Walter C. Dornez[The Only One I Loved]

{A/N: Literally, just realized this fic has been sitting unpublished in my drafts, and I believe it is complete! So enjoy guys!}


'Love thine neighbor.'


Something I wasn't good at. I could smile, I could offer the occasional cigarette for good dealings. I could feel nothing but mutual respect for another man, and a small amount of adoration to my master.


The only one I loved lived in London.


Rich, young. Noble birth, noble heart.


And did she have the most handsome, and irritating, of company.


________ was easily pursuable, and this, no doubt, irritated me to no end. She was one who believed that everyone deserved a chance to be graced with her presence. Which may have seemed like a quite arrogant thing for her, but it was in fact, one of the humblest things she could have said.


It was true that because her affable personality had dealed her more harm than good, as many of her suitors preyed on her dowry. But it was also true that she was charitable to no end. She enraged her father by pushing her allowance to the library and orphanage near her home, and since there was little to do but read, she spent her days reading to the ones deemed mad by the court.


That was how we met.


I was a mercenary for several years before serving under Lord Helsing. I was very young, and very volatile. I was the equivalent to a charming street dog: rabid and tough, but charismatic enough for the old fisherman to give his scraps to. So when I was finally cornered, I screamed and fought until they could testify that I had the devil in my blood.


__________ always introduced herself to new patients. The ones she was allowed to speak to, that is. I was strapped down and weary from sedation, but was coherent enough to watch her enter the room and curtsy cordially.


She was a woman of no judgements. Murderer, hysteria-driven, or a self proclaimed sorcerer; she couldn't care less. She always greeted the patients the same way, and always parted with a kiss from her scarlet lips upon their forehead.


She came again, and again. Asking if I would like her to read. The first few times I did not answer, and she smiled, kissed my forehead, and left.


And one day, I said yes.


And she read. And I stopped her to ask questions, and she answered and read more. After that, we discussed. For hours we spoke of the complexities of the characters and the dynamics of their situations.


She was my favorite time of the day.


I behaved. I didn't try to bite the nurses or spit at the staff, because I wanted to sit up and be awake and listen to her read.


One day she didn't bring a book with her. And she looked tired, and sad, and scared. I could see her scratch under her collar and wince everytime she touched her neck.


She confided in me that her current suitor was not a pleasant man.


So I asked her, who is this man? Where does he hail? And various other questions.


And so, that night, I crawled into the main sewer underneath the nuthouse, and out into the street. I followed the street until I came across a residence that looked rather new.


I set my wire traps everywhere, ready to sever off his head without him knowing. It was a tragedy. The poor sap really didn't stand a chance.


And though many assumed I had done it, they had no way of proving it. I was back in my bed at the sanatorium, waiting for her return.


~~~~~


_________ came to me the next morning and told me the news of his death. She looked distraught, but I also recognized relief in her eyes.


"Whoever has done this, I can't say that I am entirely thrilled with their assassination of Edward, but I can also not say that I am upset by it. However, I do now have an inkling of fear for my own life."


"You? No, whoever would murder you is not looking for a challenge. Killers do not go after ladies of power, thieves and cowards do."


She smiled and leaned forward, "Tell me more. You were a mercenary, were you not?"


And so I began to recount the details of my deeds. Beginning with the beginning, as a 12 year old orphan running the streets, now a 19 year old young man, who has taken more lives than women to bed. I shied from no gorey detail, every slice, saw and hack I made was colored with my words. I found myself enjoying the role reversal. Now I was playing the teller of tales, rather than _______. And she sat, wide-eyed and fascinated.


I could not cover everything, so I asked her to return. And she did. Every day, she returned, breathless for more stories from my life. I told her about the stranglings I performed in Oxford, how I was a serial mugger in London, and I told her all the sordid details of the bloody business I conducted in Norfolk.


But as I reached the end of my tale, I wondered if she would continue to visit. I wondered if once I had highlighted my true nature, unmasked every bit of my soul to her, would she shy away?


She didn't. She stayed, and we returned to our reading sessions. Months like this continued, I continued to serve my sentence in the sanatorium, while she returned with novels of a darker subject, sensing I was going bored of the stories of upper class society. And though I was confined, fed maggot infested food, and berated by the nurses, it was bliss. Her parting kiss on my forehead turned to a more affectionate, continuous hold on my hand. Sometimes she wouldn't read, and hold the book in her lap while we simply gazed at each other, into each other.


I thought it could last forever.


~~~~~


It was, of course, her father who separated us. He had learned of her growing intimacy with me, and forbade her from interacting with the criminals of the sanatorium. The night after she did not arrive, every criminal screamed in their beds and pounded on the cell doors. She had been a golden light in their dark lives, and now she was never to return.


I was not going to accept the way things had become. So I escaped.


The problem with those huge, lavish London mansions, is that its so easy to simply hide in their folds. With all their secret passages and extra bedrooms, it was especially easy to disappear within the halls entirely. I decided to use the floor above hers. There was a room that laid directly above her own, and for the first week, I would lay there, staring through the cracks in a vent, as she listlessly stared out the window, towards the direction of my cell, clutching a book she so desperately wanted to read to me. She denied any visitor, all mostly suitors who were hungry for her hand. She didn't bathe, or sleep. She refused to eat, angry at her father.


One night, feeling peckish myself, I snuck into the kitchen, and retrieved a bowl of apples. Careful to enter her room, I left one on her windowsill. For the rest of the night, I waited for her to awake, and at dawn, she did. She stood and circled the room, aimless. She sat at her chair by the window, and her eyes fell on the red fruit. She covered her mouth, whipping her head around to see who left her this little gift. Hungrily, she bit into it, juices dripping from her lips.


For another week, I gave her the apples I had. Every morning, she'd awake to find them, and every night, she'd attempt to stay awake and catch whoever was leaving them. Nearly malnourished, she would pass out every time.


Finally, I decided to approach her. She laid in bed, a perfect angel in silver moonlight. I sat beside her on the bed, running fingers through her hair. She stirred, and then her eyes snapped open. She sat up to face me, and when her eyes met mine, she wrapped her arms around my neck, kissing me deeply.


I reached under the nightgown she wore, feeling the body that I had only dreamt of, and had yet to embrace. Her skin was supple, her body shapely and pressing into me. She peppered my face in kisses, in a desperate plea that I stay with her, that I comfort her. How could I deny my love, as tears streamed down her face?


I stood only for a moment, her hand lingering on my own. I turned the lock on the door, buying us another ounce of privacy in this big empty house. When I turned back to her, I began to remove my jacket. She untied her robe, opening her bare chest to me. I dove into her body, leaving my mark along her chest and her neck. She whimpered and whined as I moved my more experienced hands up her thighs, against her wetness. Her warmth, her movements against me, all evidence of her arousal. Our embrace did not go much farther than this, as we were both aware the consequences of sex. Instead, I spent the evening showing her what my fingers and mouth could do for her, basking in the pleasure on her face.


I was more than satisfied with the thought that though ________ had the upper echelons of society clamoring for her attention, she chose me. The man who murdered hundreds and would murder hundreds more. The man who suffered maggot-infested food just to hear her speak everyday. The man who crawled to her through the sewers, defied the wishes of her father, and broke every one of her rules to be with her.


~~~~~


________ devised a clever plan. She snuck into the servants quarters and retrieved a suit. The next day, she asked her most trusted maid to buy a silver pocket watch from the silversmith. That night, she divulged the details.


"Father is looking for more staff for this season, we throw a number of garden parties during midsummer. I want you to approach him tomorrow afternoon and offer your services. He will be more than happy to hire you."


"Will he recognize me?" I asked. She shook her head, "Father has no idea what you look like. Let me cut your hair and give you a shave, and you'll look just like a real butler."


And the plan worked. I slipped into the services of her household, blending easily in the background. The staff were suspicious of me at first, they had never recalled the butler school I claimed to have attended. ("It's a small school, in Essex." And then they would nod, as none of them would dare claim to hail from Essex.) Eventually, the preferred my reserved nature, a breath of fresh air compared to the liveliness of the servant's quarters.


After a few months of service, I became ______'s personal servant and chaperone. I went with her everywhere, served her food, polished her silver, but when we were alone I no longer played the role of her servant. Instead, I was her lover, her secret affair.


And once again, I thought it would last forever.


~~~~~


Her father grew short tempered. He was tired of his daughter's refusal to marry any of the many rich, powerful young men who came to court her. And it all came to head over breakfast.


I was in the kitchen when the conversation began, finishing my cigarette as the chefs plated their food. I squashed the butt underfoot, and took the plates, entering the tense dining room. ________ stared into the table, where I set the plate down in front of her. She jumped and gave me a sad smile before saying, "Thank you, Walter...."


"So you can spare the butler human decency but not Lord Ferriday?"


"Lord Ferriday is a crass man, father. You should have seen the lechery in his eyes."


"He was a pleasant fellow! Not everyone you meet is as salacious as you claim _______. You're being too picky for your own good. You'll end up an old maid, title usurped by your own cousin, who is in line for my position, unless you produce a male heir."


She looked away. I placed the plate in front of her father, who waved me away. I receded into the background of the room. Tears began to spill from ______'s eyes, "I do not love these men, father. How could I?"


Her father gave an exasperated sigh, "And this is where our youth fails to recognize the unimportance of love in marriage. Is this what you've been filling your head with, dear daughter? Stories- illusions of love! Listen closely, cause I will only say this once."


She raised her eyes to her father, resisting the urge to sob. He jabbed his finger towards her end of the table, "You will be married by the end of this year. Come New Years Eve, you will be bedded by a noble lord and ready to bear my heir. Something your mother could not do for me."


He threw his napkin on his untouched plate and left without excusing himself. The door to the dining hall closed, and it was only me and her. She sat at the end of the table, sobbing into her napkin, while I stood on the other end, watching her helplessly.


I could not stand to see her like this, so I approached her, placing my arms around her. She looked up at me, unable to stop the flood of tears. I tilted her chin, lowering my mouth onto hers. Her cheeks were hot, her breath steamy. She whispered in my ear, a plea for me to do something.


I gave her a comforting smile, "As you wish, my love."


~~~~~


I could not kill her father, not yet. I needed to ensure first that _______ remained a lady. I personally, didn't need any money. I could have taken her and run away with her, anywhere she wanted to go. But I knew that she was raised a lady, and it was important to conserve her status, if only for the ease of our futures.


So we waited, for another suitor.


Lord Caleb Garrison arrived in September. He was lawyer, the youngest son of a Duke. He was handsome, kind, and intelligent. And we resembled each other enough for the plan to work.


After a month or so, of courting and fabricated romance, _______ informed her father that she had decided to marry him, as he was a gentle man who would provide much for the family. Her father, overjoyed, arranged a marriage, set on the last day of November.


Everything was falling into place. ______ was concerned, nervous that something would go amiss. I reassured her time and time again, that everything would work out.


~~~~~


The wedding was held at the Garrison estate. It was double the size of _______'s home, and located many miles into the countryside. Many lords and ladies, merchants and ministers alike arrived to wish the young couple good luck. She wore a beautiful gown, a heavy veil that covered her face. When I saw her, I almost forgot that we were not the ones getting married. I whispered a few more words of reassurance to her before exiting her dressing room, to disappear in the kitchens.


The ceremony was beautiful, and the newlyweds were celebrated with liquor and cake. ______ managed to maintain a pleased look on her face, by finding my own face in the crowd. The party continued to the ballroom, where the reception was held. I remained behind the happy couple as their personal attendant. I fetched them more food, and upon Lord Garrison's request, more drink. They danced their first dance, he fed her bits of cake, and to anyone who watched it would appear that they were truly in love.


That night, as the celebrations died down, and the couple stumbled drunkenly through the halls, Lord Garrison held her close, attempting to guide them to the master bedroom where they would consummate their love. Lord Garrison only made it as far to his bed, where he collapsed, his lips turning pale blue.


I was waiting inside, waiting for the poison I had rubbed along the inside of his cup to work. It would look like a heart attack, an aneurysm, an inexplicable tragedy. ______ turned to me, arms still sheathed in white gloves. She raised her hands to my face and kissed me.


We made love. After a year of coveting her, I finally managed to find a way to be with her entirely. We did not withhold our voices, we did not restrain our touch. Both bare, both sweating in passion, I made sure to leave as much of myself as I could inside her. It was the most important part of our plan, the secret to what would make everything work.


~~~~~


I left her quivering form in the bed, as she recovered from our intense copulation. She rubbed her abdomen, and spoke softly, "What would you want to name him?"


"It might not be a boy..." I said, pulling the wedding clothes off the now stiffening corpse that laid on the floor. _______ sat up, hand still on her belly, "I know it is..."


I slipped off his pants and his undergarments, and arranged them around the room as if he had undressed himself. I heaved the corpse back into the bed, where _______ recoiled from it. I laughed softly at her reaction, "I forgot you're not as used to death as I am."


She didn't want to look at it, she didn't want to touch it. I sat next to her on the bed, holding her in my arms, "Just wait until the sun hits that horizon, and then scream. Scream so it sounds like you yourself were in danger. Wake everyone in the house, flee from the bedroom. Your husband has just died in bed after the night of your wedding."


She nodded, "I know.... Walter?"


I breathed in the scent of her hair, "Yes, my love?"


"Touch me again...."


~~~~~


I had returned to the servants quarters before anyone else. I lingered in my room, smoking a cigarette until I heard the scream. Everyone in the house stirred all at once. It was an impressive, bloodcurdling scream. Soon, her cries were trumped by Duchess Garrison's wailing, of grief of her poor son.


The house fell into mourning. The police were called, ______ still playing the frantic newlywed, wrapped in only her robe, her hair still astray from our night together. I comforted her, as her personal servant. I was questioned by police, along with the other staff. I noted that I thought the Lord was drinking heavily, but I did not keep track of his drinks as I should have.


"I expected my Lord was aware of his limit, so I did not feel the need to keep track."


It was ruled an accident. Lord Garrison had drunk too much in celebration of his marriage and now he was dead. His family was devastated. They didn't blame ______ for all her sweetness and sincerity, they didn't even think to blame the butler, whose inattention resulted in their son's death.


Weeks passed, and a physician was called, to inspect the wife of the late lord. The doctors confirmed that she was indeed pregnant, and her estimated conception fell in line with the night of the wedding. I was, of course, overjoyed.


She returned to her own house, feeling shame being under the roof of the Garrison family(which was now, of course, her family too). And soon, we were back together, uninhibited by the nonsense of marriage.


I found routine in visiting her, in the darkest parts of the night. We continued to embrace each other until her belly grew, and then I would simply lay next to her, rubbing the child in her stomach to sleep.


We settled on the name James. It was classy, and Lord Garrison's late-grandfather went by the name James. We thought it was appropriate.


She grew bigger by the day, and I attended to her every whim. I fetched her hot water, I sat at her feet and rubbed her swollen ankles until she could stand again. I fetched her any food she could want, any item of her fancy.


Then the child came. It was a boy, though I was still unsure of how ______ could have been so certain. Perhaps her sheer will to bear a boy was felt by the fetus, and it bent to its mother's will.


I stared at his face in the crib, the twinkling in his eyes. He was my child. Though he held the Garrison name, and looked remarkably similar to Caleb, he had my blood running through his veins.


It was not the butler's job or duty to handle the children, this was the wet nurse's job. In fact, it was rather unheard of for a butler to touch the infants whatsoever, especially when not in the presence of the father or mother. Yet that afternoon, when I found ourselves alone, I picked the child up in my arms and held it close. The son of my lover... My son.


________ was asleep, exhausted in her bed from a hard labor that threatened to take her life. I was concerned for her safety during the birth, but I knew it was the universe's decision whether she would live or die. I believed it wouldn't take someone so young and kind, and I was correct because here she still was.


I sat on the edge of her bed, holding the bundle in my arms. I cooed softly down at him, and he raised his tiny hands up to me. I was so enraptured by the child, I did not hear the door open, or ______'s father enter.


Here I was, sitting on his daughter's bed, holding his grandson more tenderly than a butler should. His eyes fell on the face of his grandson, and then on my own face, and realization flickered in his eyes.


I stood, careful to set my child down in his crib. He gurgled, reaching his arms towards me. I gave him a soft smile before turning to her father, a finger against my lips, "Careful. We wouldn't want to disturb how things are."


Her father understood my meaning. The press, the scandal. It would ruin their household. I, a sanatorium escapee and serial murderer, had put my bastard boy in his beloved daughter's belly, which she dutifully carried to term.  Any breath of it could tip over all that he had worked for.


He did not say anything, he simply backed out of the room, and left me alone with my lover. I would deal with him on another day, when _______ had enough of him. But for now, it wasn't my concern.


My eyes fell on her, as she stirred. She smiled at me, "Hello..."


"Hello," I took her face in my hand, her cheek warm.

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