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0749 Devotion
🕑 Added 2025-06-17 11:54:59 +0000 UTC"Master Watson!"
The exclamation burst from Lawrence's echoing through the small room with accumulated hope and longing. The butler, who had been showing signs of exhaustion and physical deterioration just moments before suddenly sprang up from his sickbed with a remarkable burst of energy.
His eyes, which had been clouded with pain and weariness only seconds earlier, now blazed with a delighted surprise so intense it seemed to lit up his entire face.
Surely this had to be some cruel trick of his medicine-muddled brain, some hallucination brought on by the various medicines he had been taking to manage his condition.
Driven by a desperate need to confirm the reality of what he was seeing, Lawrence rubbed his eyes vigorously and squinted his tired eyes and carefully examined the young man standing beside his bed several times.
"It really is you, Master Watson!"
Without a moment's hesitation, Lawrence threw off his blanket, preparing to get up but before he could, Bryan pressed down gently on Lawrence's shoulder and pulled the blanket back over him.
"Since you're ill, Lawrence, you should rest properly in bed," Bryan said calmly. "And there's no need to call me 'Master Watson'—just Bryan will do perfectly well."
"But that would be far too improper, Master Wa—" Lawrence blurted out instinctively. But as the words began to form on his tongue, Lawrence's gaze met that young face in the soft light cast by the bedside lamp.
What he saw there stopped him—face that was calm and serene, yet filled with an unmistakable authority.
Lawrence's heart trembled within his chest. The words died on his lips, swallowed by a sudden understanding that left him momentarily speechless.
It seemed that Young Master Watson was not as simple as he had imagined.
Lawrence suddenly realized this.
Having served the previous two heads of the Watson family throughout the prime years of his life, having spent decades mingling among the circles of London's high society as their representative, Lawrence had never considered himself an important figure.
However, through years of observation and accumulated experience, he had developed what he considered to be quite a sharp, discerning eye for reading people and understanding their true nature. The demeanor that Young Master Watson showed in his every gesture, every movement could not be concealed or imitated.
A person of truly high status was unmistakably a person of high status. Even when consciously being approachable and kind, even when deliberately setting aside the formal barriers of rank and position, the confidence and inherent authority they possessed revealed itself in countless small ways that could not be imitated or faked by ordinary people.
What struck Lawrence as particularly strange and puzzling, however, was that when he had investigated the name "Bryan Watson" through various channels and connections available to him, he had found no record of any young talent in any field—whether business, politics, academia, or the arts—who went by that particular name.
"As you wish... Bryan," Lawrence finally managed to say, though the name felt odd and uncomfortable on his tongue despite Bryan's permission to use it.
He could not resist the steady, calm gaze that seemed to see straight through to his soul, and found himself with no choice but to remain obediently in his bed.
Although there was a soft feather pillow behind him for comfort, Lawrence still maintained his straight, dignified posture even while lying down, yet even this careful attention to posture could not disguise his restlessness.
The face beside his bed was almost identical to that of the old master, the late head of the Watson family. Lawrence was accustomed to maintaining a respectful posture when facing that face, the behavior had become instinctive after decades of repetition.
Now, however, with him sitting somewhat awkwardly on the bed while Master Watson—Bryan—stood beside it, the entire situation felt terribly awkward and inappropriate to Lawrence's sense of proper order.
Bryan paid no attention to Lawrence's uneasy expression. Seeing that the butler was willing to remain in bed and rest as instructed, he released his grip on his shoulder and took a moment to look around the remarkably simple room that seemed so strange and out of place within the luxurious manor house.
The chamber was simply furnished, containing only the most basic necessities for daily life. There was the single bed where Lawrence lay, a simple wooden wardrobe that had probably been here for decades, the small nightstand with various medicine bottles, and little else.
Most notably, there wasn't even a single chair in the entire room.
"Oh, I'll have Hank—" Lawrence began, his ingrained instincts for hospitality overriding his physical weakness as he started to call Hank.
"No need," Bryan said firmly, raising his hand in a gesture that cut off Lawrence.
However, Bryan had to admit that standing while conducting what was likely to be a lengthy and important conversation was indeed impractical and somewhat inconvenient. He lifted the antique bedside lamp and moved it on Lawrence's wooden headboard where it would provide better lighting for both of them.
Next, he gathered up the scattered medicine boxes and bottles that were on the nightstand's surface. Some were for pain management, others for heart conditions, others for the various illnesses that typically occurred in old age.
Finally, with the nightstand cleared of its medical stuffs, Bryan pulled the wooden table away from the wall and placed it as an improvised seat.
After making himself as comfortable as possible given the circumstances, Bryan looked at Lawrence, who had been watching these arrangements with unease.
"What's wrong with your illness?" Bryan asked, his voice calm and straightforward.
Lawrence hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting away from Bryan's steady gaze as he struggled with whether to say the truth.
"I got caught in a bit of rain," Lawrence finally said quietly, "At my age, my body isn't what it used to be. These old bones don't recover as quickly as they once did."
A Muggle's well-intentioned lie before one of the wizarding world's most accomplished and perceptive wizards was undoubtedly laughable but Bryan had learned long ago that in dealing with people one must sometimes learn to tolerate their small lies, especially when those lies sprang from other things rather than malice.
Bryan chose not to expose Lawrence's obvious lie. Instead, he simply nodded in apparent acceptance of the explanation.
Then he turned his attention toward the tall window that looked out over the quiet manor grounds, maintaining a thoughtful silence that allowed both men to collect their thoughts and emotions.
The night beyond the glass was remarkably peaceful and beautiful.
The clear, brilliant moonlight bathed the villa's lawn like a carpet of liquid silver, transforming the familiar landscape into something almost magical. The cobblestone paths that went through the gardens caught and reflected scattered points of moonlight.
This tranquil, ethereal night scene seemed to dilute and soften the aura of decay and abandonment that had come to permeate every corner of the once-magnificent manor.
Under the moon's gentle influence, it was possible to imagine the estate as it had been in its glory days—filled with life and laughter, hosting elegant parties and important gatherings, serving as the proud place of a family that had made its mark on the world.
"You've maintained this place quite well, Lawrence," Bryan said with a slight smile.
"It is... my duty," Lawrence replied simply.
Following Bryan's contemplative gaze, Lawrence also turned his attention toward the window and the moonlit grounds outside.
Every inch of this land bore his footprints and the evidence of his work spanning decades. He had walked these paths as a young man full of energy and ambition, had tended these gardens in his prime years when his back was strong and his hands steady, had watched the seasons change and the years pass while the manor remained his constant companion and responsibility.
The grounds held the memories of his entire life.
"It was your duty," Bryan corrected in a rather cold, direct tone that cut through the nostalgic atmosphere, puncturing the sentimental mood with uncomfortable truth. "But if maintaining this place now brings you only burden, exhaustion, and ultimately illness, Lawrence, then I can offer you some honest, practical advice: abandon it. Walk away and don't look back.
No matter how much effort you've invested in this place over the years," he continued, "it no longer has real value if it's destroying your health and happiness. I'm sure that at your age you understand that no matter how desperately we might long for the past, we cannot reclaim what has been lost to time."
Lawrence opened his mouth to respond, but found that an indescribable emotion had lodged in his throat, preventing him from speaking.
He desperately wanted to ask the young man sitting beside him whether he truly harbored such deep resentment toward this manor and its former master—whether the circumstances of his birth and upbringing had poisoned his feelings toward the family heritage he had rightfully inherited.
But even as the question formed in his mind, Lawrence recognized that asking it would be meaningless, perhaps even cruel.
"I must apologize to you most sincerely— Bryan," Lawrence said instead, choosing to address a different source of potential conflict rather than face Bryan's admonition. He lowered his head in regret. "Without seeking your permission, I took it upon myself to make a donation to that orphanage—"
"This is indeed not something I had hoped to discover, Lawrence," Bryan interrupted, his voice remaining perfectly calm. "But I won't blame you for it, nor will I hold it against you in any way. After all, your actions ultimately helped the children at Hurst Orphanage, and that can only be considered a positive outcome. Besides,"
He added with a slight shrug that seemed to dismiss the matter completely, "donating money is entirely your freedom and your right—I have no authority to constrain or dictate your actions in such matters."
Despite Bryan's forgiving response, Lawrence remained silent and motionless, but his heart was filled with an overwhelming sense of dejection. Through their brief conversation, he had finally come to the painful realization that he could never persuade Master Watson to return to the manor that belonged to him.
The young man's attitude toward the estate, toward the family legacy, toward the entire world that Lawrence had devoted his life to preserving, was one of detached indifference at best, and perhaps even active rejection.
All of Lawrence's hopes, all of his careful plans to restore the Watson family to its glory, seemed to have been built on a foundation of wishful thinking.
This drain on his spirit and the collapse of his most cherished dreams made Lawrence appear somewhat listless and deflated once again.
The brief surge of energy and joy that had accompanied by Bryan's arrival was already beginning to fade.
In his mind, vivid memories of his entire life at the manor began to flash by like scenes from a beautifully filmed movie playing in slow motion.
He could see himself as he had been decades ago—an immature youth filled with ambition and eager to prove himself worthy of the Watson family's trust. He had entered this place with nothing but determination and a willingness to work hard, and had learned everything he knew about proper service, about dignity, about the responsibilities that came with caring for something greater than oneself.
He had grown from boy to man within these walls, had found his place in the world through his devotion to the family that had given him purpose and meaning.
Even his beloved wife—God rest her soul—had been introduced to him by the first head of the family, the man who had built the Watson name into something that got respect throughout London society.
The young master's father, the deceased old master had even personally written letters of recommendation to ensure that his children could receive the finest education available.
The Watson family's kindness and generosity toward him and his loved ones had been as deep and boundless as the ocean. But now, after the two kind, noble old masters had passed away leaving behind no direct heir to carry on their legacy, Lawrence found himself harboring an increasingly bitter resentment toward that woman—Melina Depp.
Objectively speaking, from any reasonable perspective, she had undoubtedly ruined the old master's life in ways that could never be fully repaired or forgiven.
Her selfish actions had left Master heartbroken and emotionally wounded, making him unwilling to get close to any other women again. Nor had Melina Depp fulfilled even the most basic duties and responsibilities of a mother—otherwise, Young Master Watson would never have grown up in an orphanage.
Watching the old butler who sat with downcast eyes in silence, Bryan sighed inwardly. He could see clearly that Lawrence had gotten himself psychologically and emotionally caught in a dead end.
Bryan himself had no particular emotional attachment to the so-called "Watson family" into which he had been born. However, he did have some fondness and respect for this old butler—Lawrence was a good man, a kind soul who deserved better than to spend his final years consumed by crushing disappointments.
Years ago, when that woman had brought him newly reborn into this world to the manor gates, hoping to gain entry to the family home, she had been turned away by the angry man.
Lawrence, moved by compassion, had privately approached the woman, hoping to offer some financial assistance that might help her care for the child. But Melina Depp, filled with despair, had not accepted his kind gesture.
"What are you troubled about, Lawrence?" Bryan asked after allowing some time for silence as he looked calmly at him. "Or rather, what do you hope I can actually do by calling me here tonight?"
"I—" Lawrence stammered uncertainly, his voice catching in his throat as he struggled to find the right words to express his thoughts and feelings. He paused, collecting himself, then continued with difficulty. "I... I hope that you can return to the manor... inherit the Watson family..."
"In your mind, Lawrence, is the Watson family just this old mansion?" Bryan asked with patient curiosity.
Lawrence was stunned into complete silence, staring blankly at Bryan with wide, confused eyes. He clearly did not understand what Bryan was trying to express.
"What is my name?" Bryan asked patiently.
"Your... name?" Lawrence's lips moved uncertainly, forming the words with visible confusion. "Bryan Watson, of course... but I don't understand, young master—"
"Since you know that," Bryan interrupted with a warm smile, "since you understand that I haven't abandoned this name, haven't abandoned this surname. So, tell me, Lawrence—what exactly do you have to worry about?"
He paused, letting the question sink in before continuing.
"Or are you perhaps saying that in your heart, you believe the Watson family is just this Manor? Are you telling me that only if I return to live within these walls, only if I occupy the master's bedroom and take my meals in the formal dining room, will you be truly satisfied that the family continues to exist?"
What represents a family's true continuation is not wealth or property or grand estates filled with priceless antiques. What matters, what defines the essence of any family, is people.
As long as Bryan existed in this world, as long as he drew breath and walked the earth bearing the Watson surname, the Watson family continued to exist in the most important sense. This was determined by the blood flowing in his veins, unchangeable by his personal will or anyone else's desires or expectations.
The room fell into complete silence with only the sound of Lawrence's heavy breathing. In the dim, golden light casted by the moved bedside lamp, Lawrence's clouded eyes began to brighten.
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