Chapter Text
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
Or, depending on the proclivities of the gentleman, a husband.
It must be said that the proclivities of one gentleman, in particular, were presently the subject of rigorous conjecture by one Mrs. Evans of Longbourn.
The Evans family was walking home from church when the news first broke. The Evanses of Longbourn had four daughters — Petunia, Lily, Kitty and Lydia, and one male ward — a young man named Remus.
The whole party were making their way back to the family home of Longbourn under the supervision of Mr. Evans, who had a mild, grey face, blue eyes, and the sharpest tongue this side of West Country.
His daughters, for their part, displayed varying levels of beauty. Lily was by far the loveliest, she had fine red hair and bright green eyes. There was sense and good humour in her face, her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Kitty, too, looked moderately well when her skin wasn't pock-marked, and Lydia, the very youngest, was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance. Poor Petunia, with her long face, lantern jaw, and large teeth, was by far the plainest, and the most ill-tempered.
Remus was the orphan child of Mr. Evans’ beloved late sister, Hope, and a solicitor from London by the name of Lupin. He cut a fine figure — his long, sinewy limbs had outgrown any adolescent gangliness, and there was an air of vitality about him — he had bright, lively eyes of a queer amber shade, and copper curls threaded with honey-gold from all the time he spent in the sun.
Mrs. Evans, who, for her part, was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper, had insisted on staying behind a little longer to speak to her church friends, and had waved them down the road without ceremony.
Now, however, she approached at speed — red-faced and puffed, skirts gathered up in her fists as she charged up the little dirt path that led back to Longbourn.
“Oh, Mr. Evans! I beg you to wait! I’ve just had the most wonderful news from Mr. Lovegood!”
Standing by a pothole, Mr. Evans had an air of being equal parts bemused and resigned. “Is that so, my dear?”
“Oh, yes! Yes! Just this morning he was walking out near Bagshot way, on that little trail that goes 'round Peverell House—” Mrs. Evans drew breath, “—and what do you think he saw?”
“A fair bit of rain, if Bagshot is having weather anything like we are.”
“Mr. Evans! I beg you not to be obtuse!” Mrs. Evans huffed impatiently. “He saw a gentleman, if you can believe it. Peverell House is let at last!”
“Indeed?”
“It is surely the best news we have ever received—”
“I cannot think why.”
Mrs. Evans huffed again. “Mr. Evans, you must know that I am thinking of this gentleman marrying one of our girls!”
Mrs. Evans was playing the odd — four being a greater number than one.
Mr. Evans raised one bushy eyebrow. “He likes girls, does he?”
Remus, who had been walking arm-in-arm with his cousin Lily, thought this a fair question. These days marriages between gentlemen were almost as ordinary as traditional ones.
It had started to shift with the marriage of His Royal Highness King George III to the Duke Charles Louis Frederick of Mecklenburg, Prince of Mirow. The King had made use of his cousin’s vacant womb to beget an heir, utilising a strange medical instrument that allowed one to plant a man’s seed into a suitable host without the need for intercourse. This had satisfied the heir problem, as it had been called, and ushered in a new era of legitimacy for such marriages in England.
Many nobles, keen to align themselves with the King, began to follow suit — indeed, for a number of years it was considered the fashionable thing to do, an homage to the ancient Greeks, to pederasty, to Apollo, Zeus and Ganymede. Over time, however, people began simply to follow their natural inclinations. That is not to say that men were any freer than women when it came to the conventions of courtship and propriety, however — for all freedoms had their limits.
Mrs. Evans ignored her husband’s question in favour of relating every fact and particular that had been entrusted to her.
“Mr. Lovegood had it from Father Albus that the gentleman’s name is Potter." She said. "He has come to the Hollow for a change of scenery, and brings with him three companions — his cousin, her attendant, and a fellow gentleman who is his particular friend.”
“His particular friend, eh?" Mr. Evans raised a bushy eyebrow. "Seems a hopeless business, if you ask me. Mr. Potter is already spoken for.”
“Mr. Lovegood swears that it isn’t so; Mr. Potter made some remark about his companion’s fastidiousness — apparently he has not yet found someone to marry, though he is said to be very eligible and should have no trouble attracting a partner.”
“He may still prefer men.” Mr. Evans said fairly. "You know young people these days."
Mrs. Evans continued as though she had not heard. “Mr. Lovegood said that Potter has a vast fortune — over five thousand pounds a year!”
“Mr. Lovegood had an awful lot to say today, it seems." Mr. Evans remarked. "I should not be surprised if he knows the names of each of Potter's relatives, and the colour of his undergarments, too.”
At this Remus laughed — it was a warm, clear sound which carried pleasantly on the noon-day air. Beside him, Lily attempted to hide a smile by pressing her palm to her mouth.
Mrs. Evans rounded on Remus with narrowed, beady eyes. “Surely you would not find it a laughing matter if the girls and I were all to starve in the streets!”
“Indeed, I would be sorry to see it, Aunt.” Remus said, sparing Lily a brief smile as she squeezed his arm reassuringly. “But you must know that I would never allow you to starve.”
But Mrs. Evans was perfectly right — the girls needed to make good marriages. He shuddered to think of what would happen if they didn’t. With Longbourn entailed away from Mr. Evans’ children, the prospect of the girls’ circumstances after his death loomed heavy over all of them.
Mr. Evans, mercifully, drew his wife’s attention away from Remus. “So that is Mr. Potter’s design in settling here? To marry one of our daughters?”
“Design! What nonsense. He may well fall in love with one of them, though.” Mrs. Evans said. “You must visit him.”
“Oh, I see no occasion for that.” Mr. Evans replied. “Go yourself with the girls.. or better yet, send them along without you. Handsome as you are, Mr. Potter might like you best of the party.”
Mrs. Evans flustered and floundered at her husband, cheeks flushed. Remus shook with silent laughter, and Lily’s discreet smile grew wider behind her hand.
“Tell you what, I’ll write to this Mr. Potter and tell him that I have four daughters and a male ward, and he may marry any one which he chooses. They’re all silly and ignorant like other youths…” Mr. Evans caught Remus’ eye, and conceded; “Well, Remus has a touch more wit than the rest.”
“Have you no compassion for my poor—”
“—Then again, he may prefer a stupid spouse, as many others have done before him.”
“Mr. Evans !”
If Remus didn’t wish to avoid the ire of his Aunt, he would have been crying with mirth by now. As it was, Lily pinched him and shot him a stern look. It was only years of practice that allowed Remus to keep his countenance.
“You’ve no compassion for my nerves, you’ve no idea what I suffer…”
Mr. Evans gave a wry smirk. “Oh, on the contrary, my dear. Your nerves have been my fondest companion these past twenty years at least.”
That evening, long after the rest of the family had gone to bed, Remus and Lily kept company in the drawing-room together.
As if often was, Remus' mind was called to his late father — Mr. Lyall Lupin.
Mr. Lupin had been a man of modest ambition. He never desired to distinguish himself as a barrister, nor was he interested in moving from his small yet comfortable accommodations in Gracechurch Street. The Lupins had lived simply and cheerfully, with adequate income, reasonable prospects, and a great measure of love between them. Remus himself showed a pleasing enthusiasm for his own education, and it was thought that he should attend Cambridge when he eventually came of age. He would graduate and secure an income, and in doing so, secure the hand of a suitably respectable person.
And so it would have been, had Mr. and Mrs. Lupin not died in a dreadful outbreak of smallpox, which Remus alone survived.
It had therefore been Remus' lot, as a penniless orphan of eight, to sojourn alone to the little village of Godric’s Hollow to live with his Uncle Evans, who he had never before laid eyes on.
Though quiet and grief-stricken at first, Remus eventually formed an affectionate relationship with his cousin Lily. As more time passed and Remus’ spirits lifted, it became apparent that he was an agreeable and quick-witted youth. He took to his maternal Uncle splendidly, and Mr. Evans had loved him dearly, perhaps even better than any of his natural children.
By the time he had reached five-and-twenty, Remus was regarded as being at least moderately handsome. It transpired that his features, which had been rather too sharp and large for his child’s face, had grown striking in adulthood. Remus loved country dances, and reading, and making lively conversation wherever he could find it. He helped his Uncle with the accounts, though he had no great love for figures and sums. He walked the woods that lay between Longbourn and Godric’s Hollow as often as he could manage.
He was, in every regard, a lively, useful and agreeable young man.
None of this, however, could absolve Remus of the iniquitous crime of being rather poor for a gentleman’s ward.
Lyall Lupin — who, having worked for a living, was no gentleman himself — had not planned for his own untimely demise, and had, therefore, failed to set aside the sort of money which would allow Remus to make an offer of marriage to any respectable person, nor get the sort of education that he had previously aspired to.
Remus mused that with his meagre fortune, there was hardly a man in the world who he could hope to court. He would have to find a pauper — or worse — a woman. Though he held his dear cousin Lily in high esteem and felt for her a great and genuine fondness, Remus knew in his heart of hearts that he could never comfortably be wed to a member of the fairer sex.
And so Remus had made peace with his lot. He would help Mr. Evans manage his estate, and attend dances with his cousins, and find some sort of work, and never marry. He would call on Lily and whichever man she eventually wed as often as he was allowed to. He would read to her children, and take them to the theatre, and the public gardens, and teach them to play their instruments very ill.
He would content himself with this small life, for at least he would have good company, and a roof over his head, and the amusement of his own wit.
Remus reclined on the chaise and read aloud from a book of poetry, while Lily took up needlework in the armchair by the fire.
“Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, —
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?”
Remus broke off from reading, and mused aloud; “If I could find a man who loved me enough to take me for a mere fifty pounds a year... I should be very well-pleased.”
Lily looked up from her needlework and smiled softly. “I would be pleased for you.”
Remus continued; “But such a man could hardly be sensible, and you know I could never love a man who was out of his wits.”
Lily laughed. “It sounds a hopeless case, then."
"Indeed." Remus smiled. "It seems that I shall have to settle for an idiot."
Lily shook her head. "A marriage where either partner cannot love or respect the other — that cannot be agreeable.”
“As we have daily proof,” Remus remarked wryly. He set his book of poems down on a little rosewood side table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hand cradling his jaw as he stared into the fire. “But beggars cannot be choosers, you know. At least one of us will have to marry extremely well.”
Lily made a small, noncommittal noise and kept her eyes trained on her needlework.
“And seeing as you are five times prettier than the rest of us, and have the sweetest disposition, I fear the task will fall to you.”
Lily shook her head, and her mouth twisted in a little half-grimace. Remus knew she never much liked it when people remarked on her appearance, but it was a hopeless business trying to avoid it — Lily was, without question, the most famous local beauty in the Hollow.
“But, Remus…” she spoke haltingly, “I should very much like to marry for love.”
“And so you shall!” Remus smiled, walking over to where his cousin sat and wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulder. Leaning in, he whispered in her ear; “Only, take care you fall in love with a man of good fortune.”
Lily’s eyes widened in ire and she made to swat him on the shoulder; Remus only laughed, rising to his feet with grace and easily avoiding the blows.
“I swear I’ll let you languish in the poor house, even if I do get a rich husband.” Lily threatened, grinning. "It shall be your penance for being so very wicked all the time."
“Do you not remember what Sister Dolores says about telling lies?” Remus teased. “You mustn’t, or it’ll be the deepest pits of hell for you!"
Lily was giggling now, “Oh, stop—”
"And a girl of your complexion would be damned in that heat — you cannot chance it.”
“Remus, you cannot say—”
“Why not?” Remus asked. “Is Sister Dolores hiding behind that plant there? Or perhaps in the drapes?”
"Of course not!"
"Then I feel quite safe from her censure." Remus said. "Unless, of course, you are going to betray my confidence. Which, again — sin, hellfire, sunburn."
“You are so difficult!” Lily exclaimed. “Really, I wonder that anybody finds you agreeable.”
“Only you know what I’m really like, and nobody would believe you if you ever told them.” Remus said. “So you see, I feel quite safe.”
“You are ridiculous,” Lily said with affection, eyes shining. “And what of your marriage prospects, hmm? Any prospective idiots I should know about?”
Remus stilled, amber eyes reflecting the firelight as he stared into the coals. He thought for a long while, chose each word with care, and eventually said; “I am determined," he paused, "I am determined that nothing but the very deepest love will tempt me into matrimony.”
Lily gave him the fondest smile, abandoning her needlework in favour of moving to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I think I should be exceedingly happy for you on your wedding day, then. To know that you have found a love like that.”
Lily’s simple faith in the fact that Remus would find such a partner more than enough to tug at his heartstrings. But mixed with the warm feeling were pangs of a sorrier nature. He did not share his cousin's optimism.
“I admire your conviction.” He said, shifting away from her touch. “Ring the bell for tea, would you?”
“At this hour?” Lily laughed. “Remus, it’s nearly midnight! Mrs. Sprout is going to smack you if you drag her out of bed now.”
“She would never. She loves me, like all good and sensible people ought to.” Remus said. “But, if you insist, I will leave her resting and bid you goodnight.”
“Please.”
Remus sighed, smiling as he returned his book to its place on the shelf and crossed over to the door of the drawing-room. “Goodnight, cousin. Dream sweet dreams; the sort that are full to the brim with handsome men of good fortune.”
“Shall I dream up one for you too, while I’m at it?”
Remus huffed a small laugh, and slipped upstairs to bed.
“Good morning, Aunt.” Remus said with cheer, taking a seat between Lily and Petunia at the breakfast table. Across from him, Kitty and Lydia were bickering about some monstrously ugly bonnet — a distasteful vision in salmon and peach, complete with frills and at least three superfluous bows. Petunia, who had always been rather drab and dour, pursed her lips at the display.
“My head is very ill today,” Mrs. Evans said by way of reply. She beadily eyed her husband, who was sat at the head of the table reading the paper.
“Misfortunes, we are told, are sent to test our fortitude, and may often reveal themselves as blessings in disguise.” Petunia said to her mother, in what was evidently intended to be a consoling manner.
“Then I am blessed indeed, what with how I suffer with my nerves!” Mrs. Evans replied sourly, pouring herself a cup of tea.
Lily spoke gently; “Mamma—”
“Oh Remus, wait till you hear our news!” Lydia cut across her, causing some affront, having abandoned her tussle with Kitty over the bonnet. “Kitty and I came across the Vances this morning, and Maria said that Sir William has called on Mr. Potter.”
Next to him, Petunia scoffed and returned to her breakfast with marked disinterest. Remus knew that she harboured a crush on the overlarge landowner called Dursley that sometimes sat in their pew at church — he was every bit as dull and disagreeable as Petunia. Remus supposed it might make a good match, if only Vernon would consent to accept Petunia’s pitiable dowry.
“Indeed?” Remus replied with only mild interest, loading his plate with kippers and toast. “I suppose that is not a surprise.”
“Mr. Potter has thirty servants, forty servers, and he’s very handsome — Maria said he had black curls and hazel eyes and the most marvellous spectacles.”
“Marvellous spectacles?” Remus repeated amusedly. “My, I’m not sure I’ve ever known the sight of alluring eyewear.”
Next to him, Lily snorted into her porridge. Mr. Evans allowed the shadow of a smirk as he kept his eyes trained on the newspaper.
“He declared to Sir William that he loves to dance!” Kitty reported. “He’s promised to come to the next ball at the assembly rooms — on Saturday.”
“So we will all have the opportunity to stand in awe of this gentleman and his spectacles,” Remus remarked. “I can hardly wait.”
“He’s bringing six ladies...” Kitty paused for thought. “And four gentlemen, I think.”
“No, it was twelve ladies and seven gentlemen!” Lydia argued.
Remus leaned towards Lily and murmured out of the corner of his mouth; “Too many ladies.”
“Oh girls, I beg you would stop, for we are never to know Mr. Potter and it pains me to hear of him!”
“But Mamma—”
“I am sick of Mr. Potter!”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Mr. Evans said unexpectedly, eyes never moving from the paper. “If I had known as much this morning, I never would have called on him.”
All eyes turned to Mr. Evans, who, sensing that the attention of the room was on him, set aside his morning paper with a distinct air of resignation.
“You have called on him?”
“I am afraid we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”
Mrs. Evans burst into laughter as close to joyful as Remus had ever heard, her eyes were shining with a kind of manic enthusiasm. “My dear husband, how good you are to us!”
Mr. Evans received this comment with no small measure of bemusement. “Yes, well—”
“Oh, girls, girls, is he not a good father? And never to tell us; what a good joke!” At this Remus and Lily exchanged incredulous, significant glances. “Oh, and now you shall all dance with Mr. Potter. You too, Remus!”
Remus huffed a laugh. “I hope he has a strong constitution, Aunt.”
“And a fondness for silly young women.” Mr. Evans added, sending a significant glance Remus’ way.
But Mrs. Evans was incandescently happy, a joy which remained undimmed by her husband's usual taunts and barbs. “Oh, Mr. Evans, nothing you say shall ever vex me again!”
Mr. Evans picked his paper up again, unfolding it rifling through the pages to where he hard marked his spot.
“I am sorry to hear it.”