Chapter Text
“The Honourable Viscount Rodent, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“The honor is all mine,” he replies, shaking hands with the elderly man in the navy suit. The Earl of Gaiedale has to have at least forty years on him, medals from his various exploits in far-flung corners of the empire pinned to his lapel.
Sometimes, Castor feels very lonely and a bit lost among the nobility, despite – or maybe for the reason of – having inherited the title of Viscount already from his late father. He’s younger than all of them, without any stories of heroism or loyalty to tell at balls and garden parties, left with a slightly crumbling estate and no real plans for the future other than general lingering and expanding on the family library with exotic and meaningful literature. Something like that.
As if she could sense the agony he encountered in striking up polite conversation with the Earl, Kitty snatches him away to dance after an appropriate amount of time. They whirl across the ballroom in a maelstrom of dancers, the movements of the quadrille as easy and steady as breathing or walking, joining hands and breaking apart, twirling around with a different partner before finding each other again. They’d danced all the ballroom dances – quadrille, cotillion, reels – so often as children that he sometimes feels like the steps have left behind little footprints in his bones, and maybe if someone were to excavate his grave in a few hundred years, they’d find the remnants of long-forgotten courtship spelled out across his mortal remains.
When they reach a part of the dance where they whirl each other around for a particularly long time without breaking apart, a smile tugs at Kitty’s lips. “She’s here,” she whispers, her dark eyes wide and shimmering in the candlelight.
He has to grin, too. She, the Earl of Gaiedale’s daughter Lady Eleanor; and the girl of which Kitty doesn’t know if she’d like to punch her or kiss her. She has done both before, for that matter, and yet Eleanor doesn’t seem to ever catch Kitty’s hints that she likes Eleanor as something else than just a friend. Considering how closeness and affection seem to be expected in female friendships, maybe she really is oblivious to it, but Castor thinks it far more likely that Eleanor does know, she just likes to spite Kitty.
“Have you spoken to her?” he asks.
Kitty shakes her head, gently enough that nobody else would catch the gesture. “She’s spent all evening with her betrothed. The one in the lilac suit.”
Castor sweeps over the room with his eyes when they turn another time. His gaze gets caught in a smudge of purple, and upon closer inspection, the girl standing right next to it is indeed Lady Eleanor, dressed in a gown of soft pinks while her dark locks frame her face. He can’t make out too much of her companion, but Castor thinks he’s vaguely acquainted with the boy in the purple suit from some garden party or other social gathering. It must’ve been a while, though, because despite his best efforts, he cannot conjure up a name from the depths of his mind.
“Do you know her betrothed?” he asks Kitty.
She gives the hint of a nod. “The Marquess of Rosman and something, but his father is the Earl of Hersey.” She pauses for a moment. “He’s awfully nice, too. I met him once, and he seems like a genuinely fine person. There’s worse people to be betrothed to.”
“I hope you’re not referring to me.”
Kitty swallows a laugh and almost missteps; Castor feels the slight hitch in her otherwise perfectly fluid movements as she fights for balance. “You know what I mean. I think the two actually like each other and don’t just keep up an act for the sake of convenience.”
“Touché,” he manages to squeeze in before handing her off to the next dancer, not without a little bit of worry knotting in his stomach.
Kitty sounds awfully wistful when she says things like these, torn between being happy because a girl she might be friends with is to marry someone she actually likes, and the anger and longing Kitty harbours because she would like to be with that girl.
Sure, Castor and Kitty are betrothed too, and like most of their peers they’d hardly had a say in it, but there’s always been a mutual understanding that if one of them loved someone else, they’d cover up the other’s affairs and scandals. They had made up those rules in the branches of one of the apple trees behind the Rodent estate, way before they’d really figured out just how poorly the way they loved would be able to slot into their lives as nobles. He remembered a day when he’d brought a pocket knife he’d gotten for Christmas the year before, a bright spring day on which they carved their initials into the tree and promised to be there for each other, whatever that might look like.
“I could talk to the Marquess of Rosman-something,” Castor offers the next time he joins hands with Kitty.
“Are you suggesting a little espionage?” Her eyes light up, but the spark fades as quickly as it had flared to life. “You really do not have to. Eleanor tells me most things, I think. If this marriage will truly make her happy, then how awful of a person would I have to be to try and ruin it for her?”
Now it’s his turn to slightly shake his head. “I wouldn't barge in and mess it all up. Just... politely inquire. I’ll wait, but if there is a good opportunity to speak to him, I won’t decline it.”
If he is correct about Eleanor, if she does like Kitty back, then the whole arrangement will eventually only lead to sorrow.
Castor takes a better look at the boy in the lilac suit, tries to remember him. Golden-brown hair that slightly curls, several shades lighter than his own, crisp white shirt, the chain of a pocket watch reflecting candlelight back into the room. Even the boy’s face seems nice , as Kitty put it, the laughter that spills from his lips as Eleanor says something genuine. Castor doesn’t think he’s ever really spoken to the Marquess of Rosman-something, past maybe a polite and meaningless chat. Nonetheless, he’s bound to sooner or later meet the betrothed of Kitty’s best friend, so maybe he’d rather do it sooner and on his own terms.
If the Marquess really is as nice as he pretends to be, maybe he’d actually care a little about Eleanor’s feelings.
Notes:
If anyone is even reading this, hi! This absolute brainwreck of story came to be because the hilarious sentence "Mr. Rodent lives in our floorboards" has been haunting my friendgroup's Minecraft world for quite some time now; I really don't have any other justification.
But there's at least two more chapters of this mess sitting in my google drive!Also, the nobility titles were made up by taking real titles and messing around with them until they were no longer recognisable. I was scared the Viscount of something-something would sue me if I used titles that actually exist lmao
Chapter 2: Encounters
Summary:
They actually talk, wow!
Slight warning: contains mentions of drinking
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
At some point during the evening, he ends up in the Earl’s library with some of the other young noblemen. Eleanor and her friendgroup of girls have stolen Kitty away for a stroll in the gardens, and now Castor sits with his back against a bookcase next to a childhood friend of his, a bottle of Brandy between them. The Honourable William Smith, heir to the Viscounty of Falkland besides Foure, who is going away soon to serve in the army at the wish of his father; the Viscount of Falkland who just doesn’t ever seem to die. Despite the fact that he will undoubtedly start his army career at the rank of Officer, Will isn’t too thrilled about the whole thing, not wanting to leave behind his sister who has recently fallen ill with consumption. Even though the disease is indeed very aesthetic and all that, it is also – put simply – quite deadly, and Will would rather be home if she dies, not shipped off to India or some Caribbean island.
“The Viscount gets what the Viscount demands.” Will sighs, repeating the mantra they’d agreed upon as children whenever their fathers had demanded something of them they hadn’t wanted to do. The only difference being that Castor is now Viscount himself, while Will is still stuck bending to the wishes of his father.
A father who isn’t too happy with Will being heir to his title, since nobody is entirely sure if Will is actually his father’s son, or born out of one of his mother’s numerous affairs. Only she could’ve told, but she’d taken that secret with her to the grave; and now Will constantly tries to prove that he deserves the Viscounty, even though Castor doesn’t understand why he wants it that badly. Being a Viscount’s child really isn’t that bad even if you don’t inherit the title, if you don’t mind being stuck with being referred to as “the Honourable” for the rest of your life.
He knows better than to suggest that Will could just refuse to serve, and let the Viscounty fall into the hands of his younger brother.
“Do you know when you will return?” he asks instead.
Will shakes his head. “At least a year, but I don’t know how long I’m expected to stay. Probably depends on how the situation develops.”
“Such a pity.”
“Maybe in hindsight, it’ll be worth it.” Will shrugs.
“Maybe.” Maybe Will’s father will finally vacate the Viscounty, so to speak, and then Will would be called back as his heir to sort out the matter.
But Castor doesn’t say that, of course, and Will gets up to wander away and look for his brother. He leaves the bottle of Brandy behind, and Castor allows himself to take a rather large sip.
If Kitty doesn’t turn up again soon, he’ll need it.
The evening blurs together, but eventually he finds himself as one of the last few people in the library, sitting at one of the desks by the big windows and trying to focus on some classical play in the candlelight, when someone slides into the chair opposite his.
Castor looks up. It’s the boy in the lilac suit, Eleanor’s husband-to-be.
What a lovely night, isn’t it? he thinks, and “The Marquess of Rosman-something!” he says.
It takes him a second to realize that he’s mixed up thought and word, while the other boy chuckles.
“The Marquess of Rosman and Bonhill indeed,” the boy in the lilac suit says. “Or Oleander Rosman, if you prefer.”
“Castor Rodent,” he gets out. “Or the Right Honourable the Viscount of o'Welley, if you prefer.”
“I’d prefer Castor, I think.”
“Well, pleased to make your acquaintance, Oleander.”
They look at each other for a moment, Oleander clearly taking in Castor’s dishevelled hair and the Brandy bottle he’s not bothered to hide. Not the best first impression Castor has ever left, but there have probably been worse ones. Thankfully, he's just forgotten about them.
“You’re Kitty’s betrothed, right?” Oleander eventually asks.
Castor gives a cautious nod. “And you’re Eleanor’s?”
“Indeed I am.”
“I assume we are going to see each other quite frequently then, I suppose. The two are rather good friends, after all.”
“Very close friends indeed.”
Maybe it’s the Brandy, or maybe the boy in the lilac suit actually isn’t oblivious to Kitty and Eleanor at all. Maybe he’s trying to keep his fiancées secret, just as Castor is trying to keep Kitty’s.
Before he can make up his mind on whether he should just outright ask, or if that would be too big of a risk, Oleander steers the conversation towards a less risky topic.
“What are you reading?” He nods towards the book Castor still holds in his hands, one index finger tucked between the pages to remember where he's stopped reading.
“Thesmophoriazusae,” he answers wearily. “In Latin, however. I’m afraid my Greek isn’t too good.”
“Today the women at the festival / Are going to kill me for insulting them!” Oleander quotes.
Castor can’t figure out if there’s something else Oleander is trying to hide behind the premise of the play, but he smiles nonetheless. “You’re fond of classical plays, I take?”
“I wouldn’t say fond, it’s more of a… taught appreciation. My mother’s mother was Greek, and so my mother demanded I read them all as soon as I could read. My passion lies with the sciences, I’m afraid.”
“Astronomy?” Castor asks. Somehow, he can imagine Oleander in the fields at night, staring up at the endlessly swirling constellation and the waning moon. Maybe even with a telescope, if Oleander really is more of a scientist and less of a romantic. Or maybe he is a little bit of both and just human in-between, who knows.
Oleander nods slightly. “Astronomy, geology, mathematics… But chemistry, especially. I would like to understand some of the mysteries of the world, and all sciences belong to the world around us. I just find chemistry the most fascinating, for reasons that are beyond me. It has much potential to do good, I suppose.”
“Art and science are kindred souls after all,” Castor replies, before adding: “Have you heard of the fossil they found down in Dorset?”
“The beast from the cliffs? I’ve been wanting to travel to London to see it ever since I read the articles. Fascinating, which secrets the earth is willing to unveil.”
The implication that the Earth also includes us humans is clear, or at least it seems that way to Castor, very tired and not entirely sober.
Notes:
If it wasn't abundantly clear already, I'm winging the references to classical plays as much as I make up the historical setting :] But I hope it's fun to read & that you enjoyed the Mary Anning reference! (she's my queen)
Chapter Text
“I think he knows,” Castor says.
Their carriage is speeding through the nightswept fields and meadows beyond the windows, blurring whatever contours the moon provides into writhing silver spectres and dancing shadows.
“The Marquess?” Kitty replies, too tired to tack on the of Rosman-something. She rests her head against the window, letting the coolness of the night seep into her temples. Her head bumps against the carriage wall any time they roll over a hole in the street, but Castor isn’t much better off even when sitting upright. The carriage just sucks.
“Of Rosman and Bonhill, or something like that. He likes Oleander better, I think.”
“First-name basis already, I see.” Her usual sharpness bleeds out from the edges of Kitty’s sleepiness.
“You said it yourself, he’s awfully nice.”
Kitty rolls her eyes. “Boys. But you think Eleanor told him?”
“I don’t know if she told him,” he concedes. “Maybe he just guessed. Just ask Eleanor already, honestly.”
She sighs. “I’m not even sure if Eleanor is certain of what she feels, and she’s much less sure of what she wants. Both of us know that we like each other, but Eleanor might like the Marquess too. She’s just not sure. And honestly, maybe it would make everything a lot easier for her if she did.”
“Easier maybe, but better?”
"You’re not exactly one to talk about that, right?"
"Right."
Neither of them sounds angry, both just tired after the ball and of the state of the world in general. Of the same old topics haunting their conversations, feelings like ghosts who don’t want to let go.
They've talked of trying to break up the engagement some day, or rather Kitty has, because Castor knows she feels like she's making him stay with her when maybe he could find happiness elsewhere. After all, it's not like he doesn't like girls romantically at all; he just doesn't like Kitty that way. And she doesn't fall in love with boys, and thus both of them are well aware that Kitty and Castor could never work out as a romance, and sometimes she feels like their engagement stands between him and happiness. She has told Castor that much, and there’s nothing he can say that would make the stubborn guilt in her heart evaporate. He’s tried saying everything there is to say, so all that’s left for him is to try and show her.
Because then again, they work as everything else; as friends, as allies, maybe they could even make a marriage work if they had to. They know each other better than they know anyone else, and more often than not Castor thinks that his happiness doesn't necessarily have to come with romance. After all, what life could be happier than one lived with his best friend?
"Do you want to go to London next fall?" he finally asks, trying to steer the conversation away from topics as tricky as happiness or responsibility. Such things are best discussed when you’re fully awake and not currently riding in a coach over bumpy countryside roads, preferably even over a cup of tea.
"I want to spend my life wasting time in the French countryside," Kitty answers instead. "But who ever asks about that?" She sighs, adding an exaggerated gesture as if she was fainting for good measure.
A smile tugs at Castor's mouth. "You know as well as I do that we don't have the money for that," he says nonetheless. "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't make the nicest decisions we can with the options we have. So, London?"
Through some strange combination of family ties, generational wealth and family trees that loop far more than they probably should, the Rodents still hold a property in London. When he'd been younger, Castor had spent several winters there with his mother when she had wished to flee the Scottish cold.
"I don't know." Kitty doesn't seem convinced. Between the few exciting things the city has to offer, London season means more balls than feels legal or sane, and a whole new army of nobles to deal with, each of them with their own collection of gossip and petty feuds attached. It's not like they don't like balls and people, it's just that Kitty likes pottery and the outdoors even more. And unlike Castor, who can bring books wherever he goes – and see even more of them in the city – the wilderness and Kitty's pottery workshop are much harder to transport to London.
"I think Eleanor and Oleander might go. He mentioned something about the new fossils they have on display."
"I'll think about it."
"Keep in mind how boring winters can be. Especially if so many of the others go away."
Kitty scoffs. “As if I don’t remember what happened last year.”
Castor looks away, his cheeks slightly red. The year before, he’d gotten so fed up with being holed up on the Rodent Estate that he’d decided to head out on his own on a crisp winter noon. He had then proceeded to severely overestimate the length of a December day, and Kitty’d had to swoop in along with the coachman to rescue him from an untimely demise through frostbite.
He's better off sticking to his books, that much is for certain.
Nonetheless, he sometimes wonders if that is truly all that life has in store for him. Reading and writing and collecting books – it's all nice and fun, but he isn’t sure if he'd consider a life like the one he is currently leading truly lived. Too often, he's just waiting for the time to pass, but he isn’t sure which time exactly that is. And Castor is scared to someday wake up and find that he’s spent his life waiting for it to end.
Notes:
I had my wisdom teeth removed (which everyone reading this knows) and now I have too much semi-fine time on my hands
Veree on Chapter 1 Thu 23 Oct 2025 08:08PM UTC
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smallfanfictallwriter on Chapter 1 Fri 24 Oct 2025 10:01PM UTC
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