. “Good lad. He’ll be of service to you, I’m sure of it.”

Cartwright tilts his head at the tree admiringly. “It is magnificent. I'm sure I can certainly-”

Here he pauses, his aspect gone slightly vague. Quick fingers retrieve his handkerchief out of his pocket and he just has time to murmur a distracted “Please excuse me, I-” before he must cup it to his face to catch a sudden sneeze.

“--idtssh!”

It is a slight, convulsive movement, so swift an observer might fancy he had imagined it.

He gives his nose a firm, decisive rub and returns his attention to Elder.

“I'm sorry, what were you saying?”

“Bless you,” Elder says, a brief look of concern flashing across his face. “I was saying that the young man trimming the lawn is one of the hired hands who will be of great assistance to you, I’m sure. He’s a good lad.”

The find themselves at a bend in the path that leads back around the house to the rear lawn. The lush grass is freshly mown and sticks slightly to their shoes as Lord Elder leads on towards a bench overlooking the back of the property. He indicates for Cartwright to sit and takes a seat himself.

“It’s a good plot,” he comments, scanning the wide expanse of land. “Ideally, I’d have a proper walled garden, if you think it would work here. I’ll trust your expertise, but I would rather like to have an area for herbs and then an area for some more exotic ornamentals. Perhaps you can suggest some that will survive in this climate.”

Cartwright makes a note of this in his book and pushes his hair back from his brow in a thoughtful gesture.

“That's quite possible. I see you already have an excellent formal rose-garden. There is space for a walled garden beside it, I think. There, where the land is flatter. Perhaps with some steps leading down. You could have raised beds with box-hedges- they are very fashionable at the moment, but more to the point they help to keep rare species separate from each other.”

His nose is evidently bothering him, and on the pretense of bending down to fasten his shoe he gives a single, very discreet sniffle. It is still audible, however, and has an unpleasantly dampness which seems to have come from nowhere.

“That said, if you are truly interested in exotics you might consider a glass-house. Perhaps you have visited the magnificent example at Kew?”

Before he can say more, his eyelids flutter shut. His long, golden eyelashes rest again his cheek for a moment as he takes an unsteady breath, and then he is overtaken by an emphatic fit of sneezing,

“--idtssh!-ittssh!-idtssh!”

He cups his handkerchief over his face and his head snaps away from Lord Elder with each one. Although they are not loud the sound has an insistent, ticklish quality. Isaiah blows his nose as politely as he can muster. His expression shifts from started to wary, as though he is beginning to suspect something. He says nothing of it, however, beyond a quiet. “Please excuse me your Lordship. I don't know what's come over m- eh-”

Then it overtakes him again, another series of three which is an exact, clockwork repetition of the previous fit.

“hh- hhih -- --idtssh!-ittssh!-idtssh!”

He recovers with a slight, surprised shake of his head.

“Goodness,” Lord Elder exclaims, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket and extracting a fine linen handkerchief with an embroidered monogram. “Bless you. Do let me know if I can offer you my own.”

Cartwright waves away his Lordship's offer, hoping to God it won't be necessary- his cheeks are already flushed enough at his unintended impropriety- though he fears he may be overtaken sooner rather later.

Elder keeps the handkerchief close at hand in case the other man requires it but continues their discussion, not wishing to embarrass Cartwright. He’s quite taken with the young man already and is eager to begin work with him, imagining happy hours spent tending to exotic buds and collecting herbs.

“I have been to Kew,” he said. “I went not long after they opened the bamboo garden a few years back and I had the great pleasure of touring the Palm House and the Temperate House. I have a great fondness for some of the orchids they have there; really breathtaking things. I think a glasshouse would be a grand idea.”

Despite his outburst, Isaiah's nose remains so decidedly ticklish that he cannot help but appear a little distracted as he leafs through his notebook to show Lord Elder some sketches in his own hand.

“These are some glasshouses I designed during my apprenticeship. We would need to hire in a builder and perhaps an architect to work on the finer aspects of my plans, but here is an idea of what is possible. There is that initial expense, but there's never been a better moment to go ahead, now that there is no longer the glass tax to contend with. The best site would be an east or southeast plot, unless your Lordship has any other preference? Perhaps we could walk around that way and take a look?”

One finger rubs at the corner of his eyes, which feel unpleasantly gritty, and he hopes he does not appear uninterested in his Lordship's company when quite the reverse is true. His nose is running again, and he sniffs it back as quietly as he can.

“These are lovely,” Elder says, looking at the sketches in the notebook with admiration. “I do wish I had more skill with a pencil. My sketches are fair, but these are really fine work. Perhaps this more tradition looking one would work best with the style of the main house?”

He points to a lovely framed building that Isaiah has drawn with beautiful spires on either end that seem to reflect the peaks of the manor house’s roof. Standing with the notebook in hand, he begins to wander to across the lawn again.

Isaiah waves away Elder's compliment with a certain quiet pleasure, and rises obediently to follow his Lordship around to the southeast side of the house. They skirt the rose garden and he pauses to demonstrate where he would add a walled garden, adding a further rough outline to his plan of the house.

“I think this bit of the lawn would be ideal. I often find myself in this direction during my morning walks, and I should like to visit my garden frequently when it’s complete.”

He pauses, glancing back at his companion. Cartwright’s wide eyes look redder and rheumy compared to their earlier appearance and Elder observes the slight sheen of moisture around the man’s nose. Casually, he checks that his handkerchief is still close at hand so it is ready in case he need offer it again.

The two men have managed to overtake Elder's hired hand, so the grass is longer here and the stems whisper about their ankles as they walk across the space Elder had mentioned. Isaiah examines it approvingly, crossing it in brisk strides to get an idea of the dimensions before returning to his host's side. Though his demeanour is cheerful and focused, he is forced to give a soft blow into his already-damp handkerchief before speaking. Apparently it does little to clear the tickle in his nose for his voice is already wavering as he speaks.

“This will be ideal, it gets the full sun first thing- ih” His voice cracks, his eyelids flickering shut, but he soldiers on. “in 'idTSsh! -excuse me- in the morning- 'idttsh!... 'idttsh!”

The three sudden sneezes force their way from in, completely overtaking his ability to speak. He paces away from Elder and turns his back before doubling over again. He is trying is utmost to stifle the sound, but he cannot control the frequency.

"hh- 'gtsch!... 'gtsch!...h'gitssch!”

With time the sneezes come slower and more forcefully, allowing him to at least catch a breath a few breaths before he is doubled over again. His expression is mortified, the handkerchief clamped firmly around his nose and mouth. His eyes well with irritated tears, and he looks blearily up at Lord Elder with a mixture of shame and confusion.

“Please forgive me, my- 'gtissch!- my lord,” he manages. “I cannot seem to- to- TSSchuh!- seem to -TTSsch!- stop.”

For a moment, Lord Elder is transfixed by the display. He’s never seen anyone sneeze so rapidly in all his life, and from a purely scientific perspective, it is fascinating. The way the young man’s body convulses with each uncontrolled spasm…he finds himself thinking it is much like the male sexual response, which in turn finds a blush crossing his scholarly face as well as a warm tingling in his limbs.

The last two desperate sneezes shake him from his reverie and he fumbles in his pocket for the fresh handkerchief, putting a firm hand on Cartwright’s back and pressing the cloth insistently towards the young man’s raised hands so that he might grab in between fits.

“My dear Mr. Cartwright,” he says, voice low in concern. “We may continue this later. I fear you must have caught a chill on the journey to Woodhaven. Please allow me to show you to your rooms so you might rest and recover. There is no apology or forgiveness necessary. I’m a scientific man, I remind you, Mr. Cartwright, and I know these sorts of things are beyond our control, even in the company of others.”

Isaiah accepts the handkerchief and gives a soft, grateful blow which seems to halt the urge to sneeze, at least for now. A more generous response he could not wish for and yet Elder's surmise does not quite ring true to him.

“Thank you... you're very kind. Please do not be overly concerned; I have a very sensitive nose although not usually this sensitive, I admit. I feel quite well apart from- ” he leans very slightly on Elder for support as he sneezes again, curiously conscious of the weight of the man's hand on his back as his shoulders shudder with the effort of repressing it into a tight, restrained, “-knxt! -knxt! Hih-knxt!”

He shakes his head a little to clear it. “- well, apart from the obvious. Still you must be correct, perhaps the journey was harder on me than I realised. I think I will go to my rooms if I may, at least until this eases a little. Do lead on.”

“Of course,” Lord Elder says sympathetically. He’s slightly distracted by the feel of Cartwright’s back under his hand and the muscles there tensing as the man continues to sneeze. “Please, come with me.”

They make it back to the house with a quick pace and Jacob leads the way to a series of bright rooms not far from his own. The graciously appointed bedroom is not too grand as to befit a more honored, temporary guest, but it is still quite lovely.

Cartwright’s luggage has been brought up by a footman and his things are waiting by the bed. Lord Elder crosses the room and closes the heavy velvet curtains, darkening the room.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he tells Isaiah. “Can I have anything sent up to you? Or fetch anything myself?”

“You're very kind. Perhaps a glass of water, but beyond that I -snf- I already feel much better.” Isaiah says.

He has seated himself on the bed in the shadow of the drapes, and his eyes are large in the dark. They are so reddened now that he looks as though he has been crying but this only emphasises their vivid green. More than that they have swelled so that they are half shut, and he looks at Elder from under heavy lids with an expression of sleepy discomfort. He rubs at them tentatively, afraid to irritate them further. His voice is interrupted with damp sniffles and gives the impression that he might break into further fits of sneezes at any moment, despite this he continues quietly;

“I do not feel I need to rest. You needn't-” he hesitates, unsure what he is permitted to ask of his host, yet torn with the desire to continue in Elder's company. Though he feels well enough now, he imagines that the frustrating symptoms will soon intensify without his Lordship's intriguing presence to distract him. “You needn't leave, if you wish to continue our conversation indoors. I should tell you that I have been taken this way before and in my experience it -snf- passes quickly.”

“We shall have plenty of time to become better acquainted and to discuss the plans for my lands,” Lord Elder says. “There is no need to burden yourself with it. Please, relax and take the afternoon to acquaint yourself with your chambers and the rest of the house if you wish. I’ll have Bishop send up some water and your dinner when it comes time for that.”

He hesitates, wondering if it is out of his place in society to ask what he is considering, but then decides he will anyhow. After all, he is the master of the house and has no other relations to answer to.

“Or, if you prefer, you may join me in my chambers for dinner. I take the meal at five and you’ll hear the bell ring when it is time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to my study to finish a few things. Please, don’t hesitate to ring for Bishop if you require anything further before dinner.”

With a nod, he shuts the door and hurries down the hall and up a flight of stairs to his private study. A thought has taken hold in his mind and he is eager to investigate. The reddened eyes, the sneezing…he’d read about this condition in a journal a few months back…the realization had hit him suddenly when he’d seen Isaiah’s swollen eyelids in the dim bedroom. He moves to the large case of scientific periodicals he keeps in a corner and begins flipping through books, spectacles sliding to the end of his nose as he searches page after page.

Finally, he discovers the passage and sinks into his desk chair with a smirk of triumph. Summer catarrh, or the rose cold…symptoms brought about by exposure to various flowers and ragweed, and for which there is no definitive cure.

If this is indeed what if afflicting his new gardener, then he will certainly have to do something about it. After all, the boy is talented and Elder is eager for the improvements to the land, but it will be impossible if his gardens keep poor Cartwright in paroxysms of sneezing. Perhaps a bit of a scientific experiment is in order.

He continues to read the periodical, gathering as much information as he can before he heads back out into the south yard to collect some cuttings, arranging the flowers and pollen-heavy weeds into an arrangement which he deposits on a sideboard in the dining room before returning to his study to wait until dinner time.

Between managing the still-frequent fits of sneezing and exploring his temporary lodgings, Isaiah too has plenty to amuse him between Elder's departure and the ringing of the dinner bell. His Lordship's invitation has taken him off-guard, but pleasantly so, suggesting as it does that his Lordship does not think him entirely unpleasant company, despite his previous display. As the clock creeps toward five, he begins to think about making himself ready. After some deliberation he adds to his ensemble a dove grey frock coat and ties a green ascot at his neck. As his fingers are adding a little pomade to his hair the fluttering tickle which has been every-present at the back of his nose suddenly flares to a desperate, itching need. His breath hitches unevenly, unsure if he is trying to stave off the release or bring it on.

Now that he is alone he does not repress the sounds, but allows them to bend him at the waist with a satisfying forcefulness which would be quite inappropriate for company.

“hiih...! IGTsssh!-IGHTssshh!-ii'HGktSSchuh!... ah.”

For a moment his reflection in the gilt mirror looks every bit as snifflingly miserable as he feels. Then he masters himself, splashes his face with cold water and rearranges the soft waves of his hair where the sneezing has shaken them loose. He smiles nervously at himself in the mirror, tucks two clean handkerchiefs into his trouser pocket just in case, and when the ring of the bell comes he makes his way to Elder's dining room with only a little concern for the state of his health.

Cartwright meets Elder in the dining room and greets him with a fleeting smile. His usually graceful movement is somewhat hampered by his self-consciousness in evening dress, yet the change flatters him- the suit making him appear as lean as a hare, his shoulders strong and slender.

“Good evening my Lord. It is very good of you to have me.”

“Of course,” Elder replies. “Please, sit down.”

There remains a hoarse edge to Cartwright's voice, and he clears his throat with a soft cough. Yet however much he attempts to focus upon Elder's reply, his attention is drawn inward by the return of that insistent itchiness which last assailed him when out in the grounds. It is as though the moment he enters the room his formerly clear nose wells both with liquid and with fluttering, intangible tickles which make him pinch unconsciously at the tip of his nose. He makes an effort to breathe steadily through his mouth lest the feeling should wax, but this is difficult when he is equally drawn to sniffle wetly. He fervently hopes that Elder does not notice as he remains standing, wavering on the verge of an explosion.

Then as Bishop offers him some wine, his efforts are distracted and one singular sneeze escapes him.

“h'knxt!”

It is a slight, almost silent motion which represents monumental self-restraint. For a moment he is foolish enough to assume he has escaped with just the one, but he manages a pause of only a minute or two before the urge overtakes him again. “'knxt! Id'Knxt!”

“I beg your pardon,” he says, eyes cast downward. “I rather hoped I had finished with that for the day.”

“Had your condition improved until you entered this room?” Lord Elder asks, intrigued. He feels positively awful for subjecting the kind young man to this nasal torture, but he’s sure there is a way to help him if he can only figure out exactly what causes the fits.

“And since coming out here to my estate, have you spent any time during the summer months in this region?” he adds, eyes glancing over at the large spray of flowers on the sideboard. He knows that several are very populous in this part of the country and are less common elsewhere.

Isaiah considers this, his face expressing confusion although he is game to answer any question Elder throws at him.

“I was feeling much better, or I would not have burdened you with my company. But it seems to be worsening ah- again- idtssh!- oh. I was the county before, but only the once. Why do you ask? As I remember, I was taken with a shocking cold at that time, too.” He sniffs wetly. “It is a very strange coincidence, I- hah- idtssh! Idtssh Ih'tssch-uh!”

This time, the man's irritated sinuses are not content to stop with just three. He manages a wavering, “excuse me-” before taking a few urgent paces away from Lord Elder so that he might turn his back completely. He is not entirely fast enough, and so treats Elder to a perfect view of his pre-sneeze face; eyes narrowed, eyebrows arching and nostrils delicately flared like an animal taking a scent. The next moment his face is hidden in his steepled fingers as his body rocks with sneezes.

“Ih'TSSh! ITSShh! Id'TSSh! ah-” He hovers for a moment, breath panting, before sneezing again with almost painful force. “Ah-ITtsh-uh! ii'HGktSSchuh!”

The needling itch in his nose abates at last, if only because he is growing too congested to feel it.

Isaiah gives Elder a fleeting look over the handkerchief, eyes damp with tears and cheeks flushed with effort and shame. He says softly, “At least one of us ought to enjoy this meal. Perhaps I should leave...”

The raw power and severity of the sneezes is so overwhelming that Lord Elder finds himself growing hot in the cheeks as a strange sense of arousal rises in him. Though he has two intimate friendships with other men who come to Woodhaven when they are visiting nearby, he has not felt this sudden lust for another since he first met Lord Tennan, a handsome blond fellow from Highgate. Of course, he loved his late wife with all the husbandly duties required, but he’s always had relations with men, finding he prefers the sharp lines of a male body over the curves of the female.

Swallowing hard, he pulls himself together and shakes his head, offering an apology.

“My dear Mr. Cartwright, I assure you, I know what is causing your suffering. There’s no need for you to be embarrassed. We will take dinner in my sitting room; I’ve had Bishop set an extra table in the likely event that this would happen. Please, come with me and I will explain all.”

He begins to lead the way out of the room, wanting to relieve Isaiah of the company of the offending plants. His sitting room is not far down the hall and he opens the door, ushering the sniffling man inside.

“Sit and make yourself quite comfortable. There’s a stack of spare handkerchiefs in the table drawer there. Now, tell me, Mr. Cartwright, have you heard of the modern affliction known as the Rose Cold, or Summer Catarrh?”

Isaiah settles himself, expression nonplussed. He does, however, help himself to a fresh handkerchief and blows his nose wetly to clear his voice.

“I have never heard of it. Medicine was never my area of expertise.” He gestures for Elder to go on, but then pauses, catching something in His Lordship's face. He has been watching his host with such closeness that the intensity of the man's gaze, and the deliberate way in which he steels himself, can hardly go unnoticed. “Are you quite all right? I do hope this isn't catching.”

This is said with another quick volley of stifled sneezes, but he recovers quickly with a little shake of his head.

I most certainly am,” Elder says, affecting the detached air of a man of science instead of a man who is genuinely worried about Cartwright. “I do not believe what is afflicting you is catching at all. I cannot say that medicine is my area of expertise either, but I am interested in all aspects of science and do keep up with medical journals. And from one of these journals I have deduced what is causing your nasal irritation.”

He reaches for a book he left on a side table earlier and flips through to the article about summer catarrh.

“The rose cold, or summer catarrh, is a relatively modern ailment that is caused by a great sensitivity to the reproductive products of plants and flowers, pollen, as well as dust, smoke, and other natural irritants,” he reads.

“That would certainly be an explanation,” Cartwright says slowly. He rubs tiredly at his temples as he takes the information in. The young man has a quick mind but in this case it is blunted by both a combination wilful denial and a brewing headache. “Still, steady on, your Lordship. This may be purely academic to you, but if you're right it will certainly change the path of my career. Please do not be so quick to extrapolate a summer cold and a fanciful article into a diagnosis.”

“It is unfortunate, my dear Mr. Cartwright, that a man who is such an expert in plant life seems to have such a debilitating reaction to our more common northern flowers and weeds,” he adds with a wry smile. “Woodhaven is home to a great many wild plants and I can only surmise that one of them must cause this sneezing. I took a cutting of some of the more populous ones and arranged them in the vase in the dining room as a bit of an experiment. Judging by your subsequent reaction, I think we both can safely say that you are quite sensitive to at least one of them. I do hope you’ll forgive me for invoking further misery on your part.”

After a moment the other implications of Elder's diagnosis dawn on him.

“Do you mean to tell me that I have been an unwitting part in some kind of scientific game? It hardly seems fair- to- ii'GSSChuuh!” Another sneeze comes on suddenly, keeping him from completing his point.

“Bless you,” Lord Elder replies distractedly. “And I do apologize for subjecting you to what you call a ‘game’, but I was genuinely concerned for your welfare and when I saw the adverse effect the sneezing had on you, I had only hoped to help you avoid the culprit.”

But, perhaps he is rushing into things again. He’s never been a terribly organized man and sometimes his passions overtake logic.

“And I may have been impertinent in my diagnosis,” he admits, feeling a hot flush in his cheeks. He has not intended to offend his new friend. “You are correct that it may be a summer cold, but if it is not, there is no reason to change your career, as you have shown your considerable talents just in the short time I’ve known you. There are many suggested treatments to this ailment, if it should prove a continued nuisance, and I am more than obliged to assist you in seeking these treatments.”

Bishop enters with the first course, setting it down on the small tea table between the two men.

“I suggest that we take dinner and you take a day’s rest to recover from whatever it is that ails you,” Elder says to Cartwright. “Once you’re sufficiently well, perhaps we might take a trip to visit Kew Gardens and look upon some of the glasshouses you spoke of so that I might get a better idea of the type I want for my own estate.”

“And,” he adds, taking in the sight of the man’s reddened nose and watering eyes. “If you wish to take you dinner alone in your rooms so you might retire to bed, I will not be offended. Please remember I care only for your health and have little regard for rules of polite society, being just a bachelor here at Woodhaven and not accustomed to following them regularly.”

At Elder's apology, Mister Cartwright visibly relaxes. He leans back in his chair and momentarily covers his eyes with one hand, giving a soft, congested groan, yet his expression is somewhat softened and he smiles at Elder.

“I did not mean to speak to quickly against your wisdom... I am not feeling my best. A visit to Kew would be an excellent next step, regardless of my own condition, though I dearly hope that this nonsense will pass in a few days. It must be a great nuisance to you- hh-”

Once again that vague, ticklish expression crosses his face and he turns away from Elder abruptly. He gives a few audibly panting breaths, raises the handkerchief to his face- and then lowers it, frustrated. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, and gives a little shake of his head to indicate that the urge has, for now, retreated.

“I think then that I will go to my rooms, and trouble you no further. I assure you I will be quite alright. Above anything else, I would not have you think me frail.”

He rises and straightens his ascot, not taking his eyes off of Elder as he murmurs softly,

“Good night, your Lordship.”

His composure is not so great that Elder cannot hear him stifling an extended fit of sneezes in the hallway, the sound diminishing as the man walks away.

Elder does not think Cartwright frail in the least; in fact, as he listens to the fit of sneezes echoing down the hall, he’s struck by the sheer strength of the outbursts and the masculine, throaty sneezes of his new gardener. The aroused feeling is stirred in him again as he’s left alone with his dinner. It’s a few moments before he’s comfortable enough to ring the bell and request that Bishop send up a tray to Cartwright’s room.

[Dusty15]

Over the next day the high weather breaks in quick, summer showers which liberally douse the grounds of Woodhaven and provide an excuse for Isaiah to keep to his rooms. Despite the weather, or unbeknownst to him because of it, he found himself much improved. He is still prone to fittish sneezes which come upon him in sets of six or more, and the congestion in his head has him keep a handkerchief nearby at all time, but other than that he is quite his usual self. His mind is sharp and busy with drawings and calculations, and with reading widely from Elder's ample library. Through these preparations he is more than ready to accompany Lord Elder to Kew upon the designated date.

Elder keeps himself occupied over the next few days, avoiding Cartwright somewhat as he continues to read about the summer catarrh and its treatment. And there are several more projects he has in the works; various inventions and ideas for research. The few times he’s emerged from his study in his customary dressing gown and bare feet, he’s caught glimpses of the handsome young man with his nose buried in a book instead of a handkerchief, and he’s both relieved and a little disappointed at the sight. There was something terribly endearing about seeing the man so afflicted with the sneezing fits.

When the morning of their trip comes round, Elder dresses in a new suit with a straw boater for their journey to Kew. It’s not a terribly long trip; only a few hours by motorcar. He has Bishop pack a small lunch for travel and he plans for them to take tea in the garden’s tearoom.

Carefully waxing his moustache and grooming his hair, he preens in the mirror for a little longer than usual, observing the reflection of his own thin, dark-haired figure. Spectacles tucked in his shirt pocket, he grabs an observation notebook for making his own jottings at Kew and goes to the foyer to await Cartwright, a small pit of anticipation building in his stomach.

Cartwright descends the stairs with a light step. Though he too thought it best to allow his host some thinking space, he has missed the man's company more than he lets on, and upon seeing the familiar, slight figure he offers Elder a genuine and very charming smile. He wears his other suit, a light one in pale tan which makes his skin appear golden even in the half-light of indoors. His habit of pinching at the tip of his nose has become so frequent that his nostrils are a permanent, light pink, but otherwise, the man glows. One might say on first sight that the country air suited him, though of course they would be mistaken.

He politely admires the motor before seating himself beside Elder. They are forced into unusual though not unwelcome proximity by the arrangement of the seats, and he takes a quiet, muted pleasure in being close enough to smell the man's cologne. The only disadvantage is that when he taken by a sudden fit of sneezes- a characteristic set of three released into his wrist with a ticklish “'idttsh!-iddtssh!-h'ittsh!”- he is uncomfortably aware that must be Elder able to feel the tremors running through his body where their thighs touch on the seat. “Excuse me,” he murmurs. “It will be a relief to get into the temperate house at Kew. At least I know those plants never troubled me when I was abroad.”

“Bless you,” Lord Elder replies, though his gaze is outward at the passing scenery and not at the man so close to his side, for fear of a blush. The sneezes were indeed felt, as translated by their touching legs, and Lord Elder feels the familiar flush growing around his collar. He tugs at his cravat uncomfortably in an effort to remain cool and collected.

“The temperate house is lovely,” Elder agrees as the car breezes down the country road towards the gardens. “I am a great admirer of the palm varieties. I saw Lord Portsmouth’s arboretum last May and he has the most splendid collection of palms there in his atrium. It’s remarkable how tropical it felt inside while outside, we had the most dreadful rain showers.”

They eat a small meal of sandwiches during the few hours of the journey before they arrive at the gates of the magnificent botanical gardens. Lord Elder’s drive helps them out of the automobile at the entrance and Elder tells him to take his lunch and then remain nearby should they choose to alter their time of departure.

Elder loosens his cravat in the hot summer air and gestures for Cartwright to follow, beginning the stroll down the long gravel path towards the main glass houses. The grounds are replete with graceful trees, their branches both dipped to the earth and up to the heavens. Here and there, couples dot the lawns, picnicking and observing the plant life.

When they’re about halfway down the entry path, Lord Elder spots a familiar face and tenses. Strolling in the opposite direction is Lord Lenley, a casual friend and relation of Lord Elder’s. He’s a flashy young gentleman, with thick blond hair and looks that cause many a female to swoon. But he, unbeknownst to the ladies, rarely beds females.

“Jacob!” Lenley cries upon spotting the pair. “What a lovely surprise. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Elder replies coolly.

“And who might this handsome gentleman be?” Lenley asks, extending his graceful hand to Cartwright. “Your cousin?”

“My landscape architect, actually,” Elder mutters. “We are here to gather some ideas for the grounds.”

“Well, that will be just lovely. I’ll have to come spend the weekend when they are complete. A pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Albert Lenley. I’m an old school mate of Jacob's."

“Isaiah Cartwright.” The architect says simply, taking Lenley's hand in a light grip. He offers a pleasant smile, but the next moment the corner of his mouth twitches and his expression takes on an expression of fleeting dread. Isaiah breathes a shallow gasp before turning away and- to his great horror- sneezing a quick fit over his shoulder.

“'gtsh!-'gttsh!-'gttssh!!”

He shakes his head with a soft, self-conscious laugh as though hardly concerned, but his green eyes dart to Jacob both in apology and begging to be reprieved from the pressures of company. Sneezing in front of one Lord is bad enough, but in front of a pair of them it hardly bears thinking about.

“...please, do excuse me.”

Lord Elder’s hand travels to Cartwright’s back, giving it a surreptitious pat of reassurance.

“Yes, please pardon Mr. Cartwright,” he says to Lenley. “His health is not entirely well at the moment, so I beg our leave so we go observe the glasshouses and then return to Woodhaven. It was a pleasure to see you, Albert.”

“And you, as always, Jacob,” Lenley says with an unctuous smile, his hand lingering slightly too long in Elder’s as they shake. “Do come and visit me soon. I’ve missed your company.”

Elder gives no specific reply, simply nodding and turning to walk past Lenley, a little embarrassed by the man’s rather overt display of their relationship. He fiddles with his spectacles nervously, keeping close to Cartwright’s side as they continue their walk down the main path, nearing the ornate structures of timber and glass.

“Thank you.” Isaiah murmurs to him as they make their escape. They have crossed much of the lawn before he turns his astute, perceptive gaze on Elder. “Lord Lenley is a close friend of yours?”

It is more statement than question, and he does not expect much of an answer as the great temperate house rears ahead of them like a vision from the future. Though the building is open it is by no means complete, for the larger second wing stands as a skeleton of wooden struts and metal piping. “It has been under construction since 1860,” Isaiah tells his employer. “I promise you Woodhaven's more modest version will not take so long.”

“Not terribly close,” Elder says, equally distracted by the stunning display of exotic plants as they enter the glasshouse. “We’ve spent some time at each other’s estates, yes. He’s…rather a social creature, one might say.”

He leaves the subject at that. Lenley is a notorious flirt and rather well-known among a certain circle of both British men and women.

The two men enter the glass house. They are assaulted not by a shock but by a gradual creep of humidity. It is not so startling as the palm house, but still warm enough that Isaiah's hands move immediately to loosen his collar. A moment later he pinches reflexively at his nose and an uneasy expression paints his face. It passes quickly and he turns to Elder with an undisguised smile. Here at least he is in his element. They are surrounded on all sides by greenery. Fruit trees and palms tower overhead. Vines cling limpidly to the glass on the southside to press their leaves towards the sun, lending the light a mellow, dappled quality, whilst the narrow paths are skirted by blooms of every colour. Other visitors move to and fro inside, their voices hushed as though in a library or museum.

Elder's attention is now on Cartwright, who is flush with the excitement of the beautiful plants. Jacob keeps his pace a few steps behind, watching the young man as he admires a fruit tree, his graceful hands toying with his handkerchief.

Isaiah moves instinctively towards the wall of branching citrus trees which are familiar to him from his travels. “Feel free to wander, and let me know what catches your interest.”

He absentmindedly draws out the handkerchief and touches it under his nose, but his attention is entirely elsewhere.

“I think these are magnificent,” Elder says after a moment, siding up to Cartwright. “Do you have a favorite? The idea of having my own fruit trees is a thrilling one, I must say, and I don’t think Missus Harrison, the cook, would mind either.”

He takes out his small notebook and jots down the names of a few of the trees so he can read more about them later. The two men wander a bit farther down and Elder branches off towards a display of beautiful exotic flowers. There are several he’s never seen before, even in books, and their loveliness is so exquisite that he takes a few moments to make amateur sketches of each. They are nothing compared to Cartwright’s, but feels they are at least a good effort.

“These, here,” he calls to Cartwright, who is at a slight distance. “These flowers. Do you think any of them would be possible? I quite like this variety of orchid, actually.”

At his host's summons, the man returns immediately to Elder's side and joins him in squatting down that they might examine the blooms more closely. He lifts one of the blossoms with a delicate, almost reverent touch, and as he does so his arm brushes against a flowering bush which grows behind him. The air is filled with a sweet, heady scent. In the beams of summer sunlight it is possible to make out a cloud of yellowish pollen drifting through space where Isaiah's clumsiness has dislodged.

Isaiah's hand flies instantly to his nose, and then to his eyes. He stands abruptly and his expression is at once surprised and desperately ticklish. The mild, disconcerting running of his nose which had troubled him only a little upon entering temperate house is overtaken by a high, needling itch as though something tangible is caught deep in the back of his nose. With slowly dawning dread he pinches his flaring nostrils closed, for though it does nothing to ease him it may at least buy him a little time- he is seized by the certainty that when he begins sneezing he will be quite unable to stop.

Against his will, Isaiah's breath comes in low, hitching gasps. “hh- hheh--”

He attracts his companion's attention with a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“L-Lord -heh- Elder-” He manages.

“Goodness,” Lord Elder sputters, his cheeks flushed. “Quickly…out of this glasshouse. You need cleaner air.”

He takes Cartwright with a hand firmly around his shoulders, guiding the trembling architect to the nearest door and out of the temperate glasshouse. It’s a different door than the one in which they entered and it leads to a screened-in hallway that is connected to another glasshouse. This one is new, having just been completed the previous season, and it houses native species, allowing the Kew horticulturalists to grow British plants year round.

“Here,” he said, pushing the door opening with his hip as his other hand searched his coat pocket for another handkerchief. “At least these are familiar to you and perhaps won’t irritate your nose.”

He desperately hopes that whatever grew in his own lands isn’t cultivated in this garden. There’s a low stone barrier alongside several shrubs and Elder presses Cartwright down with a supportive hand so he’s sitting on the wall.

“Here,” he says, guiding his linen hankie into Cartwright’s grasp. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I think we’re alone here anyhow. It’s a medical affliction, that is all, so don’t keep up airs for me.”

Isaiah gives an odd little shrug, perhaps suggesting that he could not keep up airs if he wished to. He turns his face away from Elder as he draws a series of hovering, panting breaths and then-

“hheh—idtssh!-ittssh!-idtssh!-- h'iddtsh!-'idtsshuh!--h'idtsshuuh!”

The sound is soft and only slightly percussive, each release followed by a momentary sigh of relief and then another hiccuping gasp for air. He manages a very wet, gurgling blow and a tear-dampened look up at Elder before he is overtaken again.

“--'idtsh-ittsh-idtsh--idttssh!-idttsshuh! ihk'gtsssh!”

Isaiah sits with his elbows resting on his knees and the handkerchief cupped in his steepled hands, shielding his nose and mouth. The motion of his head into his hands is sharp but delicate, such that a distant observer might almost think the man was crying, though Elder is close enough to see that the man's shoulders shake with far more violence than that- the muscles and sinew in his slender neck clench with each sneeze. They come in runs of six, between which he is only able to wipe his nose and wait for the next fit, keeping his face averted. After a while one of his hands goes to his diaphragm, pressing to ease the burden on his seizing muscles.

With time his sneezes change from quick, irritated bursts to become heavier and more forceful, at least allowing him to draw a few breaths between them. Now he must wait between each one, his breath scissoring as the tickle waxes and wanes, never quite leaving him.

“hh.. heh... ii'HGktSSchuh!-GSSHuuh! ...ugh” He breathes a tired, congested sigh as the sneezing finally begins to relieve him, and fumbles in his pocket for a clean handkerchief with which he begins to mop his face. He wipes gingerly under his eyes, but finds himself unable to ease them- his eyelids are so thickly swollen that he can scarcely see, yet they still itch like the devil.

“Forgive my- hh-GTSSChuh!-- my Lord. I'm afraid my eyes are...” Isaiah pauses, thinking he might begin sneezing again, but no matter. The sorry state of him is quite clearly evident.

At first, all Lord Elder can do is watch in astonishment. The familiar flush of his own arousal grows in a hot burning of his neck and cheeks as the gardener at his side succumbs to the violent fits. The bursts are so rapid and physical that Elder can barely distinguish where one sneeze ends and the next begins. The poor man’s face quickly becomes red, wet, and swollen with the mix of congestion, sweat, and allergic tears.

The severity of the attack eventually rouses Elder from his state of shock and he wracks his brain for a memory of some of the suggested cures for rose colds. It is clear that the native species greenhouse isn’t helping matters; in fact, he’s sure he’s made things worse. Suddenly everywhere he looks, he sees the criminal evidence; yellow dust covering leaves and clinging to the edges of the glass window panes.

He cannot think of anything to ease any significant suffering on Cartwright’s part, but he does have another spare handkerchief and he leaves Cartwright’s side for a moment, finding water flowing from a valve nearby. He soaks the cloth and quickly returns to his friend’s side, sitting alongside the allergy-ridden man and guiding the cloth to Isaiah’s face.

He cannot do much for the man’s nose here in the glasshouse. He knows he’ll require an eyedropper and some tinctures he has back at Woodhaven. Instead, he focuses on making the man as comfortable as possible until he can get him safely home.

“Please,” he says softly, a hand pressed to Cartwright’s seizing back. “I’m going to wipe off your eyes and then I’ll help you walk back to the auto. We’ll get you home straight away, okay?”

Carefully, he sponges Isaiah’s swollen eyelids, clearing away sticky residue as the man’s head bobs in rhythm with ticklish sneezes.

“Stand and I’ll guide you back,” he says, curling a hand around Cartwright’s torso.

The feel of the man thrusting and shaking at his side sends a shiver through Elder as the hot arousal returns in full force. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the feverish feeling in his limbs.

“C’mon then. We’ll walk quickly.”

Isaiah gulps and sniffs wetly but closes his eyes and allows Elder to tend to his irritated lids without a whimper beyond a hoarse “Thank you” when the soothing cloth touches him. The man is so very gentle- that would take Isaiah by surprise if he had any energy with which to register it. The arm about him is also a surprise and he stands obediently.

The walk back across the lawns is excruciating but thankfully brief. With Elder's arm about him he is able to steer a straight line despite only being able to see a tiny sliver of the path ahead of him: his eyes sting as though he has been cutting onions and it only worsens when he opens them more than a crack. He is aware that he is making a spectacle of himself as he is forced to halt several times to double at the waist with further fits of sneezes, and besides which his suit is crumpled and his hair disheveled and damp with sweat. Frankly he feels too uncomfortable to care.

Otherwise he reaches the motor without incident and leans an arm on the bonnet for support. From there Cartwright makes an attempt at chivalry. “We don't have to leave, my – ih-gtssh!- my Lord. If you have more to do, I'm happy to wait here and- iih- 'gtssh! 'gtsshuh!... hell.” He finishes with a heartfelt curse and a thoroughly congested sniffle.

“Now you’re being completely daft,” Elder says, helping Cartwright into the vehicle and climbing onto the seat beside him. The poor gardener sounds exhausted and the sneezes are quickly becoming breathier and less violent, though certainly as frequent.

With a nod to the driver, Elder signals for the car to start up and the engine sputters loudly as they begin the drive back to Woodhaven.

The dampened handkerchief is still in Elder’s possession as the car turns onto the main road. He thinks back to his research on the hay fever condition and what he might be able to do to ease Cartwright’s suffering.

“I can imagine you’re exhausted,” he says softly to the man. “My readings tell me that these sorts of attacks can be helped by rest, especially when they come on with this severity. You’ll have a chance to do that back at Woodhaven, but if you’d like to lie down across the seat, you could put this cold cloth over your eyes. It would likely reduce the swelling and allow you to recover some of your energy.”

He removes his jacket and folds it into a small bundle on his lap, forming a makeshift pillow with which to prop up Isaiah’s head. Placing the jacket across his thighs, he pats it, suggesting that Cartwright make himself comfortable.

“I’ll tell you again, there is little need to maintain airs. You are unwell and I wish for you to recover, not to keep up manners for my sake.”

Cartwright hesitates. He wants to believe the man's assertions but years of polite society and restraining himself in the company of his betters has made him nervous. Still, the congestion and brewing headache are powerful enough that he simply settles himself with a quiet groan, and as he lays his head down into Elder's lap he realises that there is nothing he needs more that this. Beyond the chance to rest, Elder's presence is supremely soothing to him; the supportive, non-judgemental touch is as healing as the cool fabric across his eyes. The jolting of the motor muffled by Elder's body cradling his own is intensely relaxing and he falls into a light sleep.

For the rest of the journey home, Mr. Cartwright scarcely stirs. Just once his features shift from slack to ticklish and he turns his head towards Elder's stomach to give vent to a soft, ticklish “'iptssh!” He seems only vaguely aware of it, enough to rub at his itchy nose with the heel of his hand, but it does not wake him and he simply settles deeper into sleep.

The weight and warmth of Isaiah’s head on his lap sends an imperceptible shiver through Jacob and he’s grateful for his bundled-up jacket separating them, even more so when Cartwright sneezes directly towards him, his head bouncing slightly against Elder’s thighs.

He observes the gardener, who looks even younger and gentler in sleep. The poor man’s nose is scarlet now, turned red from its earlier more permanent pink hue. He’s breathing through his mouth, shutting it every so often when he sniffles in his sleep. With a gentle touch, Elder adjusts the cloth over the man’s swollen eyes and smoothes back his thick brown hair, exposing ivory skin where fringe usually shaded from sun.

The grounds of Woodhaven rise into sight as the auto sputters down the last stretch of road. Bishop meets the car at the front drive, his expression one of slight surprise upon seeing the sleeping man on his lordship’s lap. Of course, he’s aware of the close male friends Lord Elder has kept over the years, but he didn’t expect the gardener to be one of them.

“Did he faint, your lordship?” Bishop asks in a hushed voice. “It’s certainly warm enough out in the sun.”

“No, but he’s taken sick with hay fever,” Elder explains. “I’ll need his room prepared, straight away. Make sure all the curtains are drawn, the bed turned down, and you have Miss Smith bring up a basin of water, some clean cloths, and a pitcher of drinking water with glasses. Do stay nearby once I’ve got him settled; there are a few things I’ll need you to fetch from my study.”

Bishop bows and departs to ready the rooms while Jacob turns his attentions to Isaiah.

“Mr. Cartwright?” he says tentatively, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Wake up; we’re back. I’ve just sent Bishop to turn down the bed for you.”

A light summer breeze is blowing, fragrant with the fresh grasses of Woodhaven’s vast yard. Elder is eager to get Cartwright safe and settled inside, away from the irritants both in the air and coating the shiny black automobile.

The sleeping man stirs under Elder's touch, opening his eyes a crack. He rises stiffly and climbs out of the car, blinking in the bright light. The sudden exposure to sunlight coaxes the localised itchiness throughout his nose into a sudden focused need and he sneezes a sudden, damp “-iptssh! -ptssh! Ih'ptssh! followed by an unconscious groan- the force makes his head pound. He had not meant to sleep for so long, and feels more than a little disorientated as he obediently follows Elder into the house.

The walk to Cartwright’s chambers isn’t terribly long, but it suddenly feels very far to Jacob. The gardener seems a little unsteady on his feet, so he plants a firm hand on the man’s shoulder as they walk down the long hallway.

Isaiah’s chambers are dark and his bed is turned down when they arrive. Steering the exhausted man to the bed, Jacob presses him down to sit and tips his head up, assessing the man’s still-swollen eyes.

Isaiah gives himself over to Lord Elder's grip, tilting his head obediently.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Elder says after a moment, releasing his grip on the man. “I recommend you remove your suit and put something else on; the thing that affects you could cling to your clothing and make your condition worse. I am going to fetch some things from my study and I will return, if you will accept my assistance?”

“Please do not worry yourself over me.” Isaiah says, observing his host's agitation. “Though of course I will accept your assistance. Anything that will stop this blasted sneezing would be appreciated. The action may have eased for now, but I can assure you the desire is still quite present in- in-”

As though the need was summoned by his words he wrenches forward over his lap in another fit of sneezes. They are no longer the soft, muffled releases of earlier in the attack but seem to take a lot out of him, tearing an irritated groan from him as he doubles over. “-GSSHuuh! --ii'KSShhuh! -h'iGGSHuuh! ...ugh.”

He looks up from the handkerchief with newly damp eyes as he says thoughtfully. “It seems I am in your Lordship's hands... if you will have me.”

“ I think I might have something that will bring down the severity of the irritation in your nasal passages, at least according to my research.”

Elder's voice is quick and anxious, and he pushes up his spectacles in a nervous reflex. The flush he feels all over he knows must be registering in his cheeks. Suddenly, he feels very like a school girl stammering and blushing. He rushes out towards his study with the air of a flittering bird.

When Lord Elder has absented the room, Cartwright hesitates and then dresses himself in his pyjamas. They are the blue-and-white striped kind, very much of the fashion and just smart enough for him to feel decent. He just cannot muster the energy to dress in more formal-wear, but given Elder's apparent penchant for dressing-gowns he doubts the man will mind.

Elder returns to the bedroom carrying a tray with small bottles and several instruments balanced on it. He’s managed to improvise with some of the required tools, collecting similar items from his varied scientific materials. Setting the tray on the bedside table, he draws back the blankets and has Cartwright sit in bed, propped up against the headboard.

The poor gardener looks dreadful with his watering eyes and dripping nose. Elder offers him a sympathetic smile as he goes about preparing the nasal solution, dispensing a small bit of quinine into a bowl and dipping in a fine camel brush.

“We’ll try quinine first, as it’s a relatively common cure-all. If it fails, I have a sodium bicarbonate rinse for your sinuses that involves slightly more discomfort, so we’ll wait to try that until we know if the quinine isn’t suitable.”

“But first,” he adds. “To help your eyes.”

He dunks a clean towel into a bowl of cold water sent up from the kitchens and wrings the cloth out until it’s just damp. Carefully, he wipes a bit of crust from around the man’s red eyes before he presses the washcloth to Isaiah’s eyelids, holding it there with a steady, calming hand.

“Let it lie there and try to relax,” he says, releasing the pressure on the cloth. “Tilt your head back and I’m going to apply the solution. I’ll work quickly. My readings say that it shouldn’t cause any irritation, but do let me know if something contrary happens.”

He cups Cartwright’s soft chin, feeling the slight stubble beneath his fingertips, and tilts the handsome face back, slipping the brush up a reddened nostril. With deliberate strokes, he paints on the tincture.

The moment the brush enters his nose, the young man starts in surprise. His nostrils twitch and immediately redden further but he sets his face stoically and allows Elder to continue. Then the brush touches the inside rim of one nostril, and he gives a tiny, irritated groan.

Isaiah tries to keep his breath steady. If nothing else the act of concentrating upon it might distract him from the intense tickle. He counts in his head as his chest rises and falls. It is no good, of course. Each breath inwards coaxes the irritated sensation higher into his sinuses, and entirely against his will he draws a ragged gasp.

“My Lord-” He manages. The act of speaking tilts Elder's hand slightly, only plunging the brush deeper into his nose. The reaction is immediate.

“hih'KKSSHT!”

It is a sudden, reflexive sneeze, out before he has time to draw a full breath. It's force bends him away from Elder and he moves gratefully with the motion, slipping down on the bed and averting his face into the pillow for a moment as he gets his breath. His nose, however will not let him rest for long. In response to the extra irritation it is dripping freely and he is quickly forced to rise, one hand cupped over his nose to provide a modicum of propriety.

“My Lord, please...” he looks up at Elder with appealing eyes, “go easy on me. And in the mean time may I -snf- -snf- may I have a handkerchief again?”

His mouth twists in amused apology. At least he is able to retain a sense of humour about his situation. “This remedy is all very well, if one can get the quinine to stay -snf- where it is intended. I'm afraid most of it is now on your pillow.”

A smile flits across Elder’s lips at the gardener’s plight and he gives a sympathetic nod.

“Apologies,” he says, gathering a fresh handkerchief from the stack provided by his maid. “I will try to be gentle. And don’t worry a bit about the pillow case. I employ the best laundress in the village.”

He unfolds the handkerchief with deft hands and reaches forward to cup it around Cartwright’s inflamed nose, drawing it down over his nostrils with a slight pinch, clearing a stream of congestion. He folds the cloth to a clean edge and cups it there again, his free hand pushing some of Cartwright’s fringe away from the man’s reddened eyes.

“Blow,” he instructs.

Cartwright's eyes widen but he does as he is asked and blows thickly, his eyes narrowed with effort.

The feeling of the delicate nostrils through the cloth is incredibly intimate, Elder finds himself thinking. The very action in itself is intimate and it’s too late to remove his hand. He feels a blush spread across his cheeks instead.

“Forgive me,” he says, pinching Cartwright’s nose gently to help clear it. “I just want to ease your suffering.”

“It's been a very long time since someone's done that for me... it's less painful when you do it.Perhaps you should have been a physician. Still, do you mind if I rest for moment? I don't think my nose is ready for another dose just yet.”

In the moments that follow, as Elder draws the handkerchief away from his face, Isaiah simply allows himself to relax and slip down on the bed so that he is lying flat with his knees bent. His pyjamas have slipped open at the neck to reveal a sliver of pale collarbone, and his hair falls back off his face in a halo of chestnut curls. His eyes mark the flush in Elder's cheek, and the back of his fingers find the man's face in a tender yet teasing gesture.

“Ah, you're warm. So there's more to you than science and booklearning, after all. Don't be embarrassed, my Lord. You're not the one who's been making a shameful display of himself, and I'm -snf- quite over my pride so you may as well be, too.”

The fingers on his cheek make Elder flush all the more and he twines his fingers through Cartwright’s, holding them near his face for a moment before releasing them away from his cheek.

“Rest as long as you like,” he says simply, depositing the used handkerchief on the floor by the bed for the maid to collect later. “I’d’ve liked the idea of being a physician, but it was not my father’s opinion that a man of my standing hold a practical job. My studies were in Latin and French and all sorts of classics and mathematics. Training to be a physician was never an option, I’m afraid. I think it’s why I’m so fond of science now; I never did get the chance to pursue that passion as a boy.”

The flush in his cheeks is fading. He feels at ease with the young architect, as if he’s known him much longer than a few short weeks. The attraction he feels his strong, yes, but he is also keenly aware of a kinship growing between them aside from his own desire for the man.

Isaiah’s upper lip is slick with congestion and Elder gathers a fresh handkerchief, reaching out to dab it away.

“You’re dripping a bit,” he says as the soft cloth cleans up the rheumy edges of Cartwright’s sensitive nose. “Perhaps you should just rest for now and we can resume treatments later, when you are not so fatigued. A cool cloth should bring down the rest of the swelling in your eyes, and I can check in on you later.”

Isaiah Cartwright listens carefully to Elder's story, nodding his head thoughtfully without anything to add. He sniffles softly under the man's touch.

“I- I didn't mean that you were to leave. I'd quite appreciate the company, if I'm not too- knxt!-knxt!-hi'knxt!-” He seizes with a quick fit of soft, itchy sneezes. Rather than bend into the handkerchief Elder is holding he turns his head and represses them to tight painful swallows then winces, clearly regretting it.

“-excuse me- if I'm not too unbearable.” He finishes, and gives Elder a tentative smile. “Would you stay? It's miserable to be ailing and alone.”

Taken aback by the request, Elder stammers nervously for a moment before he can reply coherently.

“Why, yes, I mean, yes of course,” he says. “You’re not unbearable at all. In fact, I’ve very much enjoyed your company these past few weeks and have been meaning to tell you such.”

He wrings out a clean washtowel in the basin of water and drapes it over Cartwright’s eyes, smoothing back his fringe. His hand lingers a moment in the soft chestnut hair, gathering it in his fingertips and brushing it away from Isaiah’s face.

“There,” he says soothingly. “Now rest, and I’ll gladly stay. And no more holding in your sneezes. There's plenty of handkerchiefs here and it isn't healthy to do that. You've got to get the irritants out.”

There isn’t a chair in the bedroom, only in the adjoining sitting room, so rather than drag one in, Elder sits on the far side of the bed, opposite the resting gardener. He kicks off his shoes and tucks his legs up, leaning back against the headboard.

“Yes, your Lordship.” Cartwright says meekly, but with obvious pleasure that Elder responded well to his request.

With his eyes covered, when he feels Elder join him on the bed he makes a little startled sound, which he tries to pass of as a cough. He finds his handkerchief and brings it to his nose for a long, wet blow he hopes will clear his voice somewhat before he speaks, resuming their conversation from earlier.

“You seem free enough to pursue your passions now... your father- he passed away?"

“Yes, several years ago,” Elder says. “Not long after my wife, actually. I’m still not entirely used to the idea that it’s just me here. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the solitude, though.”

It’s dark and quiet in the room, save for Cartwright’s congested breathing, and Elder feels more at ease sharing these sorts of things. It’s a bit like the confessional at church, though Elder rarely goes there any more. He’s afraid he’s gained a reputation in the village as an eccentric and a sinner, and he’s not keen to fuel that fire by appearing at church. He worships God in his own way, by appreciating the natural beauty and intricacy of all the sciences of the world.

“I don’t think I could be a physician even if I was still totally keen on it,” Elder confesses. “I have the sole responsibility of maintaining this estate; a job I was given by birth and the status of only male heir. I could not leave to join a university for study, and I’m too old now anyhow. I’m content here with my books and articles.”

He leaves the sentiment of his loneliness unspoken.

A soft knock sounds at the door and Elder looks up, startled by the interruption. Swinging his feet out of bed, he goes to answer it, opening the door only a crack as to not disturb Isaiah.

Bishop is standing outside, looking impatient.

“You’ve had a telephone call from Lord Andrew Sussex. He’s inquiring about paying a visit this next weekend to stay.”

The sole telephone is in the front foyer of the house and rarely used. Few other estates have one, but occasionally he receives calls from friends and infrequent lovers.

“Tell him I’m not available,” Elder replies quietly, stealing a glance over his shoulder at the prone form of Cartwright. “In fact, I’m not receiving visitors until further notice, and please inform any gentleman who calls of this fact.”

He pushes his spectacles up with his usual nervous tic and nods to Bishop.

“I’ll pass along the message, sir,” Bishop says drolly. He’s well aware of Elder’s occasional consorts with the various Lords and Gentlemen who come to call at Woodhaven.

“Thank you,” he replies, shutting the door softly as Bishop retreats.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Isaiah, climbing back onto the far side of the bed. “He really shouldn’t be interrupting your rest. I’ll speak to him later.”

Isaiah tilts his head thoughtfully. He thinks he may be putting together more of the pieces which represent his lordship's intimate life, but refrains from commenting on that for now. Much as he tries to lie still and quiet there is an enduring sense of irritation lingering in his nose. He cannot help but feel that he is due another fit of sneezing, but cannot be sure precisely when. He pinches hesitantly at his nose, then shakes his head and responds to Elder's words.

“I shouldn't be monopolising your time.” He says, then “It is quite the burden to be the eldest son. Thankfully I have an older brother who is serving the family well as an accountant, leaving me free to pursue a- hah-”

The last word comes out in a cracked and hurried gasp as the itching in his nose becomes a sudden, insistent need. Isaiah feels his features go slack as he draws a series of mounting breaths and he raises his hands nervously to his face. Then just as rapidly the sensation retreats and he gives at irritated little sigh.

“-snf- I'm sorry, what was I saying?” He sits up slightly, taking a moment to readjust the cloth where his almost- sneeze has dislodged it. He looks at Elder from beneath it, shyly.

“It must be a -snf-rather a soliatry existence for you here my Lord, though very conducive to study.”

“Yes, and I like it that way, I suppose,” Jacob replies once he’s certain Isaiah has recovered from the almost-sneeze. “Though I entertain occasional visitors when the time presents itself to do so.”

He’s settled on the bed again, watching the dim figure at his side with a slightly wistful look.

“But I must confess, I do enjoy having someone else in the house besides the usual help,” he adds. “I hope you’ve found Woodhaven to be suitable and enjoyable, despite this little hiccup with your health. You are not monopolizing my time at all. In fact, I count you amoung friends now and I hope you do the same for me.”

With a small smile, he puts a tentative hand over Isaiah’s where it rests on the bed and gives it a slight squeeze before releasing it.

“Enough of my affairs,” he says, taking off his glasses and polishing them on a shirttail in feigned distraction. “Your brother is an accountant? Have you other siblings, or parents still around? They should be quite proud of your accomplishments, I imagine.”

Though Isaiah's face is obscured, it is possible to see his face flicker in surprised pleasure at Elder's touch, though at the comment about his family he gives a soft little half-laugh. “Something like that.” He plucks at the cloth over his eyes. “Can I take this thing off? I- want to look at you.”

In fact he does not wait for permission, but peels it off gingerly and looks at Elder with eyes that are puffy but much better than they had been. He rises to a half-sitting position, looking up at his host.

“I lost my father some years ago, but I also have three sisters, two of whom live with my mother in Tunbridge Wells. My career is neither here nor there. My mother thinks it a little impractical, what with it being so modern.” He smiles shyly and shrugs. “I'm afraid I'm very much the baby of the family- if I became the prime minister they would still think it was a charming little hobby. I- hah'KSSSH!”

Isaiah barely has time to press his wrist over his mouth before he doubles with a wrenching sneeze. He looks up, startled, to find that he has unconsciously steadied himself with one hand braced on the nearest available surface- Lord Elder's thigh. Though he sniffles and pinches nervously at his nose, he does not remove it but gives Elder another sheepish smile.

Elder is startled by Cartwright’s desire to look upon him, but he is happy to see the man’s bright eyes one more and fights off a blush. As Isaiah’s hand grasps his thigh, he feels the strength of the sneezes wracking the man’s body and he cannot help but to shiver in a kind of strange pleasure. A twist in his stomach wrenches his insides with a feeling somewhere between pity for the man’s ailment and a desire for further displays of the man’s spectacular sneezing.

“By the way, I appreciate what you said- that you count me a friend. I take it as a -snf- great compliment,” Cartwright adds.

The next moment, two more sneezes overtake him and he dips his head into his shoulder rather than break contact. “KSShuh! Hah'KSSH-uh! … excuse me.”

“Bless you,” Elder barely manages to get out. His neck and ears are glowing hot and he feels the palms of his hands begin to dampen with sweat as his heartbeat doubles.

“I can hardly imagine they count your career as trivial,” he adds, trying to give off a sense of composure despite the thundering in his chest. The handsome young man is so near him now and so….well, vulnerable. He once more feels the part of a giggling school girl.

“Your condition doesn’t seem to be improving,” he says after a moment; his hand hovering close to Isaiah’s where it still rests on his thigh. The fingers settle first, then the palm, enveloping the strong hand beneath his more delicate scholar’s one. “We can try another treatment, if you’re feeling up for it, or I can leave and let you rest. I can’t promise a different method will bring you relief, but if you wish to try, there’s no harm in trials.”

Isaiah shifts his fingers slightly under the touch, and rasps his his thumb thoughtfully against the edge of the other man's knuckle, exploring the contours.

“You may try anything you wish, My Lord. I am... in your hands,” He says again, with a wry smile.

A flush is creeping over Isaiah's face too and he keeps his eyes averted, concentrating his gaze on their interlocking fingers- pale on tan- and trying to pretend that he does not desperately need to blow his nose again.

The very words send goosebumps up Jacob’s arms. For a moment, he’s afraid to move because his body has betrayed him and he’s sure that the other man will take notice. But there is a familiar look in Isaiah’s eyes and they are so very close…

Elder reaches over the younger man for a fresh handkerchief and carefully curls it around the gardener’s nose, careful not to touch the irritated edges too harshly.

“Blow,” he instructs, untangling his other hand from Cartwright’s in order to smooth back the man’s dampened hair. “You’ll feel better.”

He’s shifted so that they’re laying face to face, their legs inches apart.

Isaiah's mouth twists slightly but he obeys and blows his nose, features scrunching with effort. It takes him several long minutes to get his nose clear, and even then the congestion in his head is apparent as he touches briefly at his temple with fleeting dizziness. Elder's touch is supremely soothing and he moves toward it, close enough to feel the other man's breath tickle his cheek.

[Dusty15]

His eyes close, and Elder is close enough to see the delicate tracery of pink veins running through them, where they are still vividly pink. A long moment passes, filled only with the sounds of their quick breathing.

Then Isaiah kisses him.

It is only a chaste, tentative touch of lips to lips, and it lasts only for a lingering moment before Isaiah's realises what it is he is doing and pulls back. For a moment he opens his eyes, and his pupils are small with shock, then he quickly closes them as though to pretend that he is not there. Though he lies still enough, his pulse is violent enough to be visible as a point of flickering tension at the base of his throat.

For a brief second, Elder’s heart stops in surprise before regaining its quickened pace. The gentle touch of lips is so very intimate, so very sweet, that he barely can think.

As Cartwright lies prone, eyes closed, Elder observes the straining of the man’s neck and the blush creeping up the tanned neck of the young gardener.

Scholar’s hands curl around the gardener’s neck, tilting his head back as Elder leans in, kissing Isaiah deeply. Their noses brush briefly in the act and Elder can feel the slight dampness of the other man’s nostrils. He pulls away, running his hands down the gardener’s broad chest, where he lets them rest for a moment.

“I…I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says, flustered. His spectacles have slipped from his face and are lost in the sheets now. “I only meant to care for you in your infirmity…but if you feel…if it is okay….I…”

He’s unable to choose the right words to express the sentiment, but he hopes the pounding of Cartwright’s heart under his hands means that the other man understands.

Apparently, it does, because Cartwright nods and his hands joins Elder's on his chest, encouraging.

His cheeks are flush and his eyes bright. He looks stunned- as though something inconceivable has happened- but happily stunned.

“It's okay.” He says, and then he leans forward to meet the other man.

They kiss again. Cartwright arches his back in Elder's arms, his body going as soft and pliable as toffee and as sweet, as he opens his mouth to the other man's more confident explorations. This time his eyes are open and fixed on Elder's own with a kind of drunken wonder. He rolls slightly to one side, snaking a hand around the small of Elder's back and pulling him closer.

Then he pauses, and draws his face away with an expression of dismay. Perhaps some pollen is caught on Elder's clothing or perhaps it is merely lingering irritation, but that expression of ticklish desperation creeps over his face as his nostrils flicker and flare with the need to sneeze. His mouth turns up at one corner and his eyebrows tilt inexorably upwards in an expression of quiet dread.

“I- hh- I just- hh-”

He tries to warn the other man but it comes out as an inarticulate gasp and the next moment his body shudders as he wrenches his head down into the mattress, as far from Elder's face as he can muster, sneezing hard;

“hh- tdSSshuh!-- T'SSCHuh!-- hih-”

He hovers for a brief moment, diaphragm kicking so hard with desperate breaths that Elder can feel it, before it overtakes him again with a spraying- “hk'IISSHuuh!”

Isaiah looks up guiltily, belatedly raising a hand to his damp nose.

“I am so sorry...” He says in a low voice.

The thrust of Cartwright’s body against Elder’s as the sneezes tear out with such incredible force makes Elder tense in surprise and pleasure. The throaty growl of Isaiah’s irritated sneeze makes his toes curl in delight and he darts his head forward, kissing the vulnerable skin of Isaiah’s neck.

“No need,” he murmurs between caresses. His fingers curl under the cuff of his shirtsleeve and he reaches up, tenderly clearly the gardener’s runny nose. What he cannot express in the gesture is how Cartwright’s sneezes affect him. Perhaps it is because the spells brought them together, or perhaps, as he theorized before, that the spasms remind him of a more sexual form of release. Whatever it is, he is enchanted by the man and his reddened, rose-cold afflicted nose.

His lips find Cartwright’s once more and he kisses him deeply again before pulling back, holding the man close to his chest and tucking Cartwright’s head against his breast.

“We can’t exert you,” he says, stroking the man’s thick hair. “My pamphlets say the best remedy is quiet rest until the episode passes, and judging from that recent display, it has not.”

“I-”

Isaiah thinks to protest that he is not at all against this form of exertion, but he is taken by another fit of sneezing. Now at last he truly believes that Elder is not troubled by his affliction, and so does not trouble to wrench away from the embrace; he merely turns his head and muffles them against Elder's sturdy frame. The sound is almost nothing, though the muscles in his back clench and his head bobs under the comforting weight of his Lordship's hand.

In the aftermath his whole body relaxes and he finds his eyelids drifing closed. It is a strange sensation- he feel spectacularly tired, weight with more exhaustion than he mere sneezing out to provoke, yet at the same time it is as though Elder's presence has woken him up and every cell of him is hyper-aware of the other man's body, of the scent of him and bass thud of his heart under Isaiah's ear. He hovers between the two states, deciding not to say a word lest he provoke the other man to retreat from the embrace.

Elder’s hand pauses, tangled in Cartwright’s thick hair, as the man sneezes and sneezes. Jacob is grateful for the dim room and the man’s distraction, as he is sure his face is glowing with flushed delight. When the poor man finally goes limp against him, he resumes stroking the man’s head, torn between his desire to care for the man by letting him rest and his desire to explore full landscape of the young gardener’s body.

There will be time for that later. He gently extracts a hand from around the prone man and wedges a pillow by Isaiah’s head, making it easier for the congested man to breathe.

“Rest,” he assures the man. “It’s near evening and you’ve had a long day. In the morning, all will be brighter, I’m sure of it.”

His lips brush the top of Isaiah’s head gently.

“I’ll tarry a little longer, if you like, but I must see to Bishop and the rest of the staff before evening falls so they know the schedule for tomorrow’s activities. The rose-cold should lessen at nighttime any how. I do hope you can have a bit of relief.

The other man simply nods, nuzzling his itchy nose into the pillow like a child. He sniffs wetly. “You can go.” He murmurs. Though it's the last thing he truly wants, he is suddenly, coldly aware of Elder's status over him, his own very small place in the clockwork running of this house. When Elder leaves him the kiss on his forehead seems to burn, as though he were truly fevered and not merely sniffling.

Isaiah fears that in this state- agitated by both his nose and the fluttering feeling of arousal which flits through his limbs whenever he remembers what has recently transpired- that he will hardly be able to sleep. Yet sleep claims him suddenly, as though it is a rug which has been pulled out from under him, and he knows nothing more until the fingers of morning sunlight are creeping through the heavy drapes.

[a-tissue]

Oh my goodness this is SO FREAKING HOT.

[Salamander]

Yesssssss, it is the precioussss! Thanks for cleaning this up and posting it, Dusty. I'm really proud of this one, we're an awesome team

[Coffee Chicken Barista]

This is amazing! I absolutely love it! And I would definitely be interested in the more adult sections if you were willing to post those...

[VoOs]

Well, ladies. This is without doubt the sexiest story I've read in a long time. You have left both my inner Anglophile and my inner hayfever whore squirming with delight. <3

Beautiful writing. I'm a bit out of breath here...

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Well, ladies. This is without doubt the sexiest story I've read in a long time. You have left both my inner Anglophile and my inner hayfever whore squirming with delight. <3

Beautiful writing. I'm a bit out of breath here...

^ *points*

Good heavens.

Arriving at the end I must confess my first thought was: "It can't be over yet. It's too soon! I need to know what happens next!"

[count tiszula]

What an amazing co-production, from two of our most distinguished contributors.........coincidentally reminding me of a visit to Kew with a brace of hayfevery ladies. And I now recall of an equally sneezy moment in Tunbridge Wells...............

[Dusty15]

*blush* thanks all! We're really super proud of this one (and I agree- possibly one of the hottest things I've ever written/read...it developed over such a long period that I can hardly believe it in its final glory!).

We'll discuss posting future bits here and in the Adult Forum and I'll let you know when there's more. I have a feeling we'll be writing these two for another year

[bless]

ohh this is wonderfull, and soo well written. thank you. Please continue

[Tarkus]

Omnomnomnomnom

Dusty, Salamander- this fic is absolutely deliiiiicious and I can't wait to see all the fetishy goodness you two have up your sleeves

[MissMercy]

I'm in love with this

[Tassielli]

So about those chapters for the adult board...

[DogLover]

This is just absolutely beautiful! And so descriptive, and hot, it's kinda breathtaking...it's like a work of art, seriously.

Actually some of your imagery makes me want to start drawing again (I haven't for a while.) Err, that is, if you don't mind...?

[OCC]

If you finish those adult sections, would you continue with more sections that are visible to those of us who are underage, or at least edit them and post them here?

[Dusty15]

Thanks all! Life is a bit crazy this week but as things settle down, I'll edit and post more and let everyone know! I'm sure I can find a nice balance of bits for here and for the adult board.

And DogLover, I think Sal and I would both be flattered if we inspired some art

[snuffles]

I so meant to reply earlier but wasn't able to...

You'd think after having extra time to come up with a coherent reply I'd be able to type something other than:

OMGTHATWASSOOOOINCREDIBLYHOT-DROOL-DROOL-DROOL

But in all honesty that's all I can come up with, sorry

seriously...

no, honest...

I'm still...

what was I saying? ...

I'mma go back and re-read it now...

[VoOs]

...and I just keep coming back to this delicious little masterpiece. It's everything I could ever wish for in a fetish fic.

[Dusty15]

Okay, for those of you 18+, there is a large continuation of this posted on the Adult Board and you should read the version there rather than what I post here. Below I have posted a slightly edited version of a latter part of the story. Jacob and Isaiah have been living together at Woodhaven over the summer and it is now fall. Enjoy!---

And for the rest of the summer, Isaiah stays, careful to avoid the open windows and outdoors when he's able, and when he's not, Elder dotes on the young man, washing his afflicted eyes and showering him with kisses. Carefully avoiding the eyes of the serving staff, they spend nights together, take long baths in Elder's tub, and pass hours in the study reading side by side.

When late September nears and the English countryside begins to cool in anticipation of fall, Elder tells Cartwright that he plans to have a small social gathering at Woodhaven. Several members of his circle have written, saying they'd missed the Lord Elder at other local social events and the annual August lawn party at Lord Ambley's in London.

"It'll be nearly fall by then," Elder says as they lie in bed together in Cartwright's chambers. "Your nose seems to be behaving much more as the nights grow colder. If you would do me the honor, I'd love for you to attend."

He strokes Isaiah's hand affectionately.

"My tailor will be visiting this week to measure me for a new suit and I'd like to buy one for you too, if you'll accept it."

The gardener's eyes travel to the wardrobe, which contains the clothes he has recently had sent over from Tunbridge Wells in light of his stay at Woodhaven being rather longer than he had anticipated. They are certainly getting a little threadbare and are not in the latest fashion.

He gives Elder a mock-serious look from under his lashes. “Of course I shall attend, and I suppose I shall have to accept that offer as well. If you wish to show me off then I don't wish to be an embarrassment to you.”

"I've told you for months that you are no embarrassment," Elder says, poking Cartwright's side in an equally teasing fashion. "You could wear Bishop's serving uniform and I'd still want you there."

The plans for the party set the old manor house abuzz as it was in the days of Elder's marriage, when couples from across the county came to lounge on the lawns and eat extravagant meals. Even as a widower, Elder had hosted large gatherings, including a splendid summer lawn party, but this summer had been much devoted to his new dear friend than social events.

As Elder's tailor finished the measurements for Jacob's new suit and moved on to Cartwright, Bishop the butler pokes his head in to review plans for the seating arrangements. Elder meets him in the study to discuss the details.

"And the Winchesters have rung from Derby to say they'll be making a weekend of it," Bishop says as they sit at the long library table to look at the plans. "They'll be staying with relations in the town though, so the spare rooms are still available."

"I'd rather people not stay," Elder confesses. "We've only four spare suites and Mister Cartwright occupies one already."

"Forgive me, sir," Bishop says. "Is it proper for him to attend? I have not figured where he should sit on the plans. Perhaps next to Miss Parker? She is the eldest daughter of the Parkers and still unmarried. He could be a suitable companion."

"He will sit next to me," Elder replies. "He is my guest, so of course it is proper."

"The Grahams have asked that their daughter Helena sit next to you, sir," Bishop says. "You know she much fancied you at last fall's Autumn Ball. If you sit with two men, people will talk. Your social status, if I may be so bold, has slipped since you stopped attending the local parties."

Elder looks at the dinner table plan and sighs.

"Very well. Seat him with Eleanor Parker and I with Miss Graham."

The evening of the party arrives and as Elder greets guests downstairs, Isaiah waits in his room, gathering the confidence to join the crowd.

Mister Cartwright pauses at the top of the stairs to take a few deep breaths. He can hear the swell of excited chatter rising from below, muffled by the oak panels to a dull hum punctuated by the occasional polite laugh. He had though himself ready to go down, but a sudden fit of nerves keeps his feet anchored just outside the door of his room. He fidgets nervously with the constraining wing-collar which rises from beneath his new jacket. The suit was a generous gift and the flattering cut of it boosts his confidence for all that he finds it confining. The dark colour of it matches his favourite green waistcoat and the show handkerchief which peeks out of his breast pocket. During the summer months he had taken to carrying a useful one in there too, and one more in his inside pocket just in case, but he has foregone them tonight. They would spoil the cut of his suit and he won't need them.

The buzz in the room quiets when he enters. There are a few couples, a few of Elder's older friends and noticeably, a couple of young ladies visibly chaperoned by proud parents. And there is Jacob himself, looking magnificent in his own new suit. Isaiah wishes he could tell him so, to see him blush, but settles for a formal “Good evening, Lord Elder.”

He extends a hand, employing the title he rarely has any use for. Does Elder look nervous at his presence? Bishop certainly does. He is certain that the butler is watching him with distaste, but it's no concern of his. Instead he extends a winning smile to the company in general.

“Please do introduce me to your guests.”

"I'd be most delighted, Mister Cartwright," Elder says, giving Isaiah a firm handshake. His heart flip flops at the sight of the other man. The beautiful forest green of Cartwright's suit brings out the intense flecks of color in the gardener's eyes and highlights the broad expanse of his shoulders in proportion to his waist. He is all angles next to Elder's more slim and straight build.

Straightening his maroon silk ascot, Elder steps back from Isaiah to introduce his guests.

"May I present my dear friend, Mister Isaiah Cartwright," he tells the assembled crowd. "He's a most talented landscape architect and brilliant scholar who I have had the pleasure of hosting here at Woodhaven for some time. I'm most happy to finally introduce him to you all."

There was a soft buzzing of conversation amoung those gathered at this revelation. Though it was not entirely uncommon for the larger houses to have long term guests for the purpose of estate improvements or other business, it was unusual for them to be invited to a social event.

"Mister Cartwright," Jacob continued. "May I introduce Mister and Missus Oliver Graham and their daughter, Helena."

He indicated a couple in their late sixties accompanied by a young woman of twenty-three. They greeted Isaiah politely and Elder moved on to a man he introduced as Lord Inglewood, of Singleby Abbey, a fine house some fifty kilometers from Woodhaven. Then there was Lord and Lady Usher with their son, a young man of seventeen, as well as Lord Archer, Lord and Lady Craven, and Mister and Missus Peregrine.

"We are still expecting Lord and Lady Parker and their daughters Eleanor and Margaret. And Margaret's husband, Lord Harwell," he said to Cartwright. "Mister and Missus Winchester as well. Will you excuse me, Mister Cartwright? I must catch up with Lord Archer. I'm sure Mister and Missus Graham would be delighted to hear of your plans for my gardens for next season. Missus Graham here does adore roses, if I remember correctly."

“Then I am sure we shall get on splendidly.” Isaiah affirms and goes over to acquaint himself. He can be very charming when he wants to be and conversation flows easily enough. He is pleased to find that Missus Graham does indeed have a good, though rather hands-off, knowledge of horticulture. He had worried about interacting with Helena, but to his amusement her eyes are following Elder around the room and barely focusing on himself at all. He catches himself pinching the tip of his nose and quickly folds his hands behind his back to suppress his nervous habit. He owes it to Jacob to project confidence.

As Jacob chats briefly with Lord Archer, Bishop comes in to announce the arrival of both the Parker family and the Winchesters. With his best host smile, Jacob greets them all and encourages them to order a drink from the staff and enjoy the conversation.

Eleanor Parker looks elegant in a pale green gown, her chestnut hair swept up in the latest style and held in place with a jeweled comb in the shape of a fan. She'll be a nice dinner companion for his Isaiah, Elder thinks, until the company is all gone home and he can have the young gardener back to himself.

Elder rings the sash bell on the wall, indicating to the staff that he is ready for his guests to go through to dinner service. Clearing his throat, he calls attention to the room and the party guests go quiet.

"Good evening, everyone. I am most pleased you could join me this evening. Dinner is served if you will all follow me this way to the dining room."

He leads the party down the oak-paneled hall to the dining room where Bishop now stands at attention alongside several other members of the waitstaff. The men take their places at the ladies' chairs, pulling them out and helping the women sit. Elder is privy to a shy smile from Helena Graham as he takes his seat next to her. She is wearing a small nosegay of light pink roses for youth and desire coupled with baby's breath for innocence which she rests in her lap after conspicuously letting him see it.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Graham," he says to her as he glances along the table to see how Isaiah is faring with Eleanor.

The gardener seems to be doing well enough. Down the table it is possible to see him chatting away to Eleanor, wearing his most charming smile. As befits a man with several sisters, he is actually more at ease among women than he had been upon his first meeting with Elder. A few things, however, indicate his distress. He has his handkerchief out in his lap and is twisting it through his fingers as he talks. It might look like a nervous habit if it wasn't coupled with a wavering, distinctly itchy expression on his face. As Elder watches he rubs his nose once and then again harder.

They are not far enough away that Elder cannot catch their conversation. They are still on the subject of flowers and Eleanor indicates her own nosegay to point out the ostentatious lilies that form the centre of it. Where she got them in this season heaven only knows, and they must have cost a fortune, which somewhat takes the edge of their suggestion of innocence.

The moment that Eleanor raises her small bouquet of flowers revealing the large, offensive lilies, Elder's heart drops in his chest as he observes from the other end of the table, realizing the situation they're now in. It's bad enough that poor Cartwright is directly next to Eleanor and her lily-filled nosegay, but they've just sat down for dinner and it'd be terribly bad form for any of them to get up in the midst of it all, or switch seats.

Isaiah looks up and catches Elder's gaze with eyes that glint very green in the glow of the candles. He gestures the bouquet and gives a anxious little half smile as he mouths, “We might have a problem.”

Returning his attention to Eleanor he responds to her murmured question by shaking his head and leaning back slightly in his chair. “Indeed, I can smell them quite well from here, thank you.”

Undeterred, the hapless Eleanor raises her nosegay to allow him to sniff it. Isaiah can only shrug away from her to sneeze a tight, restrained “-idttsch-uh!”

He is epitome of politeness, cupping his mouth with his handkerchief and turning his head over his shoulder, swallowing the sound. “Excuse me.” He finishes, faintly.

Elder locks eyes with Cartwright as the people nearby bless him after he sneezes.

"I'm sorry," he mouths. "Try to hold it back. We'll eat fast."

He turns his attention back to his starter of soup with leeks, trying very hard not to stare down the table at Isaiah, though his mind will not focus anywhere else. His glass of port is drained in a single, long sip as he looks to Lady Helena for distraction.

It doesn't work. Elder's discussion with Helena is derailed when he realises that the lady is not looking at him at all but somewhere over his shoulder, her face a picture of polite concern.

“Goodness!” she exclaims.

It is easy to see what has attracted her attention- Mister Cartwright has his handkerchief cupped over his face, recovering a fleeting fit of sneezes. After a moment he lowers it in relief, only to snatch it up again for another outburst.

“--idtssh!-ittssh!-idtsshuh! Hih-” A soft, questioning intake of breath, and- ““--idtssh! Hk'idtssh!”

“Please excuse me, Miss Parker,” Isaiah manages, shaking his head slightly to clear it.

Eleanor and her mother have both raised their eyebrows in identical expressions of incredulity, though the daughter's is the more sympathetic of the two. Isaiah is simply desperate to blow his nose but doesn't fancy doing so under the watchful eye of the whole table and settles instead for a sniffle and a shy wipe with his handkerchief. His attempt at politeness kept his sneezes too soft to offer him any real relief. Besides, the offending bouquet still rests between them on the table. Every breath brings it's sweet scent into his nose, settling his nostrils flickering. It takes a concerted effort to return to his food.

Elder crosses his ankles under the table, fidgeting in discomfort. He's torn between sympathy for the man, mortification at the situation they're all in, and that horrible little flame of arousal that always seems to come with poor Cartwright's sneezing. If he'd been seated nearer to the man, he'd've spilled his wine over their laps or some other clever excuse for leaving the dining room. But they are all glued to the table by the rules of propriety and leaving the dining room would be unthinkable, especially if they were to both leave.

"Please excuse my friend," he says to Helena, turning away from Cartwright again. He'll have some apologizing to do later. "He has a sensitive nose. Something must be irritating him. Now, do tell me more about your trip to France. Your mother said you enjoyed the south greatly."

“It was marvelous, the climate is quite something and the cathedrals are divine.” Helena begins, laughing prettily.

Meanwhile the main course is served and things seem to be settling down at Cartwright's end of the table. Isaiah allows himself to relax into Eleanor's company under the watchful eye of her parents, and conversations flows. Eleanor is indeed a lovely young woman though sheltered and girlish in her ways. She gives Isaiah her entire attention as they talk, turning in her chair to face him. To his dismay she even scoops her wretched nosegay into her lap and toys with it as she speaks. Isaiah can easily imagine the disturbed pollen dispersing through the air towards him and sure enough as the evening passes the ticklishness in his nose grows again to distracting levels.

He absolutely must sneeze, he is quite unable to think for fighting it, and as soon as Eleanor turns from him to address her parents he takes his chance. Simply allowing his carefully controlled breath to fan the tickle in his sinuses prompts him to one quick, relieving sneeze stifled to almost nothing.

“Hi'Knxt!”

Typically for him, the one allowance leads to several more and then to a unavoidable fit. He manages to keep them almost silent, clenching his features with only the barest bob of his head toward the back of his wrist, but his affliction does not escape the watchful eye of his companion.

“God bless you, Mister Cartwright!” Eleanor says. “Are you quite alright?”

“Fine, I assure you.” He gives her his most charming smile in an attempt to distract her, but she will not be redirected and leans in to put a gentle hand on his arm. As she does so Isaiah receives a breath of her perfume which does not help matters at all. He barely has time to draw a shuddering, uncertain breath before he is overtaken again, and this time he is completely unable to stifle to sound.

“I merely- I- hh- hhhuh- tdssch! Tdsshuh!-TDSSCHuh!

“I do hope you're not catching a chill. Don't you think he sounds unwell, Mother?”

Missus Parker eyes the hot blush creeping over Isaiah's cheeks with obvious distaste. “He certainly looks a little peaked.” She says cooly. “Perhaps you should not sit so close, dear.”

Chagrinned, Eleanor sits back from him and Isaiah does the same, wiping his nose hard. He eyes are beginning to itch too and it takes all his willpower not to scratch them. He must look a mess, and fears he may get worse before he gets better.

Though Helena's charms are worthy, they aren't distraction enough to keep Elder from glancing Cartwright's way. Even the young lady notices his divided attentions and asks if everything is alright. Elder nods and smiles, feigning interest in their conversation. But soon, he hears a wretched sneeze from down the table and he very nearly loses his grip on his silverware, catching them before they rattle against his china plate.

He clenches his knife and fork until his fingers go red as the sneezing fit continues. From the burning feeling in his cheeks, he's sure his face is the same color. Taking a long, deep breath, he turns back to Helena and his food, knowing he cannot save Cartwright from this minor disaster.

[Dusty15]

Helena looks down the table and frowns, leaning into Elder as she whispers,

"Your handsome friend doesn't look very well at all."

Jacob is now positive that his face is the same crimson as the young lady's dress.

"He is sensitive, as I stated," he replies as evenly as his voice will allow. "If he's truly unwell, I'm sure he will excuse himself."

"I don't believe I've ever heard anyone sneeze so many times quite so rapidly," Helena says with a tone of genuine surprise.

Elder pops a piece of asparagus in his mouth and swallows hard. He knows that Isaiah will not last much longer alongside Eleanor, especially if they are to have dessert straightaway. Desperate times call for the fabled desperate measures.

"Pardon me," he says to Helena as he leans back and gestures to Bishop to get the butler's attentions.

"We'll move straight through for drinks after dinner," he whispers to the butler. "Tell the kitchen I'm sorry about the dessert preparations. We'll discuss what to do about that later."

Bishop nods and returns to his post at the buffet table alongside the nearly empty platters of food.

He takes another bite of asparagus, almost clearing his plate, and sneaks a glance at Isaiah, dismayed that he can see how red the man's eyes and nose have become even from this great distance.

There is a little murmur of surprise when Elder announces his plans, and Missus Parker exclaims “How Bohemian!” in a whisper quite loud enough to carry through the dining room. The room is filled with the soft rustle of chiffon as the Ladies allow themselves to be escorted through to the parlour. Isaiah stands, extending an arm for Eleanor as he tries to keep his persistent sniffling to a polite minimum.

In the parlour the air is close. Warm firelight plays on the heavy velvet drapes, making rainbows in the dark wood where the furniture has been polished to an impressive sheen. There is a little fuss about where they should be sitting, soon resolved as the guests settle themselves in the same approximate order from Elder's wing chair as they had been from his seat at head of table.

Helena Graham briefly departs Elder's side to join Eleanor and her parents. Apparently the young ladies know each other and there is much giggling and admiring one another's gowns. Isaiah is unnerved to notice their eyes darting in his direction more than once. They seem to be talking about him.

“Mister Cartwright, won't you come to sit with Helena and I?” Eleanor says, turning her doe-like gaze on him.

He tries to smile at her, but his hayfever is acting up again and the corners of his mouth twitch of their own accord as his features waver. Before he can answer her he sneezes a ticklish, throaty “hh'IDdtsh!-IDdtsh-ue!” that is very loud over the polite conversation in the parlour. He spins on his heels to shield his face from the two ladies, presenting them instead with a fine view of his shuddering shoulders.

When he turns back, Misses Graham narrows her eyes at his rudeness and one of the other guests, he doesn't catch who, tuts under their breath. He thinks he can see Lord Elder shifting uncomfortably in his seat, a sight that would please him if it were not for the circumstances. Really, this has gone on for quite long enough. With a decisive sniffle, he knows there is nothing else to be done here.

He addresses the girls loudly enough to include the room at large, with an apologetic glance to Elder in particular.

“As a matter of fact, I'm afraid you were right. I am feeling a little under the weather.”

This is an understatement by now, with his eyes itching madly, and so he doesn't feel as bad he might in telling this half-truth- they don't need to know that he could be fully recovered in a few hours, given some fresh air. His voice has taken on a suitably congested tone.

“Poor Mister Cartwright.” Eleanor says. She speaks with genuine concern and more than a little curiosity.

“Please, Miss Graham, don't -snf- don't let me spoil your evening.”

He is desperate to exit as swiftly as he may, before he can be taken by another fit of sneezing. He does not have long. The allergic tickling is mounting in the back of his nose and throat again and he must fight to keep his smile pleasant as he turns to face Lord Elder.

Isaiah's green eyes meet those of his lover in a meaningful stare which manages to encompass embarrassment, apology, and a certain knowing heat. Isaiah find himself pinching his nostrils against the pollen to buy himself time.

“Your Lordship, I'm afraid I'm... not feeling well.”

The gardener jerks his head very slightly to one side, indicating his desire to leave. He is held by propriety and a sudden fear that if Elder wanted, with his status and role as host the man could very well keep him in the parlour and sneezing uncontrollably all night.

Lord Elder would never dream of keeping Isaiah in such close quarters to the allergens which taunt the poor gardener's nose, though the ideal is certainly alluring. He'd removed them from the dining room in anticipation of these excuses being made, as it was very clear that Mister Cartwright wouldn't make it through dessert without causing a scene. Elder had seen his dear man in enough fits of hay fever to know that the symptoms were unlikely to lessen by simply leaving Eleanor's side. It doesn't stop him from taking a brief moment to imagine them in the parlour alone, however. He blinks and the guests vanish, leaving him with Cartwright in his arms, reclining on the long green sofa...

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mister Cartwright," Lord Elder says, returning to reality. He's careful to keep his voice even despite the rising heat in his cheeks as he locks eyes with his lover. "Please, rest and recover. We'll get on here fine. Do take care."

Cartwright's red-rimmed eyes lower from his gaze as the man gives a nod and a final round of apologies to the gathered crowd as he retreats from the parlour.

"Your poor friend," Eleanor says, wandering over with Helena. "Whatever is the matter with him?"

"I explained to Miss Graham," Elder says through gritted teeth. "He has a sensitive system. He can be taken by illness swiftly. He'll recover, I'm sure of it."

He reaches for his glass of sherry and takes a long sip, trying to quell the nervous, excited tension in his body, but he's been driven to distraction and is unable to return to pay the proper attentions to his guests.

"Will you ladies excuse me for just a few moments? I'm going to pop out and ask our footman to bring some things up to Mister Cartwright's chambers."

Swiftly, he stands and maneuvers to the door, taking the stairs up from the parlour double time until he catches up with Cartwright in the main hall, caught in the midst of a building sneeze.

"Wait," he says, grabbing the gardner by the waist and pulling him in close. "In here."

He pushes the door to the nearby study open.

Isaiah looks up at Elder over his handkerchief, surprise making the urge back off for a moment. “My Lord- ?” He manages. Then all he can do is cup the cloth over his nose as the sneezes he had been holding back in the parlour catch up with him in a rush.

“Idtssh!- IDTSh! hi' TSshhuh!-TSsch!-TSCsch!- ah... Jacob? What are you doing?”

Elder nearly corrects Isaiah at the title of 'My Lord'. In his mind, they're long past the use of titles in private company. But once the sneezing resumes and his Christian name is tagged onto the end of the allergic fit, he's gone weak in the knees again.

"I'm so sorry," he says, brushing a lock of hair tenderly from Isaiah's forehead. "I didn't even think about the nosegays. That's what I get for having visitors so infrequently. I'd forgotten the style whims of the modern woman."

He looks at Cartwright's reddened face intensely, the heat in his own body reaching a peak.

"I'm sorry for something else too," he admits. "You're driven me to distraction and I couldn't bear to sit in there and keep up appearances when all I want is to be with you. I'll stay just a moment before they'll notice my absence."

“You will?”

There is a shyness which sometimes comes upon Isaiah when Elder looks at him with such intensity. Out in the parlour, among the young women, he'd managed confidence at least until his hayfever had gotten the better of him. Here, he is suddenly demure. His gaze hovers somewhere around Lord Elder's collar, taking in the man's darting pulse, then dart up to meet Elder's eyes. Even after all these weeks there is an uncertainty, as though he can't quite believe his luck.

“And what is it you plan to do with me?”

If Cartwright can't believe his luck then Elder is beyond disbelief. It sometimes feels like he's taking advantage of the poor gardener's ailment, but if Isaiah's enthusiasm under the sheets is anything to go on, it seems like he doesn't mind much. And the hay-fever always seems lessened after a bit of lovemaking. And Elder doesn't reserve his affections for only when his dear gardener is red-nosed and sniffly.

Isaiah's teasing words make Elder shiver and he leans in close.

"First...there's this," he says, kissing the man's neck. "What...if...I...told them all....you...were....very....very....ill. And I sent them....all...home."

He kisses up Cartwright's neck and along his jaw with each word. He finishes at the man's lips, wrapping his hands around Cartwright's waist and gripping his bum, pulling their bodies against each other with a comforting pressure.

“Are you mad?” Isaiah is startled by the unexpectedness of the encounter but it doesn't stop him from biting his lip and squirming under Elder's insistent grip. “Seriously, how long do you think we have? Five minutes? Ten minutes? I like a challenge.”

He draws his head away from the kiss to scrub his nose against Jacob's collarbone, murmuring “ah, it itches.”

He is only exaggerating a little, but he loves to make Jacob shiver.

"Christ," Elder groans. "Hold on a minute while I lock the door. We have seven minutes, for a good compromise, but more like five if we're to play it safe."

Reluctantly, he pulls away from the other man to secure the study door before returning to Isaiah's hold.

"You've grown a naughty streak, my love," he says as he tilts his head to kiss Isaiah's nose with a light, tender touch. "You weren't so bold those many months ago when you came here."

He turns their bodies, shrugging off his tailcoat and bracing the broader man against the bookcases. He can hear his own pulse hammering in his ears as the adrenaline of the moment courses through him. He imagines his guests in the room just down the hall, oblivious. The thought excites him.

"What will you do with five minutes?" he asks, eyes glinting devilishly.

“For a start, I would let you know about this.” The gardener's hand reaches into his jacket pocket and emerges holding a bundled napkin from the dinner table. It is unfolded to reveal a single lily dropped from Eleanor's nosegay. It is a little crushed from transit, the bud opened just enough to reveal heavy stamens within. “I was thinking to save it for later. It may not have any effect, but who knows?”

He is blushing boyishly, twisting the corner of the napkin in one finger. He looks up at his lordship and then to the lily in his hand.

“It d-does smell good.” He falters. He draws a deep breath of the scent which sets his already swollen nostrils twitching. He drops the blossom to the floor.

"You're too indulgent of me," Jacob growls. "Sweet boy."

He looks down and sees the single lily lying on the carpet in the napkin, so small and delicate. It's a wonder such a simple thing can bring both men into fits of different kinds. He's not looked at a flower the same way since Isaiah came to live at Woodhaven.

The gardener presses the back of wrist against his nose to sniffle. He turns to blow his nose shyly, and then follows his lordship's gaze down to his stolen prize.

He picks the blossom back up and holds it just beneath his chin as he draws in a deep breath and then another. The petals actually shake in the slight suction, and Isaiah can almost see the motes of pollen being inhaled. At first there is no reaction save that his nostrils continue to flare sporadically. His green eyes flutter closed in concentration as he focuses all his attention on the sensation, then shrugs and brings the so close that pollen dusts the tip of his nose.

“I don't think it's workihnng- !” The last syllable gives him away.

He shakes his head like a horse bothered by flies. One hand is bunching the fabric of his trousers in his fight not to rub the offending tickle away and he squints helplessly towards the light for one tight, ticklish moment before-

“IihPtssh!-idtssh!-ttssh-u! --- huh-!” A shuddering breath. “I'kttsh!-ktdssh! -i'KTSchuh!” Only then does Isaiah allow himself to swipe a wrist across his wet nose, bringing the barest moment of relief as he squints up at Elder again. He no longer has to coax the sneezes out with patient breaths; they tumble over each other as sudden and unstoppable as hiccups, all consonants and repressed force against the back of his throat.

His voice is a breathy, unstable whisper. “Someone might hear us- but I can't -tdssh!- can't st-! Hah'idtssh-Idtssh!”

Elder watches in fascination, his mouth agape.

"Don't hurt yourself,” he says, coming face to face with his love, and kisses the man gently in a momentary break from the sneezing.

"You're a wonder," he says, tucking a stray curl of hair behind Isaiah's ear as he pulls back from the kiss to assess the other man's face. The gardener's eyes are swollen a familiar pink and his nose shines wetly. "Christ...I just want to come upstairs with you. Maybe I can send all the company home."

For all his dealings in 'polite society', he'd always preferred his time at home to duties of socializing. He'd thrown this particular dinner party to get several local acquaintances to stop asking after him. As much as he wished to spend the rest of the evening doting over Isaiah, he knew in his heart he had to see the party through.

Isaiah takes Jacob's hands in his own, bringing them both up to standing. He shakes his head, chiding.

“You've been gone long enough. They'll be suspicious. Just-” Isaiah runs a hand through Elder's dark curls until they are settled neatly, tugs his cravat straight and finishes with a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “-there.”

His affliction does not come to an end with their planned departure and he is taken by another fit of sneezes.

“Idtssh-u! Hh'IIssch-u! ITDsh! ...ugh.”

They are taking on a drawn-out, congested quality and prompt a spike of pain through his temples that furrows his brow into a frown. He breathes out tiredly afterwards, giving a thoroughly useless snuffle.

“I won't be able to breathe for a while. I really could use a rest now.... Go on. I'll see myself upstairs.”

Heart melting at Isaiah's futile attempts to breathe through his nose, Jacob embraces the broader man, their faces resting cheek to cheek. He kisses the soft bit of skin at the edge of Cartwright's ear before pulling away.

"I suppose so," he says resignedly, smoothing his tailcoat. "Ring for a footman to draw you a bath if it'll help. If you'd prefer, you can rest in my bed or if you choose your own, I'll stay to my rooms tonight so you can get a proper sleep. Put a cool towel over those poor eyes, won't you?"

He reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve one of the two linen handkerchiefs he always carries with him now.

"And here," he says, gently putting the cloth to Isaiah's scarlet nose to wipe it briefly before pressing it into the man's hand. "Rest well, love."

With a final kiss to the gardener's brow, he straightens up and shakes out his limbs, returning himself to the right frame of mind with which to perform the social graces required of a dinner party.

"Wish me luck," he says. As he exhales a long breath he goes out the study door and down the hallway back to the parlour where the guests are now gathered with after dinner drinks in hand. Helena and Eleanor are at his side almost instantly, inquiring after dear Mister Cartwright.

"I'm terribly sorry I was gone so long," Elder says, barely containing a blush. "I'm afraid he's taken a bad turn and I've seen to him upstairs. He regrets he couldn't stay longer."

"Oh, I'm sad to hear it," Eleanor says, pouting girlishly. "I do hope he recovers quickly. I hope it isn't catching."

She raises her nosegay to sniff coyly and Elder can clearly see the spot missing the one lily. He nearly chokes on his own drink.

"I'm sure he'll recover," he says after a brief moment of sputtering.

Mister Graham comes to his rescue with conversation and he's able to shake off the two young ladies, distracting himself with the polite conversations of his company late into the evening until the last carriage has pulled away. As he stands on the front lawn of Woodhaven watching the Graham's carriage travel off into the night, he turns to look back up at the windows of the house, noting the lamp in both his and Cartwright's chambers are out. A smile crosses his lips as he thinks of his sweet gardener, now hopefully resting peacefully.

Cheered that the company is gone and all is well, he pops down to the kitchens where the servants nervously greet him (though they aren't unused to this rather eccentric behavior) and fetches a large helping of the dessert that went unserved.

"You may eat the rest, but do set aside the trifle for supper tomorrow. It is Mister Cartwright's favorite and I'll have it sent up with his dinner."

Plate of cake in hand, he goes up to the study and sits in the chair opposite the bookcase and eats with a satisfied grin.

A little while later comes the murmur of bare feet on the thick carpet, as of someone stealthily approaching. Stealth is not enough- he next thing Lord Elder hears is a highly audible gasp, followed by a stifled sneeze.

“hi-ksht!”

Elder turns around to see none other than Mister Cartwright silhouetted in the study door, dressed in his striped pyjamas and with one hand pinched sheepishly under his nose. He looks tousled and sleepy.

“I take it the guests got away alright? Now, won't you come to-- hhh-!” He stutters as the two remaining sneezes, never far away, double him damply into his hands- “t- kshtt!-idtssh!”

A pause, recovery. Isaiah approaches Elder's chair and stands behind him, reaching his arms around to embrace the man. His chest is warm against Elder's back.

“Jacob, come to bed?”

--

END

(for a while. This is all we have completely written!)

[Salamander]

Yay! I'm so glad everyone is reading and enjoying. All thanks go to Dusty for doing the heavy work in editing and posting.

For the record, I would indeed LOVE it if we inspired some art.

[MonaLisaSmile]

I love this.

[rsquared906]

A PG-rated version is much appreciated for those without access. This is soooo good!!!!

[bless]

Im melted. You are a fantastic writer. Please go on