Chapter 21
Christopher allowed himself to be led back to his rooms like a shaky newborn foal. He was shivering with cold by the time they reached his bedroom door, and Har-ding took one look at him in the light of the blazing array of candles before dragging him into his valet’s cell.
“We must get you dry,” he said as he pulled stacks of clean bathing sheets from a trunk at the foot of his bed. He wrapped one around Christopher’s shoulders, the massive thing engulfing his small frame, and draped another over his wet head.
“-Really, I’m all right.” Christopher’s voice sounded muffled within the confines of the cloth. “A swallow of brandy and I’ll be fine.” This, said through chattering teeth.
“Sit,” Har-ding commanded. He steered Christopher to his own bed and guided him to perch on the edge of the mattress. Then he busied himself with lighting a fire in the grate, taking much more time than seemed necessary.
Christopher soon realized the reason: it gave Har-ding the opportunity to say something of deep import without the indignity of speaking face--to--face.
“If I may be so bold, one thing that’s struck me as I settled into your service is that you do not have too many trusted confidants,” he said, still facing the grate. “Monsieur Charbonneau, perhaps, but you can hardly lean on that single shoulder when he is in London and you are here.” He tossed another log onto the pile and stared into the flames. “Which is all to say that I take this very seriously, as you must so rarely open yourself to others. What happened tonight nearly scared you to death, and I don’t understand why. If ever you’re willing to speak of it, I am willing to listen.”
Christopher sat in a miserable heap on the edge of Har-ding’s narrow bed. He watched as more water dripped from the ends of his hair onto the crumpled bath sheet that covered his lap. Har-ding was correct, of course. He trusted this man, he realized, with his entire being—-save, perhaps, his heart, which was not fit company for anyone.
If Plinkton had known, and for all those years stayed at Eden Abbey despite knowing . . .
And if he already trusted Har-ding with all his foibles and weaknesses, his joys and desires, his finances and his beloved wardrobe . . .
Perhaps he could trust him with this one, final thing.
“Har-ding,” he said, and the seriousness of his tone must have been something to behold indeed, for Har-ding stopped fussing about with the grate and rose to face his master with a worried look.
“My lord?”
Christopher waved a hand through the air. “I know your sense of duty or what have you makes it difficult, but please, I am begging you—-at least for the moment, call me Christopher.” Bold as this was, he didn’t dare push the boundaries of informality so far as to use Har-ding’s Christian name, as he hadn’t been given the right. His earlier impropriety, a slip of the tongue, was shameful enough.
“I will try,” Har-ding said. He sat down gingerly beside Christopher on the bed. “What is it?”
Christopher filled his chest with a deep breath. This is what standing on the edge of the sea cliffs must feel like, he supposed, though he’d never been foolish enough to try that particular spot of derring--do. Yet here he was, on the very edge.
“After the events of tonight, there’s something I should tell you.” He fastened his gaze straight ahead, thinking the innocuous wall was a better bet than Har-ding’s face. He wasn’t sure he could watch if that face fell into disgust once he said all he needed to say. “It’s rather a long story. The story of my life, I suppose.”
There seemed to be nothing in the room but the low light of the fire and Har-ding’s soft voice. “I will hear it, if you wish to tell me.”
“I should say at the outset—-” He wasn’t certain how it should even be phrased. “That is, I was born and brought up in a state quite unlike the one you see before you.” He kept staring at the wall, grateful for its placid demeanor. It seemed to be taking the news well, at least. “It’s only in the last ten years or so that I’ve been able, by a confluence of circumstances, to assert my manhood, if you follow my meaning. Otherwise, you certainly would not know me as Lord Eden, or even Christopher, but something else entirely.”
Christopher chanced a glance over at Har-ding to gauge whether he was near to understanding, but his man’s face gave him no clues. It was a complete blank, and a pale one. As he watched, the blood seemed to drain even further from Har-ding’s sharp features, leaving him wan as a ghost.
“Perhaps I’m not being clear,” Christopher said. Panic welled in his chest. “What I mean is, I had a twin. A long time ago. And he—-damn it all, I’ve actually never spoken of this before. I mean that I’m—-”
“Christopher,” Har-ding murmured. He stood abruptly, and for one terrible moment, Christopher thought he might leave. Just march out of the room and out of the Abbey, never to be seen again.
He was prepared to plead, but then he saw that Har-ding was not leaving. He was fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat.
Now Christopher wasn’t sure how to feel. He eyed his man’s progress as he shucked off his coat and waistcoat and started untying his cravat. “Are you quite all right, dear fellow?” he asked.
Har-ding remained silent. Whatever he needed to impart could not be accomplished with words, apparently, for once he had tossed his cravat to the floor, he started to pluck the hem of his shirt from his trousers. Christopher’s eyes went wide. Of all the reactions to his confession that he’d imagined, a spontaneous stripping to the buff was not one of them.
“May I ask what—-?” he tried again, but there was no need. Har-ding yanked his shirt up and off and stood before him, chest heaving.
A chest, as it happened, that was bound in linen bandages.
Christopher’s entire world tilted until it was standing on its head. He stared; he knew it was gauche, but he couldn’t help it. It seemed to him this must be some grand joke, or a dream, or perhaps a trick designed to . . . what? What could this possibly be? His lips parted, but no sound came out for a long while.
“I don’t understand,” he finally said, his gaze flicking up to meet Har-ding’s. He didn’t dare understand. Not without confirmation that he wasn’t going mad.
Har-ding swallowed as if working up to speaking. When he finally did, he said, “I believe we might be made along the same lines.” He watched Christopher’s face carefully. “Am I wrong?”
A small part of Christopher’s mind was aware that he was still gaping like a very unattractive landed trout, and he needed to say something—-literally anything—-in the hollow silence that followed.
He decided on something as foolish as it was honest: “No. No, it seems you are correct.”
He stood abruptly, shrugging off the damp bath sheets. It seemed prudent to stand. A momentous occasion such as this called for it. He stood before Har-ding, his gaze roving over his whipcord body before he forced himself to meet and hold Har-ding’s dark eyes.
“Truly?” he asked, which sounded ridiculous now that he’d said it aloud, but it couldn’t be helped. “This is . . . real?”
“As real as I can fathom,” Har-ding whispered.
Christopher gave a shout of pure joy and launched himself into Har-ding’s arms, not caring about propriety or rank, not caring if he was the picture of hysteria. Tears welled in his eyes, happy ones for once, as he clutched Har-ding tighter, his arms winding around his shoulders. He felt the planes of their bodies press together, and the sensation was so very different from the time they had been forced into close proximity in Lady Belinda’s wardrobe. It felt good, he realized, to hold close another human being for the sheer pleasure of it, especially this one. Har-ding stiffened in his embrace at first, but after a long moment, his capable hands settled at the small of Christopher’s back.
“What are the odds?” Christopher laughed. “In all the world, that you should find me!” He gave Har-ding another squeeze, his wet clothes squelching against Har-ding’s skin, before staring back up at him. “It’s like a miracle.”
“Yes,” said Har-ding, his face a mixture of quiet shock and contentment. “It must be.”
“I thought I was the only one,” Christopher said. He buried his face into the hot skin of Har-ding’s neck even as his tears spilled over his cheeks. “I thought it was just me, alone in the world. Did you think so too?”
“For a time.” Har-ding’s voice was a sweet rumble this close. It moved through Christopher as thunder might roll in from afar. “I have never met another—-not personally. But I have heard stories and rumors; have you not?”
“Rumors?” Christopher pulled back, wide--eyed.
“Of so--called women being discovered in the military, for example,” Har-ding said. “Some say they return to dresses and stays when the fighting is done, but others say they continue living as they fought. There were two or three such stories here at home and in the Colonies. Did you never hear of it in all your time in Philadelphia?”
“No, I suppose— Well, who would have told me?” Christopher said. He tried to picture his Quaker tutor incorporating this lesson and found he could not, as forward--thinking as the man had been.
“There are other tales,” Har-ding continued. “I sought them out like a bloodhound. There are a pair of ladies who settled in a cottage in Wales and refused their betrotheds, and they live as husband and wife do. In small villages, there are craftsmen and laborers who are like us, but without anyone who will judge or care so long as they do their work. There are women who share the other side of our coin, who have eschewed their surcoats in favor of skirts. There are people in other parts of the globe who do not think any of it strange at all—-they exist, I know it.”
“They do?” Christopher could not help the shock that suffused his voice. It sounded like a dream, like a complete fantasy.
“There are all sorts, my lord,” Har-ding said. “The world is wide and full of grace, I promise you.”
The notion stopped Christopher’s breath in his chest. He had devoured as many myths as he could find, pressing certain stories like talismans to his heart. Iphis and his blessing from Isis, beardless Apollo and his fiercer twin: they had set his imagination afire, but he could never have dreamed that there was, in pockets all throughout the world, a secret family to which he already belonged.
Har-ding continued, “I had never before met another like me, but when I came here to Eden—-” He gave a helpless shrug.
Christopher dashed the back of his arm across his face to smear away the tears. “Am I that obvious?” he asked, hating how his voice went high with fear.
Har-ding shook his head, and his hands went to Christopher’s upper arms. “No, it was only a hope of mine, what I thought was a frivolous daydream. Your aversion to being dressed made me wonder, as it is such a particular quirk of yours.” He went a little pink under Christopher’s gaze, or perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight. “Just in case, whilst we were in London I told my fellow valets that I dress you as is usual so as to dispel any suspicion. They were quite complimentary of my work, actually; you should be pleased.”
Christopher smiled despite himself. “That’s the sort of thing you valets discuss on your days off, is it?”
Har-ding colored further. “Among other things.”
“Well.” He couldn’t seem to keep the ridiculous grin off his face. Christopher glanced down and realized they were still locked in each other’s grip, like they were beginning a strange sort of dance. He felt his face go hot and cursed his pale coloring, which would no doubt show every bit of the blush. “Well,” he said again, disentangling himself. He sat down heavily on the bed once more, unsure whether his legs would support him. “I promised you my whole life story, did I not? And now that I know you’re the best sort of audience for it, I’m not afraid to tell it. Where shall I begin?”
Har-ding resumed his place sitting next to him. “You don’t have to explain all the details if it pains you too much.”
“No, I want you to know. Someone should.”
He took a deep breath. And began.