His Lordship's Visit

[Dusty15]

This is a new fic that has been in the works over two (!) years featuring characters created by Salamander and I. They were first introduced in the fic "His Lordship's Gardener" which you can read here: http://www.sneezefet...showtopic=49902

If you choose not to read that first, the only background you really need to know is that Lord Jacob Elder is a wealthy widower who prefers the company of men and has a rather unique attraction to sneezing…in the first fic, he meets Isaiah Cartwright, a young gardener and landscape architect who has come to the Woodhaven estate to plan out the new gardens but has a very severe reaction to some of the plants native to Lord Elder's part of England. The two begin a relationship. The fic takes place in the late 1800s and is inching towards the turn of the century.

This instalment is set several months after the last fic took place.

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His Lordship's Visit

by Salamander and Dusty15

When spring came again to Woodhaven, it was clear that Isaiah's allergies were too severe to spend more time at the estate. Besides, he had a burgeoning career still and the opportunity to work out of London with a number of clients, so long as his work kept him from the dreaded midlands countryside where the rapeseed fields and stinging nettles grew. So it was with a heavy heart and the promise of frequent visits that Elder said goodbye to the man and sent him on his way back to the city.

Woodhaven was lonely without his dear gardener and Jacob buried himself in work for the first few months until the silence grew familiar again and he settled into the rhythm of his life before Isaiah came to stay. Still, his heart leapt every time a letter arrived addressed with Isaiah's careful script and he spent long evenings at his desk crafting replies that spanned several pages with his own more careless scrawl.

He made trips to London to stay at his club, inviting Isaiah to spend happy nights and carefree days wandering London's busy streets. The first time he'd visited, Isaiah had greeted him shyly at his rooms with a bouquet of lilies tucked behind his back and a twitching nose that made Elder curl his toes and slam the door behind them.

When spring turned to fall, an older gentleman in northern France called upon the services of the horticulturalist and Isaiah went abroad for a few months to supervise the building of a glasshouse on the man's estate until the days grew too long and cold. Winter came early to London as a light snow sprinkled the city with the end of November turning to December. With Isaiah's impending return, Elder planned a visit to his beloved with much anticipation.

So when the date of his departure to London arrived, Elder was dismayed to wake up feeling very shivery and weak. He sat up in bed and pushed the heavy blankets back, testing his sinuses with a light sniff. His slim fingers pinched the bridge of his nose where a pressure was pounding and he sighed. The very last thing he wanted was to spend hours on a train south while fighting the beginnings of a head cold. On the other hand, he certainly didn't want to cancel his visit either. It'd been far too long since he'd seen Isaiah and he didn't think he could bear to put it off any longer.

Gathering his strength, he got up and dressed and met Bishop at the front door to load the car up to take him to the station. His valet held the door open and got him settled in the back before starting up the engine and puttering off down the road away from Woodhaven. In the back seat, Jacob leaned his head back and closed his eyes, hand resting on his jacket pocket where a cotton handkerchief that belonged to Isaiah was folded. The man had left it behind and Jacob now kept it close as a reminder of him. Today, he was afraid he might need to keep it close for a more practical reason...

Euston station is bustling and Isaiah Cartwright is one stationary figure amidst the crowd. He waits on the platform, occasionally glancing up at the darkening sky through the glass roof of the station. The vaulted, wrought-iron structure arches over the huge space in a way that reminds him of his beloved glasshouses at Kew, though he could wish for some of their temperate warmth; even with the furnaces and billowing steam from the trains there is a nip in the air. A few flakes of snow swirl in through the opening at the end of the train shed to melt rapidly in the warmer atmosphere.

Isaiah has come straight from work at the Royal Horticultural College and is very much in the guise of the dishevelled academic, complete with ink stains on the cuff of his tweed suit. He hears the clanking deceleration of a steam train grinding to a halt and quickly pulls the sleeve of his peacoat down to cover it, and nervously straightens his hat. His shyness has still not entirely evaporated and his stomach kicks with excitement.

The porters rush forward to open the doors and help passengers out with their luggage. Ladies first, of course, and then one by one plainly dressed gentlemen emerge from each carriage. Isaiah scans the crowd for a familiar face and quickly finds it, and he approaches Elder with a grin.

“My Lord Elder,” He says, somewhat formally, and then pulls the man into a quick embrace. “It's good to see you again.”

Most of Elder's train ride was spent in a light sleep as the man's body tried in vain to stave off the impending head-cold. When the whistles of the steam engine announced the arrival at Euston Station, Jacob blinked back to consciousness and put on his hat before descending the steps of the train, his long coat-tails fluttering behind him in the winter wind.

With a light sniffle, he looked around the crowded platform for his gardener. And then, with quick steps, they find each other and Elder's eyes wrinkle with a smile behind his spectacles as he's embraced.

"Hello, love," he whispers in Cartwright's ear before stepping back from the hug and straightening his hat. They'll be plenty of time to embrace later, out of the sights of the public's critical eyes.

Just the sight and touch of the man has put a small bit of vigour back into Elder's constitution and although the slender Lord still has an ache in his throat and sinuses, he puts a smile on and steps side-by-side with Cartwright along the glass and iron covered platform towards the exit.

Outside snow is spiralling from a deep blue sky and the pavements are slick. Isaiah shelters the pair of them with his umbrella as they navigate the winding streets until he can hail a cab which will take them towards St. James's. They are soon settled in the dark interior of the carriage and Isaiah draws the curtains across, reducing London to the sound of hooves the slight sway of vehicle so that he can concentrate on his companion.

“I made a reservation for dinner, I hope that's alright.” He says. And then, looking more closely into Jacob's face, “You look tired. Was it is difficult journey?”

"Not difficult, no," Elder replies, surreptitiously dabbing his nose with the cuff of his jacket. In the shelter of the cab his nose is starting to run, reacting to the change in temperature. "I didn't sleep well last night. I was too eager to see you."

His gloved hand moves to rest on Cartwright's knee and he gives the man's leg a gentle squeeze.

"Dinner will be just fine," he says. "I think a good meal and some rest will put me..."

He does not complete the thought. A sudden pressure shifts in his sinuses and his nose tingles with the inimitable sensation of an oncoming sneeze. Pale face going slack, Elder squints momentarily and then squeezes his eyes shut as his body wrenches forward with a sneeze.

Ehhr'tsghhh!

His sleeve is raised just in time to shield his face and he surfaces soon afterwards. If the cab wasn't so dark inside, his nose would certainly be a visible red.

"Blasted cold weather," he says, fishing in his pocket for his handkerchief and giving his nose a swift honk. "Sorry love. I was saying a meal and a good rest tonight will be all I need. Now tell me all about France. I've been so eager to hear all the details."

“God bless you. You know, I don't think I've ever seen you sneeze before.” Isaiah says mildly, brows raising just a fraction at the novelty. Perhaps he has, but unlike Jacob it is not the kind of thing he would remember. “The thing about France was...”

Jacob listens to Isaiah talk with as much attention as his foggy head will allow.

The prompt keeps Isaiah talking until they reach their destination and make another swift walk through the cold air. They are soon seated in one of the nicer establishments in this part of London, separated by a white tablecloth and warmly lit by gas lamps catching their reflections in the silverware. When the waiter arrives and sets them up with glasses of wine at hand, Elder can hardly remember how he got there in the first place. He's fading fast and his thoughts have turned to wishes of a warm bed and sleep. Isaiah has shed his coat and looks smart and bookish in his tweed suit. He is a little too broad for the style and still looks self-conscious, a gardener in scholar's clothing. He runs a broad hand through his hair to settle it and his green eyes watch Elder intently.

"But how about yourself?"

"I've been well," Elder says in response to Cartwright. He's wearing his best navy suit with a paisley silk ascot. It's cut slim and fits him like a glove, but in his current state he wishes he'd worn his less showy brown wool suit.

"Nothing nearly as exciting as France," he continues as his hands rub along his thighs under the table, trying to warm his legs. His whole body seems to vibrate with shivery pins and needles as it tries to fight off the settling flu. His nose is still leaking steadily, irritated by the changes in temperature. With a discrete sniffle, he continues to elaborate on his recent activities.

"I've been working a lot on an article for a scholarly journal. And I took a weekend trip further north to visit some relations. All in all, it's been lonely, I must confess. I've been looking forward to these winter months not for the weather but with the hope you'd come to stay a while when your skills are less in demand here in the city. Perhaps in the New Year?"

A waiter arrives with a first course of consommé soup and Elder takes a spoonful. The broth is warming and soothing to his throat, though it loosens his nasal congestion further and within a moment he begins to feel a sneeze building. It is considered impolite to remain at a table when one knows one is about sneeze or cough (he is quite liberal with this rule in his own home, but here in London he is keen not to make a scene if he can avoid it). Still, he doesn't want Isaiah to feel he must fuss or end their dinner early, so he remains seated and quietly fights the tickle until he can bear it no longer.

His lips part and his moustache twitches visibly as he fumbles in his trouser pocket for his handkerchief. Cloth pressed firmly to his nose, he sneezes throatily.

Ehr'GHTT!

For all his efforts to keep it quiet, he cannot suppress the sneeze and several heads turn to look. He blushes and wipes his nose quickly before returning the handkerchief to his pocket.

"Pardon," he says. "This weather seems to affect my sinuses. I fear our roles reversed."

“Bless you.” Isaiah drops his voice to add. “If that is the case, would you like me to pounce on you now or later?”

When the gentle teasing doesn't stir a response from the man across the table, he eyes Jacob with some concern. “You're really shivering. Could I get you my scarf?”

"No, it's really okay," Elder insists, though the slight chatter of his teeth say otherwise. He takes a deep breath through his mouth, willing his muscles to stop their spasms and slowly they relax. Cartwright's joke was not lost on him and when he is able to look back up at the other man without blushing anymore, he replies "We best keep the pouncing until later if we want to get past the first course."

Concentration turned to his soup, the conversation lulls. Despite his very best efforts, Jacob is beginning to feel truly wretched and though he tried to keep the mood light, by the time the main course arrives his normally cheeky and bright personality is noticeably subdued and his thin face has taken on a rather heavy look. His mutton, though perfectly cooked, tastes bland and is hard to swallow. A piece catches in his throat and he coughs, cheeks puffing out and lips clamped tightly shut as he turns red-faced. With a brief snort, he regains his composure.

"Excuse me," he says, sniffling again as discretely as he can manage.

Isaiah rises to slap the struggling man on the back but there's no need and he is left hovering there, resting a platonic hand on Elder's shoulder. He slides a glass of water across the table towards them and then bends to look Elder in the face.

“Are you quite alright?”

Isaiah blinks, as though seeing Elder for the first time without being distracted by affection and longing. He takes in the man's pallor and barely suppressed shivering with a concerned little shake of his head.

“You're not, are you?” He says slowly. “Goodness, Jacob, you look awful.”

"I think I'm just worn out from the travel," Elder confesses. Jacob knows now for certain that he must be ill, for he can feel the beginning aches of weariness and fever in his limbs. He takes the glass of water and sips it slowly. If there's one thing he dislikes it's making a scene. He's kept a fairly private profile in these years after his wife's death and the last thing he wants is for someone to catch him making a ruckus in the middle of a restaurant.

Elder removes his spectacles and scrubs a hand across his face. The slight pressure of his fingers on his sinuses makes them ache worryingly.

"I'm so very sorry, Mister Cartwright, but I may have to beg your pardon and excuse myself. If you don't mind, I'll leave you to finish your meal and you can come back to the club and meet me later? I can see myself back. I really do insist you stay and eat."

Isaiah is shaking his head. “Are you serious? For us, leaving meals half-eaten is becoming a tradition. I'm almost finished anyhow. Let me take you back.”

Before Elder can protest, he raises his hand to summon a waiter and in his best pretension toward upper class forthrightness explains “I'm afraid we have some urgent business to attend to. Can we get the bill quickly, please, and hail us a cab.”

It doesn't take long for them to be dressed and waiting in the lobby. Cold air streams in every time the door opens, bringing with it more damp flurries of snow.

“It's really coming down. Maybe it's a good thing we're getting away early.” Isaiah says, catching a flake on his gloved hand to watch it melt. He wishes they were somewhere private so that he could indulge the rush of tenderness and concern he feels for the man beside him. As it is, he draws as near as he dares, shivering in sympathy as the wind whips past. Under the pretence of admiring Jacob's ascot, he touches the back of his fingers to the man's cheek for a brief moment.

“I think you're a little too warm.”

"I'm fine," Jacob replies, but the chattering of his teeth say otherwise.

The brief journey out into the icy air to get into the cab is agony. Once he's settled into a seat, he wraps his arms around himself, shivering. His dark head of hair lolls back against the padded cab seat as they set off the short distance to the club. Compared with the slight discomfort he'd experienced that morning, Jacob's current state is much deteriorated. The grip of illness is closing in around his respiratory system, making his breath ragged and his eyes rheumy. He gives a small snort of congested discomfort and clears his throat.

"I'm sorry," he says to Cartwright, his voice coming out slightly hoarse. "I'd rather hoped this would be an ailment-free visit. It seems we're destined to only be together when one of us is under the weather."

The cab rolls up to the entrance of the club and the two men enter followed by a valet carrying Lord Elder's bags. The instant they arrive in the warm lobby with a roaring fire, Jacob's nose protests and sets out to make its discomfort known. Going from hot to cold to hot again pushes his sinuses to the brink and he stops in the busy lobby to reach for his handkerchief.

Huhhr'tskghhtt! Ehh....hhhurr'tsghhh!

Hands trembling, he catches the productive-sounding sneezes in his handkerchief and wipes his nose with sigh of resignation.

“Bless you. Come, let's go to your rooms.”

Isaiah cannot resist resting a hand on Elder's back as they make their way up the stairs but it is only when they are installed in Elder's suite with the door firmly locked behind them that he can do what he has been aching for since they met at the station, and he puts his arms around his friend, drawing him close. They hold a tight embrace for a moment then Isaiah guides the slighter man's head to rest on his shoulder. He combs his fingers through the dark curls before bringing his palm to rest on Elder's forehead, hoping his own cold hands will soothe the heat there.

“My poor, dear Jacob.” He says, fondly. “I missed you.”

Elder relaxes into the embrace, letting his limbs hang heavy as Cartwright holds him tightly. He'd forgotten the feel of these arms and how strong and comforting they always been. With Isaiah's hand on his brow, he closes his eyes and breaths a noisy sigh.

His poor dear indeed. Jacob never tolerated his own illnesses well. He had a tendency to think them a waste of time and often pushed through them without becoming an invalid and holing up in bed. It's been a long time, however, since he's had a fever and now the four poster bed in the corner is more attractive than it has ever been.

"I missed you too," he murmurs. His face is turned against Isaiah's neck and he gives the stubbled skin there a light kiss. Holding the embrace for a moment more before starting to pull away, Jacob sways on the spot and stumbles back towards Cartwright. Stars appear in his vision as his head lolls, fighting off the collapse.

Quick as a reflex Isaiah's arms are there to catch him.

"I should sit down," he stammers, holding onto Cartwright with a fevered grip.

The gardener guides him towards the bed with a gentle but insistent pressure, helping him to sit. Isaiah perches next to Jacob and keeps a steady hand on his shoulder, the other rubbing up and down his back as he waits for the man's head to clear.

“Is that better? Maybe you should lie back awhile.”

"I think all this going from hot to cold and back again has thrown my senses off," Elder says, putting his slim fingers to his face and rubbing his eyes. He can feel his own body heat reflecting back from his flushed cheeks. "I'm fine, love. But perhaps lying back a bit might calm me a little. My head is spinning."

Extending his legs, Jacob kicks off his boots and reclines back into the mounded pillows.

"Call downstairs for some drinks?" he says. "I don't want to spoil the evening. I think I can manage a brandy or two."

“I'll do that.” Isaiah swoops down to press a swift kiss on Jacob's head.

He returns only a few moments later, flanked by a manservant carrying a brass tray which is set down on a side-table with barely a blink at the prone gentleman on the bed. Besides brandy there is a steaming teapot and two cups with saucers. As soon as the door closes again, Mister Cartwright returns to Jacob's side, murmuring “No, don't get up.” He sheds his suit jacket and leaves it hanging wantonly over the back of a chair, revealing a crisp shirt and sharp waistcoat beneath. He rolls his shirtsleeves out of the way and settles on the edge of the bed.

“Are you feeling a little steadier?” He asks, looking into Jacob's face and testing the heat against his own with the back of his fingers. “You really are coming down with something. Perhaps we'd better spend the weekend in bed.... I can think of worse things.”

"Mhm," Jacob affirms, leaning into Isaiah's touch. "A bit. I think a night's rest will do me wonders. Pass me a brandy, love?"

As Cartwright moves to get a glass, Elder shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it aside, reaching for the spare blanket at the foot of the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders. He leans back into the pillows and accepts a proffered glass from Isaiah.

"Thank you," he says, taking a small testing sip. The liquor burns his throat and warms his belly with a satisfying fire, though it instantly sets him coughing. Cheeks ballooning as he hacks, he transfers the brandy back to the safety of Isaiah's steady hands and puts his own hands to his mouth, steepling them over his puffing lips.

"Goodness!" he chokes out between respiratory spasms. His lungs crackle with congestion and he's surprised at how rough the coughs sound. Perhaps he's more ill than he'd initially thought.

Isaiah is surprised too and narrows his eyes at the heavy, persistent sound. With one hand he traces a slow, soothing line over the linen of Jacob's shirt. With the other he returns the brandy and pours a glass of water, which he presses into the man's shaking hands.

“Steady on, Jacob. Try and get a breath. Maybe have some water first, or some tea?”

Elder accepts the water and takes a few sips until he's recovered from the coughing and his breathing slows to normal again. The gentle hand on his chest circles and then retreats as Jacob relaxes.

"I have a better idea," he says, his voice weary and weak now. He takes a tea cup and splashes a bit of the brandy in with the dark brew. The tea tray has come with a small jar of honey and he generously spoons some into the cup.

"Improvised hot toddy," he says proudly. "Should put me right."

But as he sips at the sweet, sharp drink, his eyes begin to droop. Before he starts to fall asleep entirely, he sets his cup down and looks at Isaiah with sleepy eyes.

"I want to sit up and chat with you love, but I'm afraid I really must to bed."

He swings his legs out of bed and stands, testing his steadiness for a moment before he bends to kiss Isaiah on the top of the head and goes to his bags to find his pajamas. They're folded on top; a smart silk navy pair with a paisley print. He tosses them on the bed and starts to unbutton unbutton his shirtsleeves, but his fever-addled fingers are clumsy.

"Help me?" he asks Cartwright, blushing in shame at his own infirmity.

Broad, tanned hands close over his own and still them. "Of course."There are flecks of ink on Cartwright's knuckles and his cuffs are threadbare but his grip is steady and kind. Isaiah takes Jacob's wrists in his hands and pops the buttons free, traces his thumb over the pulse-point under his Lordship's skin. Then his hands move to the collar to remove his shirt.

They have undressed each other many times since their first encounter in the summer, but never with such tenderness. Isaiah takes a quiet, personal enjoyment in being the instigator for once and he moves gently, deliberately, lest he jar his partner or make him dizzy. Jacob is caught for a moment between the removal of his shirt and putting on his pyjama top and the fragility in that thin, pale form is almost more than Isaiah can stand. He rasps his palms over the man's upper arms to soothe down the gooseflesh rising against the slight change in temperature before helping him into his nightclothes.

“You need to rest.” Cartwright says, drawing back at last. “Shall I leave you in peace, or do you want me to stay?”

"It's early still," Jacob says, eyes closing momentarily as the sensation of Isaiah's hands remain burning on his arms. "You're welcome to do as you please. Go have a drink in the club and lie with me later. I'll be a dreadful bore if you stay here."

He sits on the edge of the bed with a light sniff and with practiced care he turns down the coverlet and guides his slender legs under the sheets, leaning back into the mound of pillows.

“You could never be boring.”

Still, the gardener watches Jacob settle beneath the blankets with a dawning decision to let him have some solitude. Elder looks exhausted and as though he wishes to be left alone. Isaiah understands that. He can well remember how embarrassed he was by his infirmity in the first few days at Woodhaven, and how it tired him. The painful vulnerability of it eventually ebbed, soothed by Elder's enthusiasm and affection. Elder's face, turned toward the wall, shows no such resignation.

The gardener already knows better than to ask if Jacob needs anything. Isaiah is no Doctor but his sharp green gaze takes in Jacob's congested breathing, the rasp in his voice, and he thinks privately that if any pharmacy in London is still open then there are things which might be done. The man's fever worries him but he knows it is only a lover's concern, for now. If Jacob is no better in a day or two he does know a few medical men. In the mean time Isaiah draws him close and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. One hand smooths the sheets inexpertly.

“Perhaps I will take a jaunt out. I won't be gone long.”

"Alright," Elder agrees and he watches the young gardener depart. In the stillness of the dark room, he suddenly misses Isaiah's comforting presence in his infirmity and wishes he'd asked the man to stay. Resigned to his condition, he curls up with the blankets held tight under his chin and tries to relax.

His nose is the first obstacle in the fight for sleep. As soon as he's prone, it shifts and clogs with fierce, pounding pressure in his sinuses. He tries adjusting the pillows, flopping about from his side to his back to his stomach in an attempt to find a spot where the pressure is relieved, if only slightly. And the blankets are suddenly much too warm as his skin prickles with heat and he kicks at the sheets, exposing his bare feet at the bottom.

Finally, giving in to exhaustion, he droops off into fitful sleep. If the neighbouring apartment's occupant is in, he can probably hear distinct snores through the paper-thin walls. Elder's breath comes in long, rattling snorts punctuated by fevered moans. The longer he sleeps, the more rough and disturbed his breathing becomes.

And then the dreams hit.

The fever begins to spike in sleep and his mind wanders, conjuring dark figures and train crashes and all sorts of horrid things. He moans audibly and grabs at the sheets with white knuckles.

This is how he is found when Isaiah returns. The stuffy stillness of the room is punctuated first by the click of the lock and then by a slender knife of light as the gardener nudges open the door. He brings with him a relieving gust of cooler air. Elder is vaguely aware of a familiar shape moving across the floor, the rustle of a paper bag set down by the side of the bed and the mattress creaks slightly as Cartwright sits down beside him. Cool hands peel the sheets off of him and settle them back more smoothly.

“Oh, Jacob,” he says, shaking his head. His voice is quiet, unsure if the man is asleep.

In the strange grip of fever, Jacob's eyes flutter open and he looks at Isaiah, only partially seeing. His mind feels addled, as if his thoughts must wade through thick molasses before they are able to reach his tongue. His mouth is dry and he licks his lips as he struggles to speak.

He only moans a little, stuck between waking and sleep. He's struck with fear as his mind weaves through a tangle of disjointed thoughts, medical articles and newspaper accounts of terrible illness.

But the feel is alleviated slightly by the feel of a testing hand on his brow and the gentle cadence of Cartwright's voice saying something, though Jacob does not make out exactly what.

His voice bubbles up in his throat and he's finally able to croak out a few words.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit worse than I thought," he says. He's surprised to hear how congested he sounds besides the anticipated hoarseness.

"So it would seem. You're running quite a fever."

When this doesn't draw a response Isaiah moves closer, trying to meet Jacob's mis-focused gaze.

"Jacob-" He says, more loudly. "Wake up for me? You must have been dreaming."

Isaiah moves back for a moment to light the lamp and then another until an island of light drives the shadows from around the bed.

"Can you sit up for a moment?"

"Mhm?"

Jacob's eyes don't take kindly to the blazes of light as he tries to regain his grip on the waking world. Turning his face into his pillow with a small grunt, he squeezes his eyes shut against the prickling light and sneezes a single, gurgling sneeze.

Urhh'tsh-gh-nhhhht!

His nose is damp and trailing down his lip. In a moment of impropriety, he wipes in on the pillowcase before forcing himself up with his hands to sit propped against the headboard. His head lolls back, resting on the wall. Heat radiates from his brow in a strange glow that seems to surround his face and spreads down his torso as it is exposed from beneath the quilt.

Without even thinking, Isaiah takes his own handkerchief from an inside breast pocket and tents it over Jacob's nose to wipe it clean. It is only afterwards that the reversal of their previous roles dawns on him, and he gives a wry, worried little smile.

A quick rummage in the bag he brought from the pharmacy reveals a small glass bottle. Isaiah squints at the label before dropping a little of it into a glass of water. With a cool hand cupping Jacob's chin, he guides the cup to the man's mouth and holds it while he drinks.

The mixture is bitter but the liquid is welcome against Jacob's dry tongue. He drinks it as carefully as he can in his prone position but still ends up sputtering with coughs as the last of the liquid takes a wrong turn down his throat.

He coughs; deep and pained hacks that bend him at the middle and force him to grab hold of Isaiah's arm to keep himself steady in the onslaught. How the illness has come on so strong in such a brief time worries him a little, but he knows that the wretched fever and congestion are just a small piece of many worse ills that he could have contracted and that he is fortunate to be relatively untouched.

The coughs settle after a moment, though they leave him red-faced and panting with a wheezing breath. He takes Isaiah's gentle hand that still holds his handkerchief and guides it to his face to blow his nose.

"I'm sorry," he rasps after he's managed to clear out his sinuses a tiny bit. "I need to lie back down. I really feel absolutely wretched, love."

His head is swimming still and his limbs tremble with fevered weakness. He's too warm all over and too stuffed up to breathe, but his body aches to submit to sleep again.

“I know,” Isaiah murmurs. “I know. In a moment- I want you to be able to sleep.”

He grips Jacob's shoulder to keep him from lying back until he rescues another bottle from his recent purchases, this one larger and containing a thick brown syrup just visible through the thick glass. “For your cough,” he explains, pouring a clumsy spoonful for the other man to swallow.

The syrup is both bitter and sickly sweet in a combination that makes Jacob pull a face of disgust as the spoon slides out from between his lips.

Isaiah's face is very close to Elder's, flickering in and out with the glow of the lamps. In this light the anxious tilt of his head makes him boyish, quite out of his element. Unsure what else to offer he squeezes Jacob's hand where it rests in his own. “Get some sleep. The pharmacist said you should be better in a few days.”

Only then does he help to ease Jacob's body down in the bed. He pauses with the man in his arms, feeling warmth bleed through both their shirts and into his chest.

Then settled down into the soft downy mattress top with his head cradled by pillows, he feels calmer and safer with Isaiah's arms guiding him back into dreams.

"Stay?" he asks meekly. "Put your pyjamas on and come to bed a while."

It's still earlier than Isaiah's normal retiring, but Jacob desperately doesn't want to be left alone for fear of the fevered dreams returning.

He clutches his damp handkerchief in his hand as Isaiah draws back to answer his request. Lips parting, Jacob feels the stirrings of a sneeze and presses his palm to his nose, scrunching the ball of cloth against his nostrils.

Nghh'tsghHHT!

A sharp, harsh sneeze tears out, scraping at Jacob's throat. He moans and closes his eyes.

“Bless.” Isaiah shakes his head in sympathy- painful sneezes are well known to him. He hadn't planned to stay the night. It is early yet and he know he will not sleep, but one look at Jacob's glassy eyes and he knows he couldn't be anywhere else tonight.

In a moment he has shed his clothes in a wanton pile at the foot of the bed and is climbing in beside his ailing love. Soon they settle face to face, limbs just brushing each other. Jacob looks so tired but Isaiah cannot restrain himself from troubling the man with light, affectionate kisses first to the top of his head, down his brow and the bridge of his nose, enjoying the bit of flesh usually guarded by the man's glasses. One broad hand cards through Jacob's dark hair, catching in the curls and working the tangles out. When Jacob's eyes open, Isaiah is watching him closely.

“It does seem as though you go to pieces without me,” he teases.

A wan smile crosses Jacob's lips and he leans further into Isaiah's touch. The hands through his hair seem to temporarily distract his headache, though the pressure behind his eyes still pounds ferociously.

"Did anyone notice you coming up besides the desk clerk?" Jacob asks weakly, realizing he's been made silly by fever in asking Cartwright to stay and change for bed. The man has neither a change of clothes with him nor the plan to stay. Instead, he lays with Elder wearing just his underthings. "You spoke to no one else? I'd not want you to stay if you feel it risks impropriety or could affect your career here in London..."

He's saying the words out of a care for formalities and not his desires...he cannot imagine Isaiah leaving him now that he's weakened and overwhelmed by the feverish grip of the flu.

“I spoke to no one. Not a soul knows I'm here.” Isaiah's voice is low and soothing, his lips just a hair's breadth from Jacob's ear. “I didn't even leave my name at the desk. So there's no risk to my career, and I can be gone in the morning before there's any risk to your reputation. But tonight, I really think I ought to stay. Poor love.”

This last is uttered with an affectionate touch across Jacob's brow, soothing the pressure, along his cheekbones and ending with a feather-light touch at his chapped nostrils. “That looks sore. It's not like you to catch cold, either. I think you've been working too hard.”

The slightest brush of Isaiah's calloused fingers against his nose sets Jacob sniffling. His nose is rather sore.

[Dusty15]

"I've been working hard to distract me from your absence..." he says. "It's been lonely without you and...ehh..."

He trails off, the itch in his nose now too great to ignore.

Hurrhh'stghttt! Ehh'tshNSGHT!...ehh...nhh'TSGHTTT!

He sneezes into the pillow with a slight turn of his head, too overwhelmed by the sneezes to bother with his handkerchief. Small fit over, he closes his eyes and exhales a rattling sigh.

"Could you turn out the lamps?" he asks after a moment. "My head aches something terrible. But I'm so grateful you'll stay...I'm sorry I'm not in better spirits for it."

Isaiah springs back from the fit with a startled, slightly guilty “Goodness! Please don't worry. I- I'll get the lamps.”

As Jacob snuffles, face turned into the pillow, his gardener rises obediently and dims the lamps to nothing but a wisp of gas on the air. The streetlights show orange through a crack in the drapes but otherwise the room is still. Isaiah parts the curtains for a moment and marks the still falling snow. It's getting heavier.

He returns to the bed with a touch to Jacob's shoulder through the covers.

“Two things.” He says. “First-” A clean handkerchief is held to Jacob's nose, wiping him clean with one gentle downward stroke.

“-and second-” There is the sound of water dripping back on itself as he wrings out a cloth, folds it inexpertly and places it on Jacob's hot brow. The young lord's skin is nearly as pale and his hair shows very dark against the fabric, even in the dim room.

A small moan of relief slips from Jacob's lips at the application of the cool compress. It isn't until the cloth is applied that he realizes just how fevered he's become. His entire body seems to vibrate with the heat of it, sending shivery pulses down his limbs in waves. All at once he feels too hot and too cold, as if no power in the universe could possibly give him complete comfort.

The idea of that frightens him. Normally a man who is in calm control of everything that surrounds him, Elder now feels like a helpless and lonely child. The combination of fever and congestion makes him want to burst into tears of frustration at the discomfort he feels. Instead, he manages to fight the urge to fall to pieces and asks Cartwright a simple, shakily-spoken question instead,

"You will stay?"

His voice quivers. The constant aches in his head and limbs beg to be soothed with a lover's gentle touch, but the fever battles the addition of another's heat. With great care, he lifts his heavy head and tucks in onto Isaiah's lap, only able to tolerate the small share contact.

"'m so warm..." he mumbles, feeling himself gripped by fatigue again. His eyes are slipping shut in the darkened room though his blocked nose and rattling chest make it hard for him to completely give in to sleep.

“Too warm.” Isaiah echoes him, turning the damp cloth over to the cool side. Where it has been touching Jacob's forehead it is indeed startlingly warm. He only hopes the medicine the pharmacist had prepared for him will take effect soon.

Isaiah sits very still, cradling the other man's head in his lap and using one hand to smooth the hair up and away from his hot neck, letting in a little air. He listens intently to the man's laboured breathing.

If Isaiah had caught the tearful catch in Jacob's voice he does not acknowledge it directly, but the look in Jacob's eye strikes him to the heart with love and affection and a burning, protective urge which he does not know how to express. It makes him almost afraid. He has not sat at any sickbeds, not like this. It had been the work of the women in his family, work he had disdained for science, and now he wishes he had some experience of it, to know what to do, what to say.

“I'll stay” is all he can think of. “Of course I'll stay.”

Sleep grips Jacob, tugging him under in a wave of troubled rest. He cannot breathe properly and constantly snorts and snuffles and coughs himself back to momentary glimpses of consciousness before he slips back below the surface into sleep.

Through the hold of slumber he feels his forehead being sponged and the distant sound of Isaiah's voice. Fire burns in his skin, sweating and shaking him with a terrifying strength. Consciousness comes once more as he wakes fully, snorting back a thick string of congestion.

He doesn't know where his head is resting or where to turn it when the sneeze begins to build. He simply stays where he is, sneezing into the air with a weak Nh'gxhtt! that can barely break through his clogged nose. It makes a squelching, wet sound and blocks back up solidly, denying him any respite. His sinuses are desperate to get cleared and a volley of sneezes comes, equally unproductive. Ehh'tsgxt! Nh'gehxt!! T'sghxt! T'sGHXHT!

With each bob of his head as each sneeze is released, a shock of pain goes through his head, pounding behind his eyes. A little whine of discomfort escapes his lips.

Then there are cool hands lifting his head, tenting a cloth over his face and wiping his nose clean. “Blow, if you can.” Isaiah suggests hopelessly. Any attempt is entirely unsuccessful and leaves Isaiah more worried than ever.

Through all this young Mister Cartwright has sat at Jacob's side, feeling increasingly out of his depth. The clock in the hall chimes the half hour, the hour, the half hour again and Jacob isn't getting any cooler. He is warmer now by far, the heat radiating from him in waves. At length, Isaiah rises from the bed and is pacing to and fro in the dark room, thoughts turning. How hot is too hot? How high a fever is dangerously high? He has only the vaguest understanding of these things and no thermometer to test Jacob with even if he did. He only knows the man is burning, the the look on his love's face is frightening him.

The most recent bout of tight, painful sneezes brings him to a decision. Instead of returning to his place by Jacob's side he bends to kiss the man on cheek and murmur. “Sit tight dear. I'll be back.”

The he rescues his clothes, dresses in the dark and heads out into the lobby of the club to make a telephone call.

The moment he returns the receiver he wonders if he is doing the right thing. Jacob's fever has already made him more cavalier about their secret than usual. Can he trust the man not to reveal anything in this state? He turns these worries over in his head as he waits, eyes fixed on the door, for the arrival of a friend.

Laurence Patterson hangs up the receiver of his own telephone and glances at the parlour clock; half past nine in the evening by dial's mark. A human biology specialist, he is a member of the same sciences league as the man to whom he has just spoken. It's a gathering of working academics in London dedicated to the art and study of the varied sciences. The group issues a quarterly journal in which both Isaiah and Laurence have published extracts on subjects in their own fields.

He isn't a doctor specifically. Laurence has a knowledge of the human body and practice in the workings of the body's systems, but little practice with patients. His work is mostly post-mortem or clinical observation, not treatment. But he and Isaiah are friendly enough, frequently interacting at the league or at social functions. Laurence likes the kind botanist and the man's artistic nature. Though Isaiah is clearly lower-born than many of the league men, he combines his working-class hands-on approach with a delicate sensibility for the academic side of things, and Laurence admires this.

He agrees to come and see the gardener's friend, though why the man doesn't phone a proper doctor puzzles Laurence a little. Regardless, he grabs his medical bag with thermometer carefully protected in its own case, and puts on his hat and coat. The journey down to the club is short; he lives only a few blocks away and considers this a reason Isaiah has called him for assistance.

Stepping into the lobby from the windy street, he brushes some snow from his coat and removes his gloves to extend a hand to Cartwright.

"Pleasure to see you, Isaiah," he says with a nod, pale auburn hair sweeping down his forehead. He cuts an intimidating figure though he is slighter and shorter than Cartwright. What he lacks in physical presence he makes up for in personality. It has never been difficult for him to make his way stealthily to the top.

"Tell me," he says as he removes his hat. "Your friend...you were visiting when he fell ill and you've brought him here to his lodgings? Lead the way."

Isaiah returns the handshake with a nervous smile. The tall botanist looks young and noticeably flustered, hazel eyes wide, but Laurence can put this down perhaps to inexperience with the sick.

“That's right. I do appreciate your taking the time, Laurence. In here-”

They traverse the short corridor to Elders rooms, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and Isaiah opens the door, rushing to turn up the lamps that the Doctor might have a look at his patient. The golden gaslight reveals that Jacob has not moved an inch save perhaps to curl further in on himself. Isaiah sits on the edge of the bed near Jacob's legs and straightens the sheets around him, hoping to wake the young Lord without startling him.

“Jacob? Jacob, wake up. This is Professor Patterson. He's a friend.”

If Professor Patterson recognizes the ill man, he does not let it be known. With Elder's interest in scientific academia, it's very likely they've corresponded, but without Lord Elder's last name spoken, Patterson remains ignorant to the sick man's identity.

Jacob stirs at Isaiah's touch, groaning and shifting his legs in discomfort. As soon as consciousness breaks through fevered sleep he begins to cough again, curling inward on himself. This time Isaiah's hands do not reach for him. The biologist instead crouches at Elder's bedside, peering at the feverish man.

"Sir, I'd like to take a look at you if that's suitable to you?" Laurence asks, noting the man's fine silk nightshirt. A member of the club and very well dressed...Isaiah seems to being a bit better socially outside of the sciences league than Laurence expected.

Jacob blinks, looking confused at the sight of the new man in the room as the coughing subsides and he's left red-faced. His brain feels full of dense fog and he wonders for a moment if the man is part of a waking nightmare.

"Cartwright?" he asks weakly. The voice that comes out he barely recognizes as his own.

"He's sitting at your feet, sir," Laurence assures Elder. "He's asked me to come make sure you are not severely ill. I'm going to feel your glands, first, if you are willing?"

Elder still isn't entirely sure what is happening, but he allows the man to put two chilly hands on either side of his throat. The Professor pokes and prods at the lightly-stubbled skin there, feeling for swelling.

"How long has the fever been going?" Patterson asks.

Elder doesn't reply. He's distracted by a violent tickle in his sinuses that takes all his mental energy to fight. Wrinkling his nose, he tries to ward it off.

"How long, sir?" Patterson repeats.

Ehh'tsGGNGHTT!

Elder turns his head to the slide a little and releases an extremely congested sneeze into his pillow, following the explosion with a wet, slurping sniffle.

"How long has he been feverish?" Laurence asks again, now directing the question to Isaiah as he picks up a slightly damp handkerchief from the bedsheets with a look of distaste and passes it to Jacob.

“I- ah- since this afternoon. I think.” Isaiah stammers. “It's been high like this since about 7, maybe longer.”

He feels foolish, unsure what Laurence must think of him. Is he overly concerned or not concerned enough?

Laurence frowns as he feels the ill man's brow again.

"I'm unsure of why you didn't call a proper doctor," Laurence says, removing his hand from Jacob's face and reaching for his medical bag. "I am sure reception could have provided a telephone number. In any case, the fever needs to be reduced gradually and the breathing must be eased. You were correct to call someone, anyhow. He isn't well. I'll take his proper temperature and we'll assess the situation from there."

Reaching into his bag, he takes out the mercury thermometer in it's black case and opens it, removing the delicate glass tube and squinting at the small temperature markings.

"Alright, steady now, sir," he instructs Jacob, slipping the tube between the man's chapped lips and under his tongue. "You much keep it still and do not bite down."

Elder looks up at the Professor, eyes glazed and face flushed. He seems to understand somewhat and closes his eyes, relaxing momentarily with the glass tube held between his lips. The thermometer is slow and takes several minutes to get an accurate reading. Elder's lungs do not wish to cooperate with the exercise, however. A cough bubbles up, captured between pursed lips and puffing out the man's flushed cheeks. The spasms quicken until he's near choking and Laurence is forced to grab the thermometer or risk the man spitting it out all together.

Jacob rolls to his side, tucking his knees to his chest as he coughs, shaking the bed frame violently with each wrenching hack. The back of his nightshirt is darkened with a sweat-soaked stain down his spine.

Laurence consults the thermometer and shakes his head.

"Not an accurate read, I don't think, but it's certainly elevated above normal."

As Elder continues to cough, Laurence tips his head towards the man's body and places an ear to the spasming back, listening to Elder's lungs.

"His respiratory system is undoubtedly inflamed as well," Laurence confirms. "I have some suggestions based on colleague's methods and my own experience, but you will have to attend to him through the night and be sure that he stays as still as possible. Rest is what he needs the most, but you have to be attentive or it could turn into chest infection and I will have to refer you to a true professional."

Wiping the thermometer with his own handkerchief, Laurence puts the glass instrument back into its case.

"I will recommend that you keep a cloth to sponge his brow and neck. The fever must not be allowed to increase. Tepid water, not cold. You do not want to shock him. I will go ask the front office if I may seek the resources of the club's kitchen to make a plaster for the congestion."

“I can do that.” Isaiah says, dodging the question of calling a professional altogether. “Please. Do go on down.”

He waits until Laurence has left the room to bend over Jacob again. He pours another glass of water and offers it to the man. Then he draws Jacob near, reassuring him with firm arms and a kiss on his forehead. It is unpleasant with sweat but he hardly notices or cares.

“See, love, Laurence is a discreet man. He'll see you right, I'm sure of it. And I'll stay here. You need to let me cool you down.”

In the time it takes Isaiah to refill a basin with skin-temperature water and rescue and rinse the cloth he had been using earlier, he is not surprised to see Jacob retreated under the covers again. The water he had used previously was certainly too cold, and he isn't surprised the man flinches from the threat of a repetition. It takes some effort to coax him out. “Please Jacob. It's not so cold this time, let me-”

If the water is tepid, Jacob does not feel it as such. Each dab of the cloth feels like ice, but after a time it becomes a relief rather than a displeasure. He surfaces from the cocoon of blankets, leaning in to each press of the towel, closing his eyes and breathing noisily while Isaiah tends to him. He's heard little of the gardener's explanation of the visiting Professor...fever has too tight a grip on his mind and everything is blabber and noise with no content. All he knows is that he feels truly wretched and has a keen sense of embarrassment to have ruined a visit with such a severe illness. He tries to speak an apology to his lover, but all that comes out is a hoarse croak. Even with the offered glass of water, his tongue feels coated with sand.

"Sorry," is all he manages.

Downstairs, Laurence is given command of the kitchen by the staff and searches the pantry stock for some ingredients. He finds a store basket of onions and goes to work chopping them until he's made a suitable pile and his eyes are burning. He puts the onions in a pot and sets it to boil, filling the kitchens with the fragrant odour of the cooking vegetables. When they are boiled soft, he strains the pieces through a bit of cheesecloth and ties the warm bits into a poultice.

When he re-enters Elder's chambers, he carries the stinking ball of roots, still warm and steaming in his hands.

"It needs to be applied to the chest and wrapped," he informs Cartwright, approaching Jacob and pulling back the covers. He spreads the broad collar of Elder's nightshirt, exposing his bare chest, and presses the cheesecloth poultice there. Awkwardly, he then wraps the layers of sheets tightly, tucking them under Elder's torso to create a tight swaddle. Jacob squirms in discomfort but does not fight the actions.

"It should be left on as long as he tolerates. It will cool eventually and chill him, so monitor it and see you remove it if it becomes too cold."

"Isaiah?"

Jacob's voice whispers from the bed, barely audible. His face peeping above the sheets is contorted with a strange expression. Reddened nostrils flaring, he sneezes suddenly- a harsh and raw sound that seems to tear at his throat.

Ehhh'TESGHTTT!

“Bless you. Yes, I'm here.” Isaiah can't help wincing in sympathy. His heart has him going to Jacob and taking his hand before his brain can warn him that Laurence is present. He finds the handkerchief and cleans his love's nose and upper lip in a gentle pinching motion with his free hand.

“Thank you. I will keep a close eye on him.” He says to Laurence. He does not remove his palm from Jacob's and returns the professor's gaze steadily as though daring him to comment. “Does that really help? Fascinating. How long do you suppose the fever will hold?”

"I'm unsure how strong its grip is on him," Laurence replies, wiping his damp hands on his trousers. He looks at the hand holding Elder's with mild interest but does not comment. He simply observes it as an act of comfort with minimal suspicion of something more. Cartwright is such a quiet, gentle man that he does not suspect an affair with the Lord who is so clearly above the gardener.

"You should call a professional should the fever not break before the morning. And yes, the vapours of the onions should ease his breathing. It is an old method preferred by maids and housewives, but it is efficient and easy to prepare. A mustard plaster can be more effective but occasionally painful and the kitchen did not have the proper seeds."

He takes a final look at the ailing Lord Elder and adds, "If you are inclined, I would seek a local vendor who sells liniments to ease the catarrh and the painful dryness around his nose. It will further ease his discomfort. For now, I've done all I can and if you are quite happy, I'll take my leave of you both."

The gardener nods and rises, peeling his hand away from Jacob's and surreptitiously wiping any sweat from it before offering it to Laurence. He escorts the man downstairs and they stand awkwardly in the lobby, peering through the frosted glass at the wintery streets of London. The grandfather clock in hallway chimes impressively.

Isaiah extends his hand to Laurence once more, giving the man a genuine smile.

“The snow's stopped. Your walk home ought to be easier than getting here, but do travel safely. I truly appreciate your help tonight. If there's anything I can do for you in the future you must let me know. I'm sure Jacob will offer the same, when he is well. Take care now.”

He watches Laurence depart into the dark street and turns once again for Elder's chambers.

Isaiah returns to the bedside and casts a fond look at his love, sitting beside him and smoothing the dark curls off his brow to kiss it. A little cooler, perhaps?

“Laurence has gone home. We're alone again. How are you feeling?”

The plaster seems to have eased Elder's breathing for the moment and he does feel a little cooler. The fog of fever is barely lifted but he manages to sleepily address Isaiah.

"Tired," he says. "A little better...but I'm so tired. I want so badly to sleep but everything hurts."

Hurts is said with a little whine not entirely befitting a Lord. But he does ache terribly. His limbs seem heavily and dull with pain and his nose and lips are so chapped that the smallest breath across them is like hot coals. Fever still burns his body, too, coating him in a continued sweat that brings shivers and discomfort.

"I'm so sorry," he manages to add. "I didn't think I was so ill when I left to visit. I haven't been so ill in a very long time...not since when I...I was and...I when I...."

His voice trails off as fever addles his speech.

For his part, Isaiah follows the muddled words with utmost focus, watching Jacob's lips move as though they speak a prophecy. His gaze is soft and fond, less anxious now but keener.

“Hush. You couldn't know. Poor love.”

He places a testing hand under the blankets and feels that the plaster is cooling off. Truthfully Isaiah is tired himself, too tired to trust himself to rest but remember to remove it before it chills his Lord, so he removes it now.

“Let me take this off.” He says with feigned cheerfulness. He unswaddles Jacob from the sheets as deftly as he can, allowing the minimum possible exposure of the man's chest to the cooler air, and discards the pungent poultice on the floor. His Lord's skin is greasy and damp where it has been and he sponges it lightly with the cloth he was using earlier, letting the tepid water ease away the sweat. He wipes at Elder's neck and face, too, moving slowly as a caress. These are all places he has kissed his Lordship in the preceding months of their courtship but this seems more intimate somehow.

When he is satisfied that Jacob is as comfortable as he is going to get, Isaiah draws the sheets back up around his neck and tucks them tightly. Then and only then does he allow himself to crawl onto the bed beside his love. He stays over the covers reluctant to let Jacob loose any heat, but he curls as close as he dares, resettling the man and drawing his fevered head a little way onto his breast. He has always been taller and more muscular than his Lordship but the difference seems more pronounced now. Those dark curls against his pale cheeks make Elder look almost fey, impossibly delicate. Isaiah brushes them from the man's cheek with one broad hand.

“Perhaps you can sleep now. It would do you good.”

"Mhm," Elder agrees with a quiet murmur. He's slipping into a light doze now that the fever's been tamed by Isaiah's capable hands. His head rests quietly against the soft rise and fall of Cartwright's broad chest, soothed into sleep by the steady motion and the cool comfort of the gardener's touch.

He rests for a few hours before he's awake again, this time with his heart pounding rapidly and his breath gasping inward. The fever is breaking, sending sweats across his body and setting his limbs shivering with a violence he cannot control. Even his teeth chatter as he grabs desperately at the sleeping form next to him, rousing Isaiah to action. The sheets all around are damp with sweat and Elder's hair is soaked, sticking to his head in slick black ringlets. Along his arms, gooseflesh rises.

With trembling hands he tries to loosen his nightshirt, attempting to peel away the wet shirt from his skin. The fever break is a great relief but it leaves him feeling utterly exhausted again. His fingers trip on the buttons and he fumbles with a low whine of frustration.

Isaiah's face swims into view in front of him, sleep-mussed and bleary but relieved. He takes over unbuttoning and removing Elder's nightshirt.

“Jacob? I think your fever is down. Oh, you're soaked. Here-”

Isaiah retrieves the cloth and wipes Jacob down as best as he can manage in the half-light. He rifles through the man's baggage for a clean nightshirt and, failing to find one, offers up a fresh linen dress shirt. He helps his love to dress, then runs his finger under his collar, suddenly aware of the dampness of his own shirt. He removes it and settles shirtless next to Jacob, holding the man to his chest. Isaiah finds he must resist the urge to squeeze Jacob tightly to him, desperate for the presence of him and filled with unexpected tenderness at the intimacy of the situation. Instead he simply kisses him on cheek, as though he is something very fragile.

His face is very close to Jacob's, emotion difficult to read.

“You did scare me rather. How are feeling? I don't know what to do...”

"Better," Jacob says softly, breathing slow and even for the first time in a while, though his lung still crackle with a faint wheeze when he inhales. He settles himself into the crook of Isaiah's neck, lips brushing the stubble-prickled skin there. "You've been so sweet to me."

As he lets himself rest, bone-deep weariness weighing him down, he tries to remember the events of the night that remain clouded in fevered delirium. All that he recalls is the touch of Cartwright's calloused hands and the feeling that the man was his anchor in the rough sea of illness.

The break of the fever allows him to finally feel some sense of comfort in the small four-poster bed as he lies nestled with the other man. The exhaustion has set him into a sort of limp relaxation that leaves only his nose rebelling against sleep. Turning to spare Cartwright's neck and chest from the mess, he tucks his nose into the bedsheets and shakes with a sudden, congested stifle.

Eh-TSNGHT!

It does not satisfy his nose's aching itch and his chest expands with a shuddery breath as his body prepares for another sneeze. His one hand clutches at Isaiah's bare chest, seeking out his anchor.

Hehh'tsh-GSHTT! Ngh'TSGHT!

He spasms twice, sneezing wetly against the mattress before surfacing with a sniffle.

"Perhaps not entirely recovered yet," he says weakly, searching the dark for his handkerchief.

"Of course not. Give it time." Isaiah murmurs, half asleep. "I know you have high expectations of yourself, Jacob, but you will need a while to recover."

He turns over, finds the handkerchief and returns it to his owner before snuggling close. They so rarely get to spend the night together, and despite Jacob's condition he feels warm inside at the continued proximity.

Jacob takes the handkerchief gratefully and presses it to his damp nose, giving a small, wet blow before folding it over to a dry corner and wiping the excess moisture away. He'd normally be embarrassed at such a display but he's seen poor Cartwright caught in an endless struggle of nasal distress so many times that it gives him no such feelings. He's already been at his most vulnerable with the gardner, confessing his unusual attractions only to find the other man much obliging to the Lord's strange taste in pleasures.

Now that he's feeling well enough again to enjoy some of the man's company, he settles down in Isaiah's gentle embrace and relaxes into a deep and peaceful sleep for the first time in many hours.

[Dusty15]

The next time he awakens it's morning and the bright winter sunshine is streaming in from a crack in the curtains. Elder rolls over, snuffling and wiping crust from his eyes and nose. At his side, Cartwright is lying still with eyes closed but Elder isn't certain the man is still asleep. It must be past eight judging from the brightness of the sunshine and Elder wonders if anyone noticed his visitor never leaving the previous evening. How they'll manage to sneak out of the club unnoticed crosses his mind but he judges himself too cozy and still sleep-addled to give it much mind.

As it turns out, Isaiah is quite asleep but when Jacob stirs he does too. In sleep he looks younger, his features softened and hair mussed out across the pillow in waves. Isaiah's eyes crack open and he reaches instinctively for Jacob across the mattress.

"I- Jacob? What's the time?" A grope across the room for his watch confirms Jacob's suspicion.

Isaiah gives his lover an appraising look and places a testing hand on his forehead for a moment, nodding his satisfaction. "Normal." A half-smile. "As normal as you get."

Then he remembers where he is and sobers. "I can't very well stay here and escort you to breakfast. If we're to be discreet I had better leave as soon as can. Besides I ought to change. Perhaps I could go back to my room and change my clothes, and if you're feeling stronger I could meet you somewhere nearby in an hour?" He kisses Jacob's cheek tenderly. "I do intend to enjoy your company despite it all."

Jacob sits up after a brief struggle with tangled sheets and reaches for one of the cleaner handkerchiefs dotting the nightstand. He gives his nose a gurgling blow, clearing out the night's gathered congestion, before he answers Cartwright.

"I'm feeling…mostly recovered," he says. Across his face there's a flutter of activity as his brows furrow and a look of confusion briefly scrunches his features. He's thankful for the handkerchief in hand as he darts forward with the explosion of two harsh sneezes.

Huhrr-TSGMFFF! Ehh….heh-TSGCHFFFF!

They're slightly muffled in the handkerchief and he surfaces with a final thick sniffle.

"I cannot promise my nose will behave," he says woefully. "It's still rather congested. But I do think I can join you for breakfast before my train departs."

He reaches for Isaiah's hand and captures it in his own.

"I'm so sorry we couldn't have a more carefree weekend, darling. You've been such a dear, taking care of me. I can't remember the last time I was so dreadfully ill. Either way, I'd've rather spent it here with you than alone at Woodhaven. Can you imagine poor old Bishop looking in on me? It would have been doubly miserable!"

Isaiah laughs at that all the way down the stairs, out of the club and back to his own rented room. The proprietor of the club raises an eyebrow at him as he passes, more due to the amused smirk on his face than anything else.

They reconvene an hour later in a small coffee-house overlooking the river. The snow has stopped but a few inches sit on the pavement, the Thames is frozen over and a handful of sullen geese slide on the ice.

The two gentleman can see their breath as they step out of the cab and into the warmth. Isaiah has to restrain himself from kissing Jacob's pale cheek and gives a slightly resentful glance to a courting couple who pass the window arm-in-arm.

“I expect Woodhaven looks like a postcard at this time of year.” He says wistfully.

"A postcard if you look at it from a distance," Elder replies. "Up close the entry way is all mud and dirty snow, and Bishop nearly pitches a fit every time anyone takes more than three steps inside wearing soiled boots. There is something very lovely about a big old house in the snow, but it's terribly draughty inside and I've got to keep the curtains drawn and the fires at full if I want to get any work done. It always seems a shame to cover those big windows with heavy, dark drapes."

As they find a table in the coffee-house, he thinks he'd much rather do work tucked up in bed looking out the window with Cartwright snuggled to his side for warmth.

Elder orders a tea with extra honey, still feeling hoarse and drained from his recent illness. When their drinks arrive, he stirs a generous spoonful of the amber liquid into his cup and takes a soothing sip.

"Do you think you'll be able to make a trip to see me soon after the new year?" he asks Cartwright after a moment. It's hard to even look at the lovely young gardener when he asks this, fearing the inevitable answer. The man's skills are in demand here in London and he's busy with clients finishing up consultations and drawings for spring groundbreaking at several massive estates across the area. It likely won't be spring until they can spend any length of time together at Woodhaven and although Elder likes the effects of the timing of a trip during those months very much, he'd rather see his darling boy sooner.

“I was meaning to talk to you about that.” Cartwright says, smiling. “It seems that most of my clients are taking time off for Christmas and won't be able to see me for consultations until the new year. If I work hard to catch up what I've started, I should be free for the week before Christmas, if that would suit?”

He gives Elder a smile, finally able to offer something he hopes will please the man.

Then the bell over the door of the cafe jingles and his face blanches.

Two young women enter the cafe, shaking the snow off their umbrellas. They are dressed fashionably but modestly. The taller of the two has chestnut curls pulled back from her face. The shorter has dark, wavy hair and a pleasant, shy smile. When she turns and notices Cartwright she reveals very familiar green-flecked eyes.

“I- oh my-”

Isaiah seems to have forgotten how to breathe. His eyes dart to the door as though considering escape, then he swallows and rises from his feet with a poor semblance of cool.

“Lord Elder.” He coughs nervously. “May I present my sisters, Evelyn and Adelaide Cartwright.”

Elder is taken aback by the sudden introduction to his darling gardner's family members. Rising from his chair, he collects his wits and bends in a slight bow.

"What a pleasure," he says as he extends a hand to take each of the women's in turn for a polite kiss. He's incredibly conscious all of a sudden about how raw and hoarse his voice sounds. And he knows for certain that his nose has a chapped, pink tinge and his lips are dry and cracked from the illness and fever. He whets them with a small darting out of his tongue before speaking again.

"Mister Cartwright never told me he had such lovely sisters in London, though he has, of course, mentioned you both. He has been such an asset at my house, Woodhaven. Our grounds have never looked better, thanks to him. I've come down to London on business and I just had to meet with him to discuss future plans for the spring renovations."

The lie slips out with ease and he hopes the women aren't suspicious of the fact that they have no drawings or books with them at the cafe, not to mention the fact that Elder is clearly still a bit under the weather and any normal gentleman would have canceled a meeting if he'd been in a similar state of runny-nose and rumbling chest.

Evelyn and Adelaide seem to have no such concerns, being distracted and delighted by the encounter with their brother. Adelaide blushes madly at Elder's flattery, and looks more like Isaiah than ever. She can't be very much older, and far is less worldly.

“We wouldn't want to interrupt you.” Evelyn says, but she sits herself at the table anyway. Adelaide follows her, completely ignoring her brother's icy glare. They have apparently taken the lack of notes on the table to mean that the meeting is over. Isaiah joins in with their chatter with an air of resignation- he is enormously fond of all his sisters, but had hoped to enjoy his last few hours with his love uninterrupted. Perhaps they can slip away before Elder is too wearied by their company.

Adelaide cheerfully tells Isaiah the latest about their eldest sister, Emily. Evelyn, meanwhile, has a sharp, though compassionate, eye on Elder.

“I have heard wonderful things about Woodhaven. Do you spend a lot of time in London? I suppose the weather must make it harder to travel?” She asks.

"He's told you of Woodhaven, then?" Elder replies, unable to help himself. With a smile, he gathers himself and continues. "Yes, it's a lovely home though it's lonely since my wife passed several years ago. I do try to get myself to London when possible, though it can be a long journey in the snow. The car, though it's new, doesn't handle well in this weather and so getting to the station and the down south can be difficult."

The cafe door opens and a gust of winter air rushes in, dry and bitter in contrast to the fire-warmed air of the room. Elder feels his nose prickle sharply in response and he nudges it with his wrist, hoping to avoid any outbursts of the nasal variety.

He reaches for his tea to take a sip but notices that Isaiah's sisters are without beverages.

"Can I offer to fetch either of you something to drink?" he offers. "I do apologize, we've kept you sitting here without anything warm to…tehh…ehh'TSGHTT!"

He raises his hands and steeples them over his nose, turning away from the table as the sneeze bursts out with a ticklish explosion. He sniffles and his breath hitches again in preparation for another sneeze. He feels Isaiah's leg brush his under the table as his body tenses and he snaps forward twice more, stifling these sneezes.

N'tXTT! Hehh-n'GHTT!

"Pardon me!" he says sheepishly, retrieving his handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and dabbing gently as his damp nostrils. "I'm afraid I'm recovering from a slight cold. Please forgive me."

“God bless you.” Evelyn murmurs politely, with her younger sister chiming in a beat later. She leans toward him and looks him up and down as though noticing his condition for the first time.

Evelyn turns and shakes her head at her brother, “Really Isaiah, is this how you treat you employer? He'll get no better if you drag him out in the snow.”

It is Isaiah's turn to blush deeply. “I didn't-” He begins.

Adelaide is laughing behind her hand and whispers to her sister, quite audibly. “Do you suppose Isaiah deliberately chose a partner who sneezes nearly as much as he does?”

“That's quite enough, Adelaide.” Isaiah kicks her under the table with very little subtly. He is torn between fury and amusement. It's just as well Jacob is far more to him that just a business prospect! The girl would be an absolute liability, sweet and well-meaning though she is.

“It is true though.” Evelyn says placatingly to Lord Elder. “You needn't beg our forgiveness, my Lord. Isaiah rarely stops, do you?”

"I insisted on keeping our meeting," Elder replies, finishing wiping his nose with a final swipe before depositing his handkerchief back into his pocket. He affects his charming smile and looks between the girls. "And yes, I'm well acquainted with your brother's condition, so I figured a small interruption on my own part would be excusable today."

How he says it without blushing, he isn't certain. There's a small glow that seems to grow in his limbs at the memory of Isaiah's rather spectacular hay fever and the spring back at Woodlawn when he first discovered it.

"Do you two ladies live here in the city, or are you visitors like myself?" he asks the girls. "It's especially pretty in the snow, don't you think?"

He barely completes the question before his face contorts into a strange expression as his lip curls and he turns away suddenly, sneezing once more. The hot-then-cold air of the cafe as patrons come in and out is wrecking havoc on his irritated nose.

Huhr-TSGHKKKT!

He manages to mostly shield it in his sleeve. With a mortified expression, he takes out his hankie again to tend to his leaking nose.

"Pardon," he says, exasperated. He's feeling a bit uncomfortable with the attention towards his cold and it makes him wonder if Isaiah ever got used to it.

Mister Cartwright himself looks as though he doesn't know whether to laugh or run away. In truth he is quite resigned to, though not appreciative of, his sister's attentions, and seeing them turned on another person is amusing. When Jacob sneezes again he murmurs a cringing “Bless you.”

Adelaide thankfully take the conversational bait and cheerfully tells Elder how the two live their mother in Tunbridge Wells and are only in London to visit their eldest sibling.

“Running into Isaiah was a nice surprise,” she says brightly. “We'd only stopped in to sit down before we go and meet a friend.”

By then their tea is finished and Isaiah meaningfully affects a look at his pocket watch.

There is nearly hour to go before Elder's train comes in and plenty of time to get to the station but he stands saying, “Goodness, Lord Elder. You mustn't miss your train!”

Elder gives Cartwright a subtle look of gratitude and plays along.

"You're quite right! The last thing I need is to be caught in the cold waiting for the next train."

He turns to the sisters and inclines his head politely.

"It was a pleasure meeting you both. I do hope you enjoy your visit with your friend."

They exchange their farewells and the girls take turns embracing their brother while Elder busies himself with putting on his overcoat and tucking his scarf tightly around his still achy throat. Pulling on his gloves, he waits for Isaiah to dress and they leave the cafe together and start down the blustery street towards the nearby station.

"I don't want to leave you yet," he says softly to Cartwright, inclining his head against the wind and trying to shield his sensitive nose from the worst of the cold.

They round the corner near the station and Elder sees just the sort of place he's been carefully watching for while they walk.

"Come this way," he says, nodding towards a nearby alley. He ducks down the narrow path between two large building and into an alcove. There's just enough room for the two men next to a door and a coal bin awaiting a delivery of fuel. Not particularly romantic, but it would do.

Elder stands close to the other man, his body craning for warmth. He tucks his head towards Isaiah's, kissing the man tenderly. He's careful to keep an ear out for anyone approaching.

Mister Cartwright kisses back with all the suppressed fondness that built in him watching two distinct spheres of his life collide messily. Their lips meet with urgent sweetness, a balm against the biting wind. The embrace lasts a long time, as long as they dare. The men murmur to each other, planning a trip in the future and laughing now that the danger of discovery is passed.

At last Isaiah pulls away, sighing.

He places a hand on his love's cheek. “You do look dreadful, Jacob. You must take care of yourself when you return to Woodhaven. I suppose Bishop will see to that, but you should let him. For my sake at least, so I don't feel so guilty for dragging you to London like this.”

"You certainly did not drag me to London," Elder replies. "I could have been down with Smallpox and I still would have made the journey. Besides, the worst of it hit me after I'd boarded the train."

He tilts his head, letting the full weight of it press into Isaiah's bare hand which is still warm despite the biting winter air. Closing his eyes briefly, he tries to let every callus and ridge of the man's fingertips burn into the memory of his flesh.

"You've taken such good care of me, love," he says finally. "Bishop will indeed see me back to full health, but you've nearly got me there."

There's a single chime of the church bell at the nearby parish, signalling the half-hour. Elder sighs and embraces Cartwright with a final, tight hug.

They leave the alleyway side by side with all the airs of two male friends, though Jacob's face still burns from Isaiah's touch and he would not have been surprised if someone had told him he carried the red shape of a hand there upon the ridge of his high cheekbone.

The train is already at the platform, bursting with steam as its engine idles while passengers board.

"Until next time," Jacob says, removing his glove and extending his hand to Isaiah.

“Until next time.” Isaiah echoes. “I'll write. I'll telephone if I can.” The clasp of his hand is tight and urgent but brief, and then Jacob is lost to the billowing steam and bustle of strangers.

The train lurches into motion with a groan as though lamenting the slush and ice that lacquers the tracks. It pulls slowly out of the station and gathers speed until it rounds a corner and is lost between the red brick factories of London, heading for the countryside.

Isaiah Cartwright is left alone on the platform long after the train has departed. Hazel eyes gaze off into the distance as he follows one dear passenger with his thoughts, wishing him a safe journey. It is snowing again. Huge wet flakes like goose down settle on his shoulders and catch in his hair. They make him shudder where they slip down his neck to melt against his flesh and at last he stirs himself, shakes his head in private amusement and makes his way back through the station toward his lodging and a warm hearth. It is surely too soon to begin a letter to Jacob, but there is no harm in drafting it in his head. Thus occupied, he slips through into the street and disappears into the snow.

[Leafeon78]

Wow that was a lot to read but worth the time anymore?

[Melody]

Omg!!! I remember reading this fic ages ago and loving it! I am so happy it's back! I love this

[Arty]

;_____;

Simply beautiful........

[VoOs]

To my great frustration, I only have time to read the first part for now but LSKDJLSKDJFLSKH --- BABIES.

I think I've told you before, but 'His Lordship's Gardener' is one of my favourite SF fics of all time, and now there is more of it, more of these two lovely gentlemen, and I barely know what to do with myself.

Poor, precious Jacob. My heart is melting and I'm drowning in warm fuzzies.

Now I have to go to bed but... I WILL BE BACK. <o>_____<o>

(<3!!!)

[Dusty15]

VoOs I am so thrilled that you continue to be Elder and Cartwright's #1 fan (after Salamander and myself, obviously!! )

[VoOs]

VoOs I am so thrilled that you continue to be Elder and Cartwright's #1 fan

I wear that title proudly.

A story of forbidden love and care-taking set against the backdrop of a snowy, Victorian London. I can't imagine anything more devastatingly romantic.

Elder and Cartwright's relationship really is the sweetest, most heartwarming thing. Add to that your delicious descriptions of Elder's wretched illness, and I'm just sitting here with the widest, stupidest smile on my face.

Truly beautiful work. Thank you for sharing it. <3

[Salamander]

VoOs I am so thrilled that you continue to be Elder and Cartwright's #1 fan

I wear that title proudly.

A story of forbidden love and care-taking set against the backdrop of a snowy, Victorian London. I can't imagine anything more devastatingly romantic.

Elder and Cartwright's relationship really is the sweetest, most heartwarming thing. Add to that your delicious descriptions of Elder's wretched illness, and I'm just sitting here with the widest, stupidest smile on my face.

Truly beautiful work. Thank you for sharing it. <3

Waaaaaaah thanks for the feedback. We can share our toys, for sure. Thanks for posting, Dusty, I just re-read this thing and got right into it again. <3

[cally]

The first fic was one of the first original pieces that I read here, and I found it so romantic and touching. This piece did not disappoint and I was so pleased to read this companion to the first.

[truth]

I have not read the first but this second one is so long and amazing that I think I must.

seriously. Wow. This pairing. The sneezes. The everything.

[RiversD]

Gosh, this is brilliant (its predecessor was pretty amazing too). I loved that you took the time to build up a full picture of the illness- the discomfort of fever, the feeling of heavy congestion, even little details like Jacob getting goosepimples just from taking his shirt off for a few second.

I was also really impressed at the attention you gave to the time period, both in terms of social norms and attitudes, and in terms of what would be medically available at the time. I don't have any expert knowledge myself, but it was lovely to read something set in this period that not only didn't jar my suspension of disbelief with modernisms, but also went out of its way to immerse me in its setting. That's a lot of trouble to go to and it really made a difference to my enjoyment of the story.

And Isaiah is adorable. His concern for Jacob is wonderfully written, as it his continual conflict between his immediate desires and his need to keep up appearances. Both of them are brilliant characters, and thank you so much for sharing them with us.

xxx

[ellwren]

Really well written and lovely. Thank you for sharing!

[Dusty15]

Thank you all so much! And a very special thanks to RiversD. What a lovely, lovely comment! Both Salamander and I are history nerds. I can confirm both of us have wandered off into the internet rabbit hole reading about everything from period architecture at Euston Station to poultices and quinine tinctures

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Ohhh Jacob. Definitely worth the wait. They are incredibly sweet together and completely meltworthy and I love how you had his sisters bump in, in a very Austen-esque way. Simply lovely

[Bruyere]

This was such a gorgeous long read! And I loved your spellings for Elder's sneezes.

As others have said, I loved the attention to detail in all areas, manners, clothes and the medicine as well. I even looked up pictures of the Victorian Euston station because you made it sound so elegant and it's such a ghastly station nowadays! /nerd

[froglatte]

Just brilliant. Absolutely wonderful. I know I'm completely immersed in a story when I start casting it in my head. And I went back and read the original companion piece and enjoyed it thoroughly.

[toastytoast]

this is so incredible and so well written I don't have the words to describe my love for this fic

[camillapapen]

So, I know I'm late to the party here, but one of the main reasons I created an account was to comment on this story. This, and its predecessor, are two of my favourite SF stories of all time (and I've read a lot). The writing is beautiful, the historical detail is on point, and the characterisaton is fantastic. I've read them so many times I've lost count. Thank you so much for writing them and giving me hours of happiness.

[Dusty15]

On December 7, 2016 at 3:51 AM, camillapapen said:

So, I know I'm late to the party here, but one of the main reasons I created an account was to comment on this story. This, and its predecessor, are two of my favourite SF stories of all time (and I've read a lot). The writing is beautiful, the historical detail is on point, and the characterisaton is fantastic. I've read them so many times I've lost count. Thank you so much for writing them and giving me hours of happiness.

 Wow! Thank you so very much! I think both Salamander and I are very proud of this and the prequel <3 

[camillapapen]

3 hours ago, Dusty15 said:

 Wow! Thank you so very much! I think both Salamander and I are very proud of this and the prequel <3 

You definitely should be! 

[Salamander]

On 12/7/2016 at 8:51 AM, camillapapen said:

So, I know I'm late to the party here, but one of the main reasons I created an account was to comment on this story. This, and its predecessor, are two of my favourite SF stories of all time (and I've read a lot). The writing is beautiful, the historical detail is on point, and the characterisaton is fantastic. I've read them so many times I've lost count. Thank you so much for writing them and giving me hours of happiness.

 

On 12/11/2016 at 6:02 AM, Dusty15 said:

 Wow! Thank you so very much! I think both Salamander and I are very proud of this and the prequel <3 

Yay, I second this, I had so much fun writing it. It's fun to see it kicking around the forum again xx

[camillapapen]

1 hour ago, Salamander said:

 

Yay, I second this, I had so much fun writing it. It's fun to see it kicking around the forum again xx

Might it ever be continued (she asked, hopefully)? The stories have so many of my favourite things - strong men being weakened by illness, H/C, caretaking, a determination and then failure to adhere to social decorum...