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In the wake of Randall’s return, Henry had been too caught up in his joy to think much of Layton. Randall had begged so that his friend and Layton’s companions would stay an extra day for the reunion, this time on better terms, and their interactions were cordial if not awkward.
There was much left unsaid between Angela, Henry, and their friend in London.
Layton never came back to Monte D’or, despite the vague promises to visit. Randall made frequent trips to and from London to visit his friend, but all the others in their group remained stationary. Hershel stayed in London, and Angela, Henry, and Dalston remained in Monte D’or.
Henry didn’t quite take issue with the matter. There was the occasional call directed towards the shared line that he’d pick up and subsequently pass to his master, but that was the extent of their interactions.
Cordial and distanced, and that was alright.
If Henry was honest, he found that his feelings on Layton got rather conflicted at times. Hershel had been a friend in their youth. He was kind to Henry, a friend to Randall and Angela, and that placed him rather high in the servant’s books.
Then came Akbadain and his journey home without Randall. Then came the funeral, where Henry knew Hershel wasn’t allowed but said nothing about the boy observing the procession from afar. Their conversations were short and far between until Hershel left for London.
On Randall’s behalf, Henry had let his anger fester for nearly two decades. He’d placed more trust in Hershel to keep Randall safe than he placed in Randall himself, and that trust had evidently been misplaced. Rumors spouted around about Hershel’s involvement to the effect of murder or sabotage, and Layton moving away had been an evident sign of a guilty conscience. Innocent people don’t run.
Over the years, the resentment festered inside of him like something rotten. Angela had let it go, or seemed to let it go, but the servant could not.
Randall’s life and future had been taken, and Henry couldn’t forgive the only other person involved. How could he, when Randall couldn’t?
The subject of Hershel Layton didn’t come up in the years that he spent at Angela’s side, but he knew that her feelings on the matter aligned more with guilt by the time she invited the professor over to solve the case of the Masked Gentleman.
Until the point that Layton had accused him of hiring the Masked Gentleman, Henry had done remarkably well at keeping a lid on his venomous feelings. He hadn’t intended to ever release them, but some factor of stress and sleep-deprivation and insanity meant that he confessed his feelings before giving the professor and his companions the boot.
At least Henry apologized afterward. Didn’t he?
The subject comes up one morning while he’s at Dalston’s chateau for tea. Apparently, the man keeps semi-frequent contact with their friend from London.
He asks if Henry or Angela had truly talked to Hershel about Randall’s disappearance. Henry plays ignorant until the other man prods more.
“I don’t get why you get all tense when I talk about Hershel. We’re all friends, aren’t we?” He huffs, “It’s not like you yelled at ‘im, right?”
At Henry’s silence, Dalston nearly chokes on his tea. Perplexingly, a smile creeps up on his face. “No. Henry, you didn’t…?” His flush causes Dalston to guffaw, which in turn makes Henry blush deeper and Dalston laugh harder in a rather cyclical fashion.
The burly man seems tickled as Henry relays his first encounter with Layton in Monte D’or. His glee seems to increase with the other’s rising embarrassment. Later, he clarifies that he didn’t think Henry had it in himself to raise his voice at anyone but Dalston.
Their conversation sticks to Henry’s mind for the rest of the day, and the memory of his harsh words grates deeply at him. His behavior was entirely antithetical to Henry’s mental mantra of patience, tranquility, and obedience.
At least Henry apologized.
“Henry? You seem agitated.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“This is the third time you’ve vacuumed that carpet. Take a seat and talk to me.”
Reluctantly, Henry stops passing the vacuum over the same spot and sits on the couch. Angela sits beside him.
“What’s on your mind?”
“My memory is failing me on a specific event that happened during the time where you were… replaced.”
“Kidnapped,” Angela corrects his hedged language.
“Sorry. Yes, that.”
A moment of silence before his companion presses, “And what was this event?”
“I lost my temper with Layton, and I don’t recall if I apologized or not. I believe that I did, but it must not have been significant enough for me to remember our dialogue.”
“In what way did you lose your temper?”
Shame builds in his chest as he confesses himself to her, then amends, “I don’t feel that way now, obviously, and I’m not sure that I meant what I said in the first place. Either way, it was unacceptable behavior on my part.”
“I see… And what are you planning to do about it?”
“Hm?”
“If you’re feeling this guilt about it, we might as well absolve you from it. Do you want to call him and apologize?”
“Ah- no, thank you.” A call was too impersonal, too flippant. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Should we invite him over, then?”
“Perhaps, but he’s rather busy…” Truthfully, in the wake of his discovery, Henry wasn’t eager to see the professor anytime soon.
“We’ve got an event coming up in two weeks. A gala, and the both of us and Randall are invited. We’ve got a plus-one for it, and I’m sure Randall would appreciate the extra company.”
Considering the frequency of Randall’s visits away from the City of Miracles, Henry thinks a tad bitterly that he’d like company from anyone that wasn’t them. Hershel, in addition to being Randall’s best friend, also served as an escape.
An escape from Henry and the city that he’d made and forced upon him, as Randall so kindly made known recently.
Perhaps that was another reason that Henry didn’t want to reconnect. Childishly, he didn’t know what the professor had that he didn’t. A ridiculous thought, because Henry should merely want what’s best for his master, and what makes him happy. Why he prefers Hershel’s company doesn’t matter so much as the simple fact that he does, and Henry shouldn’t take issue with it.
Angela’s hand interlocking with his breaks his thought, and Henry blinks.
“Hm?”
“Do you want to call, or should I?”
She didn’t leave an option for neither of them to call, implying that he couldn’t run from the matter. A blessing and a curse.
If he were to force Angela into calling, it would be cowardice on his part. To have Angela invite Hershel under the guise of a gala, only for Henry to spring an apology on him when the time came didn’t seem right. “I might as well do it, if my intention is to apologize.”
“I should apologize to him too, you know. I already did, on that very first night, but I didn’t end up really discussing the matter with Emmy and Luke around.”
“Dalston seems to think that it’s a good idea for us to communicate about the period after Randall’s disappearance.”
“You talked to Alphonse about this before me?” He can hear her smile. “Henry, I’m offended!”
“My apologies. It was the conversation that sparked the thought in the first place.” Even if Angela was joking, Henry preferred clarity. “There was nothing to discuss before my conversation with him.”
“I know.” She squeezes his hand. “Anyways, he’s right. I get the feeling that Hershel might not feel all that welcome here, and I’d like to rectify that upon meeting face-to-face again.”
“I should impart that message as well.”
His knee bounces for a moment before he falls still again, paralyzed with the thought of getting up and going to the phone. Henry really should. He ought to.
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve gone all tense.”
“My apologies. I find that I’m not quite sure what I’ll say over the phone.” Social interaction was never Henry’s forté– a byproduct, perhaps, of the need to be neither seen nor heard for most of his young life? It was more comfortable with Angela, of course, and with Randall. He was growing more comfortable with Dalston as well, considering the improvement in their relationship.
Hershel, however, wasn’t included in the small group that he feels entirely unworried about conversing with.
“Would you like me to do it?”
“...I’m not sure.” It would be selfish to ask of her.
“I’ll do it.”
“Hm.” If he wasn’t asking it of her, was it still selfish? If Angela was offering to take the burden of conversation, was he allowed to accept?
It doesn’t particularly matter, as the blonde lets Henry’s hand go to get up.
“Thank you.” He calls after her, and she waves him off.