Chapter 15 #2
“No. Nothing.” William’s hopes were dashed upon the rocks of his hubris. This wasn’t a midnight tryst with a woman who wanted him; it was a secret meeting conducted by someone who merely thought him a good match for a friend.
Everything William had worked toward tonight was exploding spectacularly in his face.
“I would like to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Forsyth,” Verbena said, though her voice sounded to William as if it came from the bottom of a deep well.
“The arrangement I have in mind is a bit unorthodox, though I believe I know enough of your character to think you would be amenable to at least hearing me out.”
William barely registered every other word she said. A hole was opening beneath his feet. Retreat was the only option, the hastier the better. He placed a hand to his temple. “I think I’ve developed an awful pain.”
“Strange, Miss Witcombe is afflicted with the same sort of headache,” Verbena said. She notably did not press her palm to his forehead to check for fever as she had with Flora, though she did look politely concerned. “Perhaps it’s all this excitement.”
“Yes, perhaps. I—I fear I must go lie down. Apologies.”
Call him unmanly if you must, but William fled before he began to cry. As it was, he only made it a few steps from the greenhouse before a tear wended its way down his smooth cheek. He dashed it away, then stumbled over a rock. In his haste, he’d neglected to take the chamberstick.
He braved the dark until he was back in the orbit of the bonfire.
The guests had been busy in his absence, and it seemed that all of them were at some stage of drunkenness.
William spied Byron half naked and barefoot, his shirt and coat draped over a nearby statue, performing a kind of oration for the assembled.
It took a moment of searching with craned neck before William caught sight of his lone ally.
Miles was in deep conversation with étienne Charbonneau at the edge of the gathering. The two had eyes only for each other, their animated faces showing not a whit of interest in the rest of the party.
William needed two things in that moment: a friend to whom he might unburden himself and a hand in dressing in Flora’s clothing in the dark of the cloakroom. He strode up to the men where they were seated on a split log—close enough that their knees kissed—and took Miles by the shoulder.
“Could I trouble you for a moment?” he asked.
Something in William’s face must have shown his distress, for Miles peeled himself off the log with only a moment’s hesitation and an apologetic look toward étienne. “I will find you later,” he said to the Frenchman.
“Of course.” Lucky for William, étienne was so infatuated with Miles’s person that he did not seem to register William’s misery.
“I will wait for you.” His tone, wistful and soft, implied he would do so under any circumstances, even if all the seas gang dry or whatever the hell the poet Burns had said.
William dragged Miles away before the statement caused him to prostrate himself right there on the ground. They wove their way through the staggering revelers and back to the little cloakroom.
“What on earth’s the matter?” Miles asked, once they were safely ensconced. The scent of spirits on his breath was unmistakable, though not surprising. It was a party, after all.
“She wants me to marry Flora,” William said. He was panting a bit from their energetic march indoors.
“Flora?” Based on his tone, Miles must have made a face, though William couldn’t be sure in the dark. “That might be tricky, since you are her and she is you.”
“Yes! I am aware!”
“You should tell her you can’t,” Miles said. “Explain the whole plot.”
“It’s not a plot, it’s my life.” William groaned, putting his face in his hands.
“I want to tell her. I nearly did, thinking she was in love with me. But she’s not in love with me at all.
She only wants to foist me off on another woman!
” His hands fell uselessly to his sides.
“It’s hopeless, anyway. I cannot say anything until I am certain that she is—sympathetic to my situation. ”
Miles rubbed his shoulder soothingly. “Bad luck, old boy,” he said. Then, after a long moment: “Would you like me to lace you back into your corset?”
William sniffed. “If you would.” Leaving this unloved man behind and returning to his alternate persona would be a comfort. A small one, but a comfort nonetheless.
“Come, then. Give me your coat.” Miles scrabbled at the pewter buttons, but the drink combined with the darkness stymied him. His fingers simply could not get the job done.
“Here, let me,” William said, joining the fray and succeeding only in tangling their hands together.
“No, I’ve got it.”
“You haven’t. Give it here.”
“Would you—? Ha!” Miles at last unbuttoned William’s tailcoat. He celebrated by shoving the thing off William’s shoulders and diving for his cravat. “Stand still, would you?”
“I am still! You’re the one who’s swaying.”
“Don’t blame me, blame the Welsh. Did you know they make a decent whisky?”
William lifted his chin and allowed his cravat to be unwound. “Good. I’ll need some after this,” he said.
Just then, the cloakroom door opened, and light poured in.
William’s head snapped to the side to stare at it, as did Miles’s. There was an interloper in their midst, outlined in gold in the doorframe. One of the painters, a chap named Turner, stood there squinting at them.
It occurred to William that he was in a cloakroom with another man in the middle of being undressed by said man, both of them breathing hard, and that this innocent scene might be construed as something else entirely by their audience.
“Oh,” Turner said, blessedly unperturbed. He appeared vastly more drunk than Miles was, his eyes bleary and his stance unsteady. “This isn’t my room.”
“No,” Miles said helpfully. “It’s the cloakroom.”
“Not anyone’s room, then,” said Turner.
“True.” William was glad that Flora’s gown and underthings were still secreted away in the crate or else the situation would be much more dire. “Erm. Having a good evening?” he said, because it seemed polite.
“Decent, very decent.” Turner nodded to himself. “Gentlemen.” And he shut the door, plunging William and Miles back into the cocooning dark.
“Well, fuck,” Miles said astutely.
“Miles?” William said, hitting his head against the bulwark of coats behind him.
“Yes, William?”
“This night could not possibly get any worse.”
These were, as you are likely aware, the most famous last words available.