His knees were weak and trembled as he was guided upstairs to the second floor of the left wing by the young girl, who supported his weight with surprising strength, allowing him to lean on her shoulder as she held onto his arm and gently pushed him forward, her free hand resting firmly on the small of his back. His mind was still spinning as he thought about his father's words and actions, making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything else, causing him to sway on his feet and occasionally stumble, being unable to see clearly where he was putting his feet as he walked, his vision blurred and out-of-focus. His cheeks were still stinging from his father's hits, and he could not help but worry about the bruises that would appear in a few minutes' time once the initial redness had drained away. It hadn't been the first time something like this had happened, and although he had expected worse when he had seen his father's face at the stables upon being caught - he had gotten worse for less - he could not get used to the anger and disgust in father's gaze as he had looked down at him and given him that first blow. Even now, the sight of it was still hovering before his eyes, making him feel nauseous.

He hated it when his father acted this way with him, he hated how foolish and worthless he made him feel with his disparaging words and cutting blows, making him feel as if all his former wounds had been torn open once again and he was bleeding out. Unlike what his father thought and often claimed, he did try to be a good son and a worthy heir of the family legacy, but no matter how hard he tried, his efforts always seemed to go unnoticed by his father and paled in comparison to what were apparently his many faults. At moments like these, however, Paul found it difficult to care about any of that, when his own happiness seemed to be rendered unimportant by it and he found himself wishing there was another option.

It had been a while since his father had last caught him with any of his lovers or sexual interests, especially now he avoided brothels and rent boys - his father had eyes all over the city that would be more than happy to inform him if they saw him with any, as he had found out soon enough - and he shuddered to think what his father might have in mind for his punishment this time, knowing he would endeavour to bring an end to his affairs, current and future ones, for once and for all, and being unable to think of anything he could come up with himself. The uncertainty of it made him anxious.

Once they reached the door to his bedroom - or rooms, seeing as his private quarters did not only consist of a more than generously proportioned bedroom with a sitting area and desk, but also a separate study, a dressing room, and a grand bathroom - Paul untangled himself from the girl's grip and straightened himself out as a took a couple of deep breaths to regain control over himself. He smoothed out his clothes and ran a hand through his hair to push it back into place as he waited for the girl to open the door for him, only to push past her without another word and step inside as soon as he was able to. He walked on towards the dressing room, intending to examine his face and see how he looked, and was shocked to see how much he was shaking as he raised a hand to turn the doorknob. Taking another deep breath, he tried to get his body to calm down, and cursed silently when it did not help.

"Sir?" the young girl asked, sounding unsure. Paul could hear her coming in after him and closing the door behind her, her footsteps tentative as she approached him.

"I'm alright. I'll er... just be in here for a moment. Make my bed while you're here, why don't you? And light a fire. It's cold."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," she hastily replied. Paul did not look back at her as he pulled the door open and went inside, glad to be able to have a moment of privacy, feeling like he could break down at any second and not wanting to have to go through that with her present as well.

The room was rather generous for a dressing room, richly decorated with light green wallpaper, a large closet on one wall and a large mirror with a dressing table underneath it on the other. Opposite the door there was a small window that looked out over the gardens at the side of the house and part of the driveway if he looked at a certain angle, his rooms being situated at the front of the house, so he could see carriages coming and going and, if he looked far enough, catch a glimpse of the front gate. For now, he drew the curtains as to provide himself some privacy and sat down in front of the mirror, letting a tiny whine escape as he saw how he looked, his eyes immediately snapping down, being unable to look at himself. For a brief moment he felt the need to cry, the pain he felt, heightened so suddenly by the sight of his own bruised face, being too overpowering, but he managed to suppress those feelings, knowing they would not help him with this. He had to stay strong.

Looking up again, he studied his face to see how bad it really was and where, if he could trust his experiences with them, the bruises would start to form and whether he could camouflage them superficially with makeup. Upon evaluation, he had to admit he did not look as bad as he had initially believed: his face had paled and his eyes were red and wet, which would be gone in a few minutes, and his cheeks were red and rough, making it more than clear to him that they were going to bruise, but overall it seemed his father had spared him. He had avoided his eyes and lips, as well as any other place on his body, like his neck, arms and sides, and neither had he broken the skin. His wrist still felt sore from when his father had grabbed him, but Paul doubted he would be left with anything more than finger marks, which could easily be hidden by the cuff of his shirt. Still, somewhere he was glad his father had ordered him to stay in his room for the remains of the afternoon and evening, preferring not to let anyone see him when he was looking like this, considering his cheek would have to heal for a short while before he could apply any make-up over it to cover it up if he did not want to cause any irritation.

Tomorrow, however, he had an appointment with Mr. Lennon for the portrait, and he was certain that if he had been able to spot the love bite last time, which he had not even been able to see himself, he would be able to see the bruises as well. John would not accept any of his weak excuses like last time either; Paul could still remember the look of doubt when he had made an excuse about the bruise on his cheek not long ago, and he knew he would go against him if he felt the need to. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about cancelling any of his appointments whenever something like this had happened, he had done so plenty of times with his piano lessons, but with this it felt different. He did not want to cancel the appointment at all, but neither did he wish for John to see him like this, afraid of the questions he might ask and the weak lies he would have to tell in response to them.

He considered his options for a while, before coming to the conclusion that he did not have one in the first place. He reached out to take a piece of paper from the stack on the edge of the table - he always had a stack of papers lying around in case he came up with an idea for a drawing, poem or a music piece that he wanted to remember - and picked up the fountain pen that lay beside it as well. He thought for a moment on what he wanted to say, before writing the first two lines down in a well-practised hand, occasionally pausing to think about the wording before continuing. The lines after that, however, flowed easily from his hand onto the page.

Dear Mr. Lennon,

It is with my sincerest apologies that I must inform you I shan't be able to attend our meeting tomorrow afternoon as some more pressing matters have unexpectedly arisen that require my attention. With consideration of the deadline my father and I have proposed, I would like to know if it were at all possible for us to reschedule this meeting to a later date. Naturally, I would understand if your own schedule does not allow for this, and would therefore also be content with seeing you again coming Wednesday according to our regular schedule, although I cannot help but stress that I would be very disappointed if that would be the case. Please, hand your response to the young lady who handed you this letter. She will make sure I receive it. I hope your aunt is in good health and that you have managed to find a proper use for the money I gave you. I look forward to your answer.

James Paul McCartney

Paul read the letter a couple of times, wanting to make sure there were no errors or misspellings, before calling out for the young girl again, telling her to come to him for a moment and leave her duties for later if she had not yet finished them. As he heard the doorknob turn, he swiftly folded the letter and wrote down the address, before turning and offering it to her.

"Sadie, is it not?" he asked her as she took the letter from him. She nodded in reply. "Could you- I would like you to deliver this letter for me."

"A letter, sir? Now?"

"Yes. I have written the address down for you. It is for a certain Mr. John Lennon. Please make sure you hand it to no one else but him, you understand? And most certainly do not show this letter to my father or ever mention it to him. I do not want this to cause him any worry. Oh, and wait for Mr. Lennon to have read the letter, as it is more than likely he will wish to send me a reply, and hand that back to me immediately."

"But I am expected in the kitchen to prepare dinner in half an hour, sir," the girl objected as she stared down at the letter in her hand, reading the address, a worried and confused frown on her forehead. Paul, however, did not care about her responsibilities.

"That won't be a problem. I will vouch for you if they come to inquire about you. Please, deliver this letter for me. It is important," he said, stressing his words as he searched for her eyes, looking deeply into them once he had her attention. The girl thought for a moment, before giving in with a nod. Paul smiled back at her, and told her leave him and take the family carriage, which she did right away, pulling the door shut again behind her, as he watched her go, suddenly nervous about the response he would receive.

The response in question arrived sometime after dinner, while Paul was reading one of his favourite books as he sat by the fire, hoping to be able to distract himself with some light entertainment as he waited not only for his father to inform him about his punishment, but also for John's reply. The pain in his cheeks had subsided, leaving them only feeling sore when he ran his fingers over the skin, thought the first purple patches had already appeared, looking ugly and painful. The prints of his father's fingers on his wrist, however, had gone and they had not begun to bruise either, for which Paul was glad. He had, on the other hand, not been able to relax, and his head shot up as he heard someone knocking at the door, his heart speeding up in the apprehension of who would be behind it, his father or Sadie.

"Come in," he called and smiled as he saw Sadie come in, a letter in her hand. John's reply, Paul thought, and he sat up in his seat as he beckoned her over, eager to read what it said.

"Mr. Lennon asked me to give you this, sir," she said and Paul nodded as he snatched the letter from her fingers and folded it open, impatient to know what it read.

"Yes, thank you, Sadie. Sit down while I read, would you? I might need you still," he said and Sadie did as she had been told and waited while Paul read the letter, written in a messy hand that could only be expected from the older man. Paul already had to smile at the first few words, amused, as he shook his head in disapproval.

Dear Paul,

Your decision to send such a lovely girl to deliver your mail was very considerate of you, though I would have preferred to see you in person tomorrow, but alas. Sadly, I am unable to reschedule the appointment, because Mr. Edwards is to come home after the weekend and I will need to prepare for that. My aunt is in great health, thank you for asking, but what I bought with your money, I cannot tell you, as I think you would not approve of my choice. Do know that it was greatly enjoyed. Your letter does beg the question, however, what could possibly be more pressing and important to you than me. It seems the world continues to surprise me.

Your humble servant,

John

Paul snickered to himself as he read the letter once more, before asking for another sheet of paper and his pen, so he could write his response:

Mr. Lennon

For someone who not only seems to take pleasure in going against authority and all rules of English etiquette, but who also has a dislike for his addressee, you are awfully concerned with my personal life. As with most inquiries on such subjects, the answer is rather simple: that is not important, nor is it any of your business. Though, of course, I can understand your curiosity, as such an instance of my finding anything more important than you, would be a rare occasion.

Paul

He smiled to himself as he folded the letter and handed it to the girl, who put it in the pocket of her apron without another word, already understanding what was required of her. She had been about to get up and leave, reaching for his empty plates to take with her to the kitchen, when Paul stopped her, taking a hold of her wrist to catch her attention. She stared at him, eyes wide, as if wondering what she had done wrong.

"Thank you, Sadie," Paul said to her, smiling to make her feel more at ease as he released her wrist. "You can deliver this one in the morning, if you would prefer. I realise it is getting rather late and it would not be fair of me to ask you to go into town at this hour."

She nodded in response and uttered a thank you before picking up his plates and turning to leave a second time, this time without being called back. Paul sighed and leaned back in his seat as she pulled the door shut behind her, rubbing his temples with his fingers as he tried not to think about his father, or anything that had happened today, any longer. He was feeling exhausted, drained from his energy from all the stress and tension of the day; it seemed like ages since he had been sitting with Martha in the window seat in the library, going through his Latin book, studying his tenses, and he wished he could go back to that moment, when everything had still been good and peaceful.

He wondered what Stanley was doing in that moment, not having heard from him at all since he had last seen him at the stables, and wondered if he was doing okay. He felt sorry for him, not having wanted him to lose his job like this, but what struck him most was with how much ease he accepted the fact that he would never see him again. Of course, he was upset the affair was over, and he had liked Stanley a lot and wished him all the happiness in the world, but yet, it was not so much the fact that the affair with him had ended, but that an affair had ended. He missed the feeling of someone else's touch, the feeling of someone else's lips against his own, ghosting over his skin as they would lay in bed, he missed the intimacy, the talks, the feeling of having someone close, someone to talk to, someone who cared for him, but that hole did not have to be filled by Stanley, but just someone. He had not only not loved Stanley, but he barely even missed him at all. Perhaps, he thought, as he stretched himself out with a yawn, there was something wrong with him after all.

The last letter came to him late in the afternoon that Saturday by post, and came as somewhat of a surprise, as Paul had not expected anything after Sadie had come back empty-handed that Friday. In fact, he had been lucky he had been about go out for a morning stroll when the letter arrived, hoping to find his friend George to talk to him about both the end of his affair with Stanley and his failed attempt to ask his father for a raise, knowing his father would not agree to that suggestion after what had happened. He was in the main hall and had just pulled on his coat when the head butler came in with a small stack of letters, browsing through them all as he made his way towards his father's study, intending to leave the mail there as he usually did. He halted, however, when he spotted Paul, and hurried over to him as he got a single letter from the small stack in his hands and offered it to him.

"This one is for you, sir. There is no return address, which is curious," the man said and Paul frowned as he took the letter from him, though he quickly realised who it was from once he saw the handwriting, which was so messy he could recognise it at once. He repressed a smile and thanked the butler for bringing it to him, before excusing himself, turning away from the other man as he opened the letter, not wanting anyone to see it but him. The butler got the hint, and walked away with a polite "certainly, sir", leaving Paul alone to allow him the privacy he wanted. To Paul's surprise, the letter was short, consisting of only one line, that made him both frown and smile at the same time, being unsure what exactly John meant by it.

I do not dislike you.

The words were so simple, and yet, Paul found it hard to fully grasp the extent of them. He stared down at the letter a short while longer, before he was interrupted once more, this time by a young lady, as he could hear from her voice.

"Mr. McCartney, sir? Your father wishes to speak with you in his study," she said and Paul glanced at her over his shoulder, before he looked back at the letter in his hand with a displeased murmur, knowing what that meant.

"Does he? What does he look like?" he asked.

"Sir?"

"My father? What is his emotional state like? Was he angry? Gloomy? Stressed?" Paul clarified as he folded up the letter and pocketed it in the inside pocket of his blazer, before turning around to face her, waiting impatiently for an answer. The girl looked somewhat taken aback and Paul only realised now he was talking to Sadie again.

"No, sir. He seemed rather pleased, actually," she said and Paul swallowed at that, thinking that could not bode well for him, seeing as his father was rarely pleased about anything, especially things that had to do with him.

"Alright," he said after a brief moment of silence, "I will come with you."

***

The book in his hand felt heavy as John attempted to focus on what under normal circumstances would be an interesting and engaging story, finding it difficult not to let his mind wander into other directions, one of which was especially pressing. He knew it was unreasonable to expect an answer back from Paul already, seeing as he had only sent his letter yesterday as a special delivery, which meant he would have received it this morning, or perhaps the afternoon, at the earliest, but he could not help but worry about it. He had felt unsure about his answer from the moment he had written it down, asking himself if perhaps he was pushing it too far, the words being rather suggestive if one thought about it for longer than a second and he was unsure how Paul would react to that. He had intended for it to shock and unsettle him, enjoying teasing him and pushing boundaries like Paul had said, but he worried about what would happen if he could not see the humour in it and did not appreciate it. Perhaps he shouldn't have written that.

"John, dear, why don't you put that book of yours away and join Stuart and me in our game? Your mind is looking far too occupied, and I don't like it," Cynthia said from across the room, catching John's attention, who looked up over the edge of his book to look at them as they continued to play their game of chess and enjoy a glass of inexpensive scotch. It appeared to be Stuart's turn, judging by the serious look on his friend's face as stared at the pieces and bit his nails, going through every possible move and outcome in his head before tentatively moving a piece, only to put it back in its original place when Cynthia made a disapproving noise.

"Chess is a game for two, Miss Powell, as you well know," John muttered, grinning at the look of despair on his friend's face before he picked up a random pawn and moved it one step forward without any further thought, only to whimper as Cynthia took his last horse without so much as looking at the board, leaving is king exposed.

"Oh that does not matter. You can help me!" she told John, crossing her legs as she took a sip from her drink, a smug grin hiding on her lips as she watched Stuart contemplate his next move.

"Please, if there is anyone who deserves my help it is Stuart, but he is already a lost cause for this game and I would very much like to save myself the embarrassment of losing to you in a game of two against one. I do have some dignity."

"John? What is bothering you?" Cynthia asked with a sigh, as she got up and took a seat on the sofa next to him, resting her arm on John's drawn up knees as she glanced past them and into his eyes, making it difficult for him to look away from her. From the corner of his eyes he could see Stuart move some chess pieces around, probably trying to create a situation for himself in which he could, miraculous as it was, win.

"Stuart is cheating," he told Cynthia, hoping to distract her so he would not need to tell her, not wishing to discuss matters that had to do with the McCartneys with her or Stuart, or anyone else for that matter. Cynthia, however, looked unimpressed and shrugged at the information.

"Yes, he does that a lot. It is the only way he can still manage to win. Now, tell me what is not your mind."

"I would prefer not to."

"John-" Cynthia started, but she was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing. About a minute later, the door opened and Dot came in, looking rather flustered as she turned to John.

"Mr. McCartney is here to speak with you, Mr. Lennon. He er... he is not looking very good, if I may say so. Should I let him in?" John blinked at her in surprise a few times as he let the words sink in, and glanced at Cynthia and Stuart who were staring at him, looking just as surprised if he was, if not more. Finally, John nodded.

"Yes, Dot. Let him in. I'll speak with him in the hallway. Cyn, could you put on some tea for us?" he said as he started to get up onto his feet, trying hard to ignore the look of disbelieve on his friend's face.

"Tea? John, you are not really going to let him in, are you?"

"Well, I can't very much let him stand outside in the cold, can I?"

"Of course you can! You don't even know what it is he wants. I thought the next meeting was Wednesday afternoon."

"Yes, but I can't know what he wants without speaking to him first. It will be fine, Cyn. Just put on some tea and be nice to him," he said and without another word, he followed Dot into the hallway where Paul stood waiting for him. He still had his coat and hat on, and his scarf hid most of his face from view, but John could see something was wrong straightaway from how the man was holding himself, the tension in his body making it more than clear to John something had happened. The suspicion was only confirmed when Paul turned around and caught his eye, the usual softness in those colourful irises having turned hard and cold. He took off his hat and moved the scarf away from his mouth before he began to speak.

"I... I apologise for coming here unannounced, but... you said I was always welcome here, so I figured... But I can leave if you would prefer. I do not wish to interfere with anything," he said as he nodded into the direction of the living room, letting John know he had heard what Cynthia had said about him at the announcement of his presence. John, however, quickly shook his head at that.

"Don't be silly. I told you, you were always welcome here, and I will not go back on that now. Let Dot put away your coat and we can have some tea, if you like. My friend, Miss Powell, is making us some," John said, but to his surprise Paul shook his head.

"That won't be necessary, John. Actually, I only had one thing I wanted to ask you and I do not wish to impose on your free evening anymore than I need to."

"Ask me?" John repeated, curious now as he looked Paul up and down as if he could deduce from his looks what the question could possibly be. Paul nodded once more and took a deep breath before looking up to catch his eye and asking a question that made John blink up at him in surprise, momentarily rendering him lost for words.

"How do you feel about Paris?"

A/N: Paris! Also, I am not sure about the writing in some parts... that might just be me, though. But if it's not as great as it normally is, I'm sorry. It didn't go as smoothly as normally.