Chapter Text
Holidays were not something Alfred would have ever considered, in fact he couldn't even recall a time where he had taken one in his many years of service.
Of course, Mr. Lawson had tried to cajole him into their benefits, wholeheartedly pressuring him to take some days off to stop thinking about work for once. "Take some rest," those were the words he had always uttered, giving motives over motives of the reasons why it would have been good for him—especially at his age, as he so often loved to remind him. But despite each offer, he had never taken such a thing as even a possibility.
What he had done was instead busying himself with the current recruitment issues Holybourne was facing, and as butler of the Hall he had to take care of them, but for a long time he couldn't wrap his head around it, every solution as bleak as the next.
And thus he had lost sleep and sat for many disappointing interviews, for every single candidate was just not worthy of the position their home required, and even worse, none seemed to understand the privilege of working there of all places.
In short, it had been a most difficult task.
"You look half dead, Alfred," Mr. Lawson had told him the day before, when he had noticed him taking a little more time than needed to bring him the tea tray he had asked for ten minutes earlier—a tea that had dangerously danced at the edge of a way too cold temperature.
The tone had been gentle though, always accompanied by that teasing lisp his employer had whenever he was telling what Alfred had learned to be a joke, a thing that he had never quite understood in his own country's satire, let alone now that he was faced with the foreign laughter of the American humour, a much incomprehensible one.
Jokes, those were truly a lacking skill, one that for the first time in his life he didn't even feel particularly eager to fill in for. Nevertheless—safely avoiding an expected funny retort that would have certainly landed miserably—he had assured his employer that there was no need to worry at all, for everything was still under his control, nothing left in peace from relentless, meticulous thinking.
And that same meticulous thinking was the reason why he believed he had finally found an answer to the staff problem they had been facing, but still—to fulfil that—he had to give in to his master's wishes and do what put to shame every single butler worthy of his position.
He had to take a holiday.
Alfred knew for certain that his father would be turning in his grave at this very knowledge.
"I had been thinking of taking a trip," he had told Mr. Lawson carefully—slowly, as he finally served his still somehow acceptably warm tea. Both of his hands made sure to not spill any liquid on the precious linen cloth that graced the crystal table of the sunroom, the one white piece that his employer loved and called very English.
A satisfied laughter answered him as the words landed, and Alfred felt a slight hint of irritation at the thought of being considered lazy, a man uncaring of his duties, almost as if he only wanted to spend his time idling away.
"A work trip," he firmly added to correct any possible misunderstanding.
Taking a bite off one of his pastries, Mr. Lawson continued to read his newspaper completely unbothered by his addition. Right beneath his nose there was the latest edition of the New York Times that he demanded to have on his desk at least once a month, news from all over the world a never stopping need for him as he tried his best to always be up-to-date with any topic. "You do not need to mask it, Alfred—God, these bastards."
"Is everything alright?"
"Yes, just the American government being full of bastards as usual."
Alfred nodded, and before the original subject could drift away in favour of talks of politics, he answered the remark. "I am not hiding anything, sir, it is a work trip. In fact, I'm quite certain I have found the solution for the recruitment issues we have been dealing with."
"I thought you had given up on it by now."
"Oh no, not at all."
"All the girls you had interviewed—and then turned down within five minutes—would dare to say otherwise."
Ignoring the dig, he had instead charged forward to make him see the significance of such a turning of events, one deserving of the same attention the papers gained each time. "I have received a letter from a past employee—a most experienced figure, one who had been of generous help throughout more than a decade of my years in the house."
Mr. Lawson had looked up from his newspaper to stare at him for a while.
This was something he had grown used to by now, but still he never failed to feel quite uncomfortable whenever it happened. There was always something in his gaze that recalled the same scrutiny he had faced many times in the past, but compared to then he knew that there was no real judgement behind those eyes, but that was indeed the worrying thing, for while with others he could easily understand what they were thinking, with him it was impossible, and that all had to do with the constant need of amusement that persistently betrayed whether he was serious or not.
And to prove his point, soon enough, raising an eyebrow—a smirk had appeared on his employer's lips, the type of strange grin that Alfred had been recognising as the sign of an imminent jest.
At the sight of it, his blood had turned cold at once. Bracing himself he had maintained the serious expression he was known and appreciated for.
Dignity.
That was all that mattered.
"Is this a girlfriend, Alfred? At your age at that."
"It is a footman—"
The sound of clapping hands cut him off before he continued. Mr. Lawson pointed a finger at him excitedly, his smile now even brighter than before. "I should have known that was your taste. No need to worry, though, I am modern compared to half of this ugly world, so no jail for you, Alfred! Not for that, at least, ah!"
Alfred did his best to not heave.
The air died in his throat in his resistance to refrain, but the bile blew up as his tone lost control of itself, his mouth moving on its own in a rush of a behaviour he had once learned to keep at bay by force, yet that still somehow escaped each time the mistreatment was too much. "Everything I care for is the prosperity of this household. You shall never doubt it, Mr. Lawson."
A cold and dangerous tone.
That was his speciality.
And with that perhaps, the man in front of him had ultimately understood that some of his fooling around was beyond professional acceptability, and that even the most rigorous of butlers would not stand for it.
A sudden kid in the skin of a man.
Mr. Lawson might be the reason why he still had his place, but it was all because Alfred was the picture of the fantasy the American had. Owning a very English residence in the countryside of England and having the most English butler of them all. That was what he wanted, and Alfred gave him exactly that—his whole self lost as a shadow lurking behind the embodiment of Holybourne.
Forty-three years like this.
Folding the newspaper, Mr Lawson leaned back to his chair and nodded, not in submission but in acceptance of being in the wrong. "I did not mean to offend you, Alfred."
"You did not."
Gracefully no more words were said on the matter, but Alfred's hands still trembled in their hidden clasp behind his back, his mind fighting against itself as hard as the shaking of that flesh for how he should have behaved in a better way.
He was not a lord.
He wasn't.
"Who's this man?"
"Uhtred Ragnarsson."
The words left his mouth and his lips suddenly felt dehydrated. His tongue, in its will to wet them to bring them comfort, joined the fight against his composure, but at least this time he did not lose.
He hadn't said that name out loud in seventeen years.
Seventeen.
God help me.
Swallowing dry nervousness, he gave every information Mr. Lawson would have needed, promptly blocking any dangerous thought away from prying eyes.
Uhtred was fifty-three, an excellent polisher of silver, a fast server, a bright worker under every single lens, a footman that had seemingly grown more and more diligent with time—something Alfred knew he had scrupulously lacked in when he had first arrived at Holybourne Hall in 1921, almost thirty years before.
A young man then, a childish, insolent, young man who was only eager to climb any ladder he could find and overthrow anyone who stood in his way.
He had been Alfred's first footman for eleven years.
He had never thought it would have happened—especially considering how their relationship was—but he knew there was no man he trusted more than him.
The household needed him.
Holybourne needed him.
Mr. Lawson laughed after he had heard the generous description, a light in his eyes that almost matched the ever present one Alfred knew so well. "So he's brilliant because he wanted to steal your place?"
Alfred's exhausted lips twitched in a smile he couldn't help nor hide. "Yes."
"Then I will be very happy to meet him."
And with that he had left, leaving him alone to prepare for the journey to Weymouth, the place where Uhtred had been living ever since he had left service at Durham Hall a couple of years back—in 1947 from what he knew.
He had served Durham for longer than he did Holybourne, but his presence was still everywhere Alfred looked, utterly unavoidable.
That's how much of a great worker he was.
The sun had been gone for a while now, and the electricity of the new light bulbs Mr. Lawson had installed in the house made such a terrible noise that it almost made Alfred eager to leave his working place. A whole week of peace for his ears in need of a nice respite.
A chilly shudder ran down his neck as he finished ironing the last of his shirts, the warmth of the iron barely felt when only the cold walls wrapped around his body.
He wondered if he should go to his room to get one more warm jumper. It was almost summer, and yet the temperature still felt like the same old one of the long, cold winter past.
Should I..? No, no. Better not.
There was no more space left in his luggage, the clothes left outside barely even getting their own space despite decades of trained skill in cramming layers over layers for any lord who may have asked.
Well, Uhtred was actually the one who was better at it.
"I swear, you could still fit a horse inside of it if you wanted to."
"And then the clothes would only have creases."
"They pay you for ironing them, do they not, Alfred?"
But there would have been no iron wherever he would have found a place to sleep on his journey, therefore he couldn't risk to bring more.
Deciding that the clothes were enough and that there was no need to look even more like the fool who only wore inappropriate clothes—weather-wise—he closed the suitcase, gently putting it aside so that he could load it in the car the next morning.
He wasn't particularly fond of driving all the way to Weymouth, but that was the most practical solution, for the last time he had to take a train he had felt too sick to journey back to Holybourne on the same day. He had been in London of all places then, a sudden one-day trip he had had to take because Mr. Lawson had had a need to have a Le Monde copy on his desk by the evening, but Alfred's sickness had made the task impossible. Thankfully, a close neighbour to the Hall had had one, and thus when he had returned home he had seen his employer happily reading his French newspaper, seemingly not caring whether Alfred had succeeded or not in finding a copy for him.
As a matter of fact he didn't even bother to tell Alfred that he had found a solution.
That was one of the most shameful moments of his career.
Amongst many.
A cough brusquely broke through him, his chest burning painfully as each breath hit his bowels in all the wrong places.
Resting heavily on his hands, he sat down on the couch of his pantry.
His fingers craved to give comfort to his stomach but his pride and stubbornness would not allow it.
Not yet.
Closing his eyes, his knuckles brushed the mellow velvet beneath him. The fabric gently grounded him, as memories flooded his mind, blissful flashes underneath his eyelids.
Please, God.
It was still the same one he had always had since he took the past butler's post—Mr. Altass, a nice man who had taught him a lot before he had passed in his sleep.
The couch was the only piece of furniture that had never changed in the many years he had lived there.
The same one where he and Uhtred had spent many evenings just talking.
Talking…
As his eyes opened, those dreams disappeared and the actual loneliness of that sad, dark space hit him, wistfulness eating at him more than any other living devil.
His gaze found the letter he had left on his desk for the past few days.
It was still open, the messy handwriting of that man clear even in the orange dimness of the faded room.
Since it had come, he had read it so many times that he knew it by heart now, though for no other reason than professional need, of course.
Uhtred wanted to come back to Holybourne Hall, that much had been obvious in between his lines, Alfred was sure of it. Uhtred's words had expressed more nostalgia than he had ever thought to be possible—sentences over sentences of reminiscence of the years they had spent together under the lordship of Lord Holybourne. He almost even seemed to purposely forget every bad memory associated with the place, and all for his desire of convincing him to be allowed back home.
But it was the offer of meeting each other that had surprised Alfred the most, because that, out of everything, he did not expect.
The household needed someone who could fix the recruitment issues they were facing and Uhtred was that person. Alfred, in his duty as its long serving butler, had to give justice to the history of their beloved Hall, and if that meant facing his greatest failure, he would have done it.
For the benefit of Holybourne and its new owner, of course.