Chapter Text
The cavernous gallery of Wetherby House was truly getting on his nerves, thought Thomas as he adjusted his white bow tie. At least the one of Wetherby Hall had more works of arts to balance the amount of portraits. The one of Wetherby House was instead entirely covered with portraits of his predecessors. An endless list of pompous, powerful, dusty ancestors who all look alike and whom he had heard about since he was born.
Thomas's earliest memory of this was when he was six years old, when his stern, pressed father, as distant as the portraits, had forced him to take yet another tour of the gallery. He had stopped in front of his father's portrait and placed a hand on his shoulder, more of a firm grip than anything else, and said to him:
"You are the future Lord Wetherby, Thomas. Never forget that you are born to rule and to be a leader."
His father's statement implied that his son would always be surrounded in a way or another and never alone.
It was the first lie he had ever been told.
He was six years old.
And as more time passed the irony of this statement had bloomed.
Now 65 years old, Thomas James Lawrence, 11th Viscount Wetherby, stood alone in front of the large bay windows of his London residence, Wetherby House in Belgravia, looking at the evening lights. He was nursing a glass of whisky in his hand without drinking a drop.
Below, the street hummed with traffic and the few people still outside hurrying home. He watched a couple laughing heartily until they disappeared from view.
He was rarely in London, preferring the quiet of the countryside four hours away at Wetherby Hall. London reminded him too much of everything his life was not : full of life for starters.
The rooms of the house reflected his disinterest in the property through their furnishings: some of them still had the white sheets that had been placed over them as soon as he left. He had only come for this gala and would leave again the very next day.
"Car's ready, my Lord" came the voice of his butler, ever so discreet and silent like a moth on wallpaper.
"Thank you, Bugsby" Thomas replied.
Tonight's dinner was organised by the Archdiocese of London to thank influential donors who had contributed to various Church charities. Held on the occasion of Pope Innocent XIV's first visit to England, the guests would have the great honour of being presented to the Pope at this gala dinner organised on the pontiff's last evening in England.
Thomas was one of the main donors. With international conflicts on the rise and widespread inflation, food banks and aid organisations of all kinds were extremely active. He had more money than he knew what to do with. Without a family and deeply catholic, Thomas financed various charities, opening his chequebook as soon as he heard of an organisation in need of more funds.
This was not the first time Thomas had been invited to this kind of event as a result, but it was one of the rare occasions in several years that he had accepted.
The insistence of the archbishop and then of his friend cardinal Aldo Bellini, Secretary of State to Innocent XIV, had finally convinced him, or worn him down, depending on one point of view.
So he set down his glass of whisky without touching it, went down to the lobby, let his butler help him into his coat, and slipped into the back of his car where his driver was waiting.
"Remind me again, Aldo, what is the purpose of this evening?" asked Vincent, leafing through the photo album provided by his private secretary, Monsignor O'Malley. The lines and small photographs showing all the same elderly men and a few women danced before his eyes. They all looked alike, and Vincent did not like to be uncharitable towards them, but he was beginning to master the political game two years after his election and was almost certain that most of them did not have an ounce of kindness in them, but that making a donation served their egocentricity and their agenda.
"To thank the generous donors who contributed to your recent charitable works, Your Holiness" replied Aldo without even looking up from his sheet of paper. They had already had this discussion several times since the gala had appeared on Innocent's schedule. He had made sure to block electronic changes to the agenda so that Vincent had not been able to make it disappear.
He finally glanced up over his glasses when he heard Vincent grumbling in Dari, a sign that he was particularly unhappy.
"Besides, I would like to introduce you to a dear friend. You'll like him, I'm sure."
The evening was taking place at the Italian Embassy in London. Upon arrival, Thomas watched from the back seat of his car as photographers jostled to try to capture a shot of the new Pope. Two years after his election, the excitement surrounding him had not yet subsided.
The embassy reception room glowed with chandeliers, flashes of light bounced off the gold leaf mouldings and crystal glass sang faintly in the low tremor of conversations. The room was an ocean of silk, black jackets, polished shoes and the soft clinking of expensive virtue of people definitely not virtuous. Some of the biggest hypocrites Thomas knew were present that evening. They couldn't care less about orphans or the poor ; what mattered was socialising and having their photo taken with the Pope.
Thomas moved through the room with the ease of someone accustomed to this kind of socialising and being observed. He offered nods and small courteous smiles. His hair, once wavy, tending towards reddish-brown, was now silver and had disappeared from his temples. He had combed and slicked it back.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a few inquisitive glances. Either from women he knew were looking for a husband for themselves or their daughter, never mind that he was 65. Some of these people would do a lot of questionable things to have more power and money, including arranging a marriage between an old man and a woman who was young enough to be his own daughter.
Thomas felt his bile rising, as it often did when he was stressed. Mechanically, he began scratching the insides of his palms, holding back a whimper of pain caused by recent scratches that had not yet completely healed.
He was aware of his reputation: an eccentric aristocrat who had never married, with a fondness for rare religious and literary manuscripts, outdoor activities, watercolours and rescued dogs.
Some assumed heartbreak, others coldness. Very few, perhaps more perceptive and observant, suspected the truth but would never say it aloud.
"Lord Wetherby" said the host, gliding towards him with flushed enthusiasm and a crooked zucchetto that suggested both gratitude and champagne. "I'm so very glad you could join us."
"The pleasure is mine" Thomas lied through his teeth. "It is a worthy cause."
"Yes, indeed. Come, come! His Holiness is over there, I need to introduce you to him."
Thomas bowed his head politely.
All he knew about the new pontiff was what had been reported in the press.
Vincent Benitez, Mexican, from Veracruz, 50 years old, ministry in Congo, Baghdad and Kabul.
Thomas did not want to embarrass Aldo by asking him questions he was not allowed to answer as Secretary of State, so he did not ask him anything.
That was why he had accepted the invitation: curiosity.
Thomas realised that the television and photos did not do him justice when the figure in white turned towards him when his attention was drawn to him.
Silky black hair cascaded in soft curls to his shoulders and a frank smile caused expression lines to form around his mouth and eyes.
Thomas found himself looking into a pair of dark caramel eyes that held curiosity toward him.
Aldo leaned discreetly towards him and whispered something in his ear, causing Innocent to widen his eyes in recognition.
"Lord Wetherby" he greeted, while Aldo gave him a big smile.
His voice was warmer than Thomas had expected. Not firmly authoritative, but intertwined with kindness.
"Your Holiness" Thomas replied, bowing his head to kiss the hand the Pope held out to him.
Up close, he was even more striking than from a distance. Thomas's gaze was lost in his hair. He felt a tingling sensation in his hand and was tempted to run his fingers through it to see if it was as silky as it looked.
He realised he was staring inappropriately and quickly looked away, but not quickly enough. Vincent had noticed, and now it was Thomas who was being scrutinised.
Vincent did not know what he had expected. A certain amount of wealth for sure and perhaps a little arrogance and pomposity, but not so much if Lord Wetherby was a personal friend of Aldo's.
He had not been prepared for the eyes.
Piercing blue, like the sky over the sea of his beloved Veracruz.
But not cold rather searching and watchful. And beneath that, he could sense something else. Sadness, hurt even.
For a heartbeat too long, Vincent forgot his media training that Aldo and Ray had inflicted on him. Everyone around them was a little embarrassed by the silence that lingered between them, they were glancing at each other, not knowing exactly what to do.
Lord Wetherby himself noticed and raised an eyebrow.
Vincent cleared his throat slightly.
"Forgive me" he said softly. "I was just going to say that it is very kind of you to lend your support to our causes."
"It's not much" replied the lord.
"But it helps change lives already."
He sounded so earnest and Thomas felt a strange warmth hearing it.
"Then I am glad," said Thomas quietly, "if it does some good."
There was another pause, brief but intense. Around them, the evening continued, laughter rose and fell. A waiter passed by with flutes of champagne and other drinks.
Vincent accepted a glass of fruit juice, more for something to do with his hands than from thirst. What was his first name again? Vincent was trying to remember what Aldo had told him. He had mentioned doubt, which suited the person who bore his name. Thomas? Yes, Thomas it was!
His fingers were really elegant, long and slender, Thomas noticed and immediately chastised himself.
What are you even thinking?!
"And how do you find London Your Holiness?" Thomas asked, aiming for civility, not knowing what else to say and trying to avert his eyes from his hand.
"I find it... interesting," Innocent admitted with a small smile, "very fast. Too fast and loud for me if I'm honest."
"More than Rome?" teased Thomas.
The Pope let out a chuckle.
"Touché. I would argue that Rome has a kind of momentum all its own, if that makes sense."
The sound of his laugh struck Thomas with surprising force. It was frank, unlike the forced, fake, tense laughter that could be heard around them.
For the first time in years, Thomas felt something shift inside his chest. A small, treacherous stirring.
Curiosity, surely.
They were seated at the same table, much to Thomas's surprise. In retrospect, he should have expected it, given that he was one of the main contributors. He didn't know whether to appreciate it or resent the host for the sitting arrangement. At least he could take advantage of it to chat throughout the meal with Aldo, who was sitting next to him on his right.
Across the table, some donors were having hushed discussions about tax optimisation. Innocent listened with a frown. He hardly spoke, only occasionally interjecting to redirect attention to the people the funds would help.
Thomas watched how his eyebrows furrowed when one of the guests spoke with an affected air of helping the poor, with a hint of contempt that they couldn't hide.
"You disapprove" the Pope murmured at one point, leaning slightly closer.
Thomas blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"You have a particular expression" the man said, his voice low enough not to carry. "When someone speaks of charity as though it were a performance."
Thomas stared at him.
"I was not aware my face was so transparent. "
"It is not" Innocent assured him. "Since my election, I spend much of my time studying faces."
"Occupational hazard?"
"Perhaps."
Thomas considered him.
"And what does my face say now?"
The Pope seemed to hesitate.
Thomas felt an absurd flicker of anticipation.
"It says" Innocent replied carefully, "that you are tired."
The word landed with unsettling precision.
Thomas could have deflected, he could have laughed when he heard the statement.
Instead, he found himself answering honestly. "Yes."
The Pope's gaze softened.
"Forgive me" he said, "That was presumptuous."
"No" Thomas replied, "Merely observant."
Next to him, he could see that Aldo was trying to hear what they were saying without appearing to.
Innocent didn't seem to care.
"You carry many responsibilities" he said.
"I carry a title" Thomas corrected lightly. "Responsibilites are part of it whether I like it or not"
Innocent studied him again, as though weighing something unspoken.
"And happiness?" he asked quietly. "Do you carry that as well?"
Thomas almost laughed.
"What an extraordinary question for a dinner table."
"Is it?" the Pope shrugged, lips curving faintly. "I find it the only question that matters."
Thomas looked down at his plate, a lump in his throat. He could not remember the last time anyone had asked him that.
"Happiness" he said slowly, "is not a quality often associated with my family."
"Perhaps it should be."
The simplicity of it undid him.
He glanced up and found the Holy Father watching him not with pity, but with understanding.
Vincent really should have listened more carefully when Aldo told him about his old English friend during the briefing about the party.
"... you'll see, Thomas isn't like me."
"Oh, you mean?"
"Less neurotic, yes I know your Holiness, it was you who said that" Aldo replied, pretending to be annoyed and failing, remembering how the Conclave period had brought out his worst flaws. He couldn't blame Vincent for judging him that way when they first met.
Vincent stifled his laughter.
"Anyway, you'll like him I'm sure. He has a heart of gold."
He would have really liked to know more about him.
Because at that precise moment, sitting next to Thomas Lawrence, he felt a tremor deep inside him that he had long believed immovable.
He was surprised, the glass brushing his lips without drinking.
What was that?
Loneliness maybe? Loneliness answering his own?
Perhaps. He would need to examine it later.
"And do you ever regret it?" Mr Lawrence asked suddenly, moving his fish entremet with his fork without touching it. Vincent supposed that it was only right that he asked him a personal question after he himself had asked him if he was happy in life.
"Regret what?"
"Your path."
Vincent inhaled slowly.
"Sometimes" he admitted. "Not the mission or my calling to God, never that. But the solitude, the people I left behind in my old parishes and that I'll never see again."
Lawrence's fingers tightened slightly around his fork.
"I understand only too well. Was it wrong of me to feel relieved when I saw that it wasn't Aldo appearing on the balcony?"
"It's only human. You were afraid of losing your friend if he was elected."
"I feel awful saying in front of you that I'm glad it wasn't him, especially since you just confessed to me that the task you've been entrusted with sometimes weighs heavily on you, but yes, I am relieved. I know he endured a lot during the end of the previous papacy, and I was really starting to worry about him. The election would have finished him off. Solitude can be a comfort in certain situations, but-"
"Yes" Vincent agreed. "Until it becomes the only thing you know. "
Their eyes met again in understanding before th lord quickly looked away.
Someone had started a speech, but Thomas wasn't listening; his attention was entirely focused on something else. He was acutely aware of the warmth of Innocent's shoulder a few inches from his own. A pleasant, floating sensation that he couldn't explain had taken hold of him.
Thomas stood once again in front of one of the bay windows of Wetherby House, looking out at the city that had fallen asleep. Usually, when he came home from this kind of event, he felt relieved, went to bed and didn't think about it anymore.
But tonight, he felt unsettled. He could feel a tingling sensation under his skin. And a feeling he couldn't quite put his finger on.
He replayed fragments of conversation in his mind. The way the Innocent had laughed; how he had said his name. The question about his happiness kept coming back to him.
It was definitely a strange question to ask.
He thought back to the portrait of his parents in the hall. Rigid as pieces of wood that had been forced to stand next to each other.
Why did a question asked by a stranger throw him off balance so much?
Why did he suddenly care about his own happiness?
Vincent checked his suitcases one last time ; the delegation was leaving the Italian embassy in a few hours. His white cassock and with his zucchetto were abandoned on a chair, he was dressed just in the casual clothes he wore when he was alone: a collarless shirt and old trousers.
With a grunt, he let himself fall onto his bed and stared at the ceiling in the darkness, rolling the beads of his old rosary between his fingers, their familiar touch an anchor.
He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come.
An image kept appearing behind his closed eyelids.
Sad blue eyes.
Lord Wetherby. Tomás. The name rolled pleasantly off his tongue.
He felt a strange sensation deep inside him that he could not yet explain.
Resigning himself to being completely exhausted when it was time to say goodbye to their hosts in a few hours, he got up and opened the window of his room, barred with protective grilles, and looked at the bright dots of traffic lights flashing in the distance.
Across London, two men stood at separate windows, gazing into the same night.