Chapter 23 #2
“I am making assumptions, yes,” George interrupted. “But I think they’re warranted, don’t you? Robert Martin and your uncle were bachelors who lived in this house together for three decades.”
“So?”
George’s eyes widened. “You heard how Martin spoke about him earlier—he was livid when he thought you were criticising the man. And Mrs. Ford just said he took care of your uncle’s intimate needs when he was ill.”
“Someone had to,” Theo pointed out. “And he was my uncle’s servant. Besides, it's possible for two men to be friends with nothing more between them than that.”
George eyed him curiously. “That’s true,” he admitted. “But I’m surprised by how unwilling you are to consider they may have been more to one another—considering your own experience.”
“My own experience?”
Theo could see that George was beginning to get irritated now, but he was irritated too. Why should this even matter?
“Your encounters with other men,” George said, primly.
Theo’s brows drew together. “My encounters as you call them are just that—they rarely last more than an hour or two and involve a simple exchange of pleasure. In my experience that’s what most men like us want, not the sort of longstanding arrangement you seem to be referring to."
For several long moments, George stared at him in silence.
His gaze was somehow disappointed, and Theo felt oddly resentful.
What did George want him to say? This was the real world they were talking about, and most men did not own substantial ducal estates in which they could hide away their illicit lovers.
Finally, George said, “Well, I don’t see why two men can’t have a shared, happy life together.”
Had George actually tried to imagine living such a life?
Theo had, and he knew just what it would be like.
Always wondering what one’s neighbours were thinking, always worried about the risk of discovery.
It was the very opposite of how he wanted to live.
From being a boy, Theo had valued freedom above all else.
The thought of living under the yoke of that kind of worry was intolerable to him—and yet it filled him with a strange, breathless yearning when he imagined sharing such a life with George.
When he imagined George sitting opposite him at breakfast and dinner and sharing his bed at night.
Thrusting that foolish thinking aside, Theo said, “It’s not impossible, but you must see that your father’s arrangement with Kit Redford is far from typical.
For one thing, your family estate is vast—no one would blink an eye over your father hosting a score of house guests at any given time, or even having guests who end up staying with you for years on end. ”
George gave a muted huff of laughter at that. “Fair enough,” he said, “but do you really think there’s no one else in this world who manages to quietly live their lives together?”
“I have no idea, George,” Theo said, truthfully. “If they do, I have not noticed.”
“Exactly,” George said quietly. Thankfully, he dropped the subject then.
When Mrs. Ford returned some time later to clear the table, she eyed the empty dishes with satisfaction. “Did you enjoy your meal, Mr. Asquith?”
“It was delicious,” George said. “I think those were the lightest dumplings I’ve ever eaten.”
“Do you have room for some ginger pudding?” Mrs. Ford asked, hopefully.
“I could never say no to ginger pudding,” George replied, with perfect seriousness.
“And how about you, Mr. Caldwell?” She raised her brows at him.
Ordinarily, he would refuse pudding, but since this one thankfully had no currants in it, and since it was obvious it would please her, he said, “I think I could manage a small piece, Mrs. Ford.”
She smiled approvingly and sailed out, returning a short while later to set down pudding dishes and a jug of warm custard sauce, fragrant with nutmeg.
“This smells delicious,” George said, before adding innocently, “Did you used to make this dish for Mr. Lockhart and Mr. Martin?”
Theo glanced at him sharply, but George kept his eyes on Mrs. Ford.
“I did indeed,” Mrs. Ford said, “And they were both very fond of it too—not to mention those dumplings you just had. Mr. Martin used to ask me to make those quite often.” She smiled wistfully, remembering. “He was a handsome charmer when he first came here, so I usually agreed.”
“That must have been some time ago, from what you said earlier?” George said, his tone politely interested.
“Yes,” Mrs. Ford said, easily. “He was here from the first. Came to Blackfriars when the master first moved here.”
“He was the steward right from the beginning?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Mrs. Ford said.
“Mr. Lockhart didn’t know the first thing about farming when he came here, but he couldn’t afford a proper steward.
That was why he brought Mr. Martin with him, from his London household.
He knew how to work a farm, you see, what with him coming from farming stock down Essex way.
Mr. Martin didn’t know much about keeping account books and managing rents, though—not back then—but between them, he and Mr. Lockhart muddled their way through the first few years well enough. ”
“And how long ago was it that they came here?”
She tapped her chin, thinking. “Thirty years? No, thirty-one! Good heavens!”
“You couldn’t have been working here then!” George exclaimed, with creditable disbelief. “You’re far too young!”
Mrs. Ford chuckled, a pleased if sceptical sound.
“Away with you, flatterer!” she said. “When he came here I was nineteen and assistant cook. Mrs. Graham was the cook-housekeeper back then. She passed away almost twenty years ago. That woman taught me everything I know.” She sent George a sideward glance. “Including that dumplings recipe.”
George crossed himself piously. “Then God rest her soul.”
Mrs. Ford chuckled and began piling the empty dishes onto her tray.
When the door closed behind her again, George said, “Well. What do you think to that? Thirty-odd years together?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Theo admitted. “It’s curious, I grant you.”
“She said Martin was part of your uncle’s London household. What do you think he did there? A footman, or—?”
Theo’s laugh seemed to startle George. “I doubt it! According to my mother, my uncle kept the cheapest of rooms in town, ate in chop houses, and spent every penny of his extremely limited income on gaming and drinking.”
George’s eyes widened. “You don’t think Martin was one of your uncle’s servants?”
“I don’t think my uncle had any servants before he came here.”
“I wonder how they met, then?”
There was one possibility that occurred to Theo.
“She said he was from Essex,” George continued. “Why did he go to London, I wonder?”
He seemed genuinely bewildered, and for some reason, that made Theo feel an exasperated sort of fondness. George could be very innocent.
“He probably went there hoping to make money,” Theo said. “If he was the son of a large family, he may have had few opportunities at home.”
“But how would he have met your uncle if your uncle had no servants? They would hardly move in the same circles.”
Theo sighed. “Perhaps they met somewhere else. You know, somewhere like Redford’s.”
George glanced up sharply. “I thought you didn’t believe there was anything between them?”
Theo shrugged. “I’m yet to be convinced. Martin didn’t strike me as a man whose interests lie in that direction, but”—he sighed, constrained to be honest—“he would hardly be the first man to conceal such preferences. I’ve done as much myself, all my life.”
George opened his mouth to speak.
“But,” Theo interrupted before he could go on, holding up a hand, “let’s remember—we have no proof.”
“I know. I just—I have a feeling about this. And all right, I admit I want to believe it.” George swallowed visibly.
“I want to believe that sort of happiness is attainable. That men like us don’t have to be lonely all the time.
Is that so awful? Would it be better if I refused to acknowledge the possibility? ”
Theo’s jaw tightened. “As I do, you mean?”
George gazed at him sadly. “I suppose that is what I mean,” he admitted at last. “You act like you don’t care whether Martin was your uncle’s lover or not. But you do care, don’t you? And unlike me, you don't want it to be true. Why is that?”
Theo shook his head wordlessly. George was right, and Theo had no idea how to explain himself.
George eyed him thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s just that you don't need it. You seem to enjoy your life as it is. But I’m not like you, Theo. And I’m tired of being lonely.”
Theo swallowed against the painful lump those words brought to his throat. Because yes, he was lonely too. And yes, he feared that loneliness.
The path of his life stretched out before him, as narrow and solitary as the knife-sharp ridge of Crib Goch.
He’d arranged it with an eye to his own safety, and, since being caught was the greatest risk to him, his path was a solitary one, albeit littered with fleeting encounters.
When he’d embarked upon it, he hadn’t realised that the further he went, the higher and more treacherous the path would become, and the more his solitude would weigh upon him.
And that there would be no turning back.
For years he’d sacrificed intimacy at the altar of anonymity and called it a good bargain, but now his choices were beginning feel more like a penance.
Theo became aware that his heart was racing, his gut twisting anxiously. It was as though a storm was rising inside him that he could not quell, and he found himself rising unsteadily to his feet. “I think it’s time I retired for the night,” he said. His voice audibly shook.
George stood then too, his expression morphing into a frown of worry. “Please don’t go,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry for speaking so bluntly.”
Theo waved his apology off. “You’re perfectly entitled to speak your mind.
It’s only that I can’t—” He broke off then, unsure what it was, precisely, that he could not do.
There was an excruciating pause. Then he muttered, “I’m sorry.
George. Excuse me.” And with that, he strode out of the dining room and went straight upstairs.
When he reached his bedchamber, he closed the door behind him, dropping his head back against the solid oak and running his mind over what he and George had said to one another.
It seemed ridiculous now to be so upset, yet the feeling lingered.
As did that picture he now had of himself as a solitary figure, balanced on a ridge, alone in the cold wind, without no one in front of him, or behind.
He began to undress, forcing himself to go through the motions of his normal evening routine, moving more slowly than normal as he stripped away his clothes, then washed up and cleaned his teeth. None of it settled him. None of it made him feel normal.
When he was ready for bed, he paused, remembering something he’d thought of earlier.
Crossing the room to the sideboard, he unlocked the smallest, topmost drawer and stared down at the brass key lying there.
He'd found it on his first visit, along with a number of other items belonging to his uncle that had seemed particularly personal, including the letter his uncle had left for him.
Vaguely, he'd wondered what door it fitted, but had given it no real thought. He’d been too busy with other matters.
Now, though, glancing over at the locked door that connected his room to George’s, he wondered again.
Picking up the key, he walked over to the door. For a moment, he hesitated. He hadn’t heard George come up, and it was very quiet. He was fairly sure George’s bedchamber was empty. There would probably be no better time to satisfy his curiosity.
Carefully, he inserted the key into the lock.