Becoming Northwood, Part II
- Nicholas Northwood
- Jul 14
- 7 min read
From the Desk of Lord Northwood
July 15th, Some companions teach how to live grandly—and to fade like dusk.
Others crave not your heart, but your time.
Jonathan Barley—known to all simply as Jack—did not so much arrive as he did explode into the room: a thunderclap of mirth and mischief dressed in the guise of a gentleman. His cheeks were perpetually flushed, as if kissed by the warmth of a midsummer sun, and he carried himself like a man who had never met a glass he couldn’t lift or a secret he couldn’t unravel. His laughter spilled like rich red wine—bold, full, and dangerously tempting.
He was the sort of company that commanded the eye of every guest, yet rarely lingered long enough to be claimed by any. Jack was the fleeting flame in the hearth, bright and mesmerizing, but never meant to warm you through the night. Where Ivy offered solace and Silas inspiration, Jack was a tempest—rousing, inciting, and daring one to forget caution and taste the exquisite danger of recklessness.
Though not born into nobility, Jack had a special way of sneaking into the highest circles. His father, a quiet member of the church, gave him the kind of access most others could only dream of. The strictest members of society might turn their noses up at him, seeing him as an outsider made of wine and wildness, but most could not resist the spark he brought to their dull gatherings. Rules were easy to ignore when Jack was near, and so he became a favorite—even if he wasn’t officially welcomed.
At first, his presence was an invitation; a dance with the devil dressed in leather and charm. I remember how, in his company, the world seemed suddenly more vibrant: the night stretched endlessly before us, and fear became a mere ghost, banished by the reckless joy in his eyes. To be near Jack was to feel magnetic, irresistible, as though I might claim the moon itself with a single whispered promise.
Jack and I have a history full of contradictions. He was the first to press his lips to mine—not in a full kiss, but a playful taste, a daring invitation. It wasn’t until after Silas and Ivy came into my life that our bond grew deeper. And when it did, it changed everything.
Jack showed me a world alive with late-night adventures, bold promises, and reckless charm. He taught me how to dance without fear, to kiss without shame, and to talk to strangers like they had always been friends. His leather jacket might look sharp one night, but the next he’d show up rumpled and careless, the perfect picture of a gentleman undone by too much freedom. Jack wore many faces: the polished host, the wild rebel, the charming trickster, and beneath it all, a restless heart.
It was a quarrel, not courtship.
He slammed the study door behind him, his voice low and sharp, raw with fury. I had wounded his honor—or perhaps his pride—and I expected him to storm away. Instead, he closed the distance between us, his chest rising with a steady, controlled intensity—like a coiled spring waiting to be released.
I struck first—my palm against his jaw. He kissed me immediately after. Bruising. Brutal. Like waves lashing the jagged shore.
There was no finesse, only fever. He did not undress me; he claimed me—pressed against the paneled wall, amidst toppled books and the heavy silence that settled in the room. It was not tenderness but trial—his way of testing if I was truly his equal. His mirror.
Afterwards, breath still ragged, he refused to meet my eyes. “If I look too long,” he said gruffly, “I’ll ask you to stay.”
I stayed.
He never cared for limits—he loved freely and fiercely, never choosing between one person or another. For Jack, love was a wild river, rushing through every encounter without pause.
But no matter how bright he shines, Jack always stays too long. His exits are messy, his charm frayed by weariness, turning a night of celebration into a morning full of regret. Like fire, he warms and he burns.
The revelry was always a double-edged blade. The mornings after bore the sting of his absence—the ache behind the laughter, bruises as silent witnesses to chaos remembered only in fragments, apologies that tasted of bitter dregs and false hope. “Just one more,” he’d say, voice thick with contrition and wine, “Tonight is different, I swear.” But it never was. Jack was the king of first impressions and the jester of consequences, his charm a velvet glove that concealed the sharpest thorns.
With Jack, I was fearless—or so I told myself. Yet beneath the flash and fire, a slow wilting began—quiet as a winter frost stealing the bloom from a rose. The light dimmed, laughter grew forced, and the dance turned to stumbling. Jack taught me to live loudly, but he also taught me how to fade into shadows, how to lose myself in the very freedom he promised.
By the time I arrived at university, the thrill of reckless nights had begun to wane, replaced by a yearning for something steadier, something less tempestuous. It was there, amidst the dusty tomes and solemn halls, that I found Lady Cross.
Lady Addison Cross arrived not with a flourish, but as a measured solution—precise, clever, and unyielding. The sort who appeared before the hour, a list in hand, leaving one to wonder how any day had survived without her steady hand. She never dabbled in frivolity or flirtation; instead, she commanded order and promised clarity where others left chaos in their wake. While Jack and Silas spun their wild nocturnal tales, Addison was the embodiment of focus and control—a spine of steel and teeth sharpened to command. Her presence carried the scent of citrus and inked pages, notebooks brimming with ambition and schedules etched in stone. Productivity was her language of love.
Lady Cross was the unshakable hearth—unyielding, exacting, and merciless in her demands. She bore her ledger in one hand and a lorgnette in the other, her gaze a razor that cut through folly and hesitation alike. Unlike the reckless charm of Jack, Addison offered brilliance at the expense of peace. Yet beneath her rigid exterior, she unlocked within me a part I had yet to meet—focused, fierce, and capable beyond measure. She was no warmth to rest beside, but a forge for transformation.
At university, her presence was as commanding as a regimented march; her soirées more akin to strategic councils than frivolous dances. She did not soothe or ignite, but ordered—and I answered. With Addison’s guidance, I learned to harness the chaos within, bending restless thoughts into a blade of purpose. She sharpened me, honed me, leaving little room for whimsy or rest.
It was well past midnight. The faint echo of piano notes still hung in the drawing room—remnants of a late study session that had stretched too long, leaving the air thick with unspoken things.
She kissed me beneath the silk canopy of her bed—lips tentative, body warm with wine and want. The sheets were crisp, the air heavy with bergamot, and Addison trembled as if we had crossed into something forbidden.
She touched me as though committing to memory, not indulgence. Each button undone was a confession; each sigh an apology. She made love like a woman chasing a dream—soft, hesitant, yet with an ache deep enough to crack bone.
Afterward, lying beside me, she asked, “If this were only a story, would you still choose me?”
I did not answer. My fingers found hers, and the silence said everything.
With her, accomplishment came swiftly and surely. My tongue found quicker words, my feet traced hastier steps, and once-daunting tasks fell easily before me. The clamor within my mind settled at last into orderly ranks, each thought a step on a well-marked path. She made me feel as though I possessed a hidden strength—a force capable of penning letters, tending duties, weaving charm, and captivating company—all ere the midday meal. I cherished her as one might a quietly held advantage, a secret kept close to the heart.
Lady Venetia de Canal, ever the court’s most relentless whisperer, could never quite keep pace with Addison’s keen mind. Where Addison moved with swift precision, Venetia stumbled—her fascination turning to frustration, and her admiration slowly curdling into something far less gracious. Perhaps it was envy that lent her words their edge—or perhaps something colder. She had once called me a friend. But in the end, she whispered that I spoke too much, that my wit was overambitious—a critique born not from truth, but from the sting of being left behind.
Yet, Lady Addison left no room for rest. Pauses were her enemy, and she wore impatience like a second skin—rolling her eyes at the mere notion of a nap or a wandering thought. Under her gaze, my daydreams shrank and faded; my meals became mere chores; my once sprawling, strange, and beautiful thoughts were pruned into neat, functional lines—mechanical and precise. I was doing everything, yet feeling nothing at all.
I did not shatter; I simply ground down—a slow erosion of color and spirit rather than a sudden collapse. I succeeded, yes, but in ways that fed neither heart nor soul. Praise came as hollow applause for exhaustion. Every hour was accounted for, and even joy required leave of absence. When insomnia returned like an unbidden guest, I realized Addison no longer aided but demanded; far more than I could give.
Still, she lingers in the cabinet of my mind, ever within reach. I think of her whenever the day’s demands grow sharp and relentless. But now, I serve her no longer as I once did. I have learned to be productive without punishment. Lady Addison was no villain—only unbalanced. Too much, too fast, too hard. And for all that, I remain grateful for the fire she ignited in me. But I prefer myself now: slower, softer, and altogether kinder. Faithfully,
Lord Nicholas Northwood
