Chapter 26
The following morning, Christopher tried to keep himself busy. There were pages and pages of letters to write and arrangements to be made. Christopher was not certain what the future would hold, but for the first time in his life, he had the vaguest idea that he could be happy in it.
His own happiness had rarely occurred to him before, and so planning for it was a novel experience. He wrote far past his usual breakfast hour, past the time he’d normally take Orion out for a jaunt. He only stopped writing when the sound of movement in the house reached his ears.
He paused to listen. He could have sworn he’d heard footfalls, but he was the only soul in the house. His previous anxieties helpfully suggested the idea that it might be ghosts—-real ones this time—-but he was able to dismiss that idea fairly quickly. There was the possibility that Har-ding had returned, but surely the man would announce himself once he entered.
Probably a prowler, then. Brilliant.
“Hello?” Christopher called. “Is someone there?” Yet no answer came, only more footsteps, louder this time, moving swiftly past the study door and going down the hall. It was only a moment before Christopher heard the massive front door open and shut with a bang.
Christopher leapt from his chair and went to the French doors just in time to see James Har-ding walking away from the Abbey with his black valise in hand, a perfect reversal of his momentous arrival.
“Har-ding!” Christopher cried. Then, realizing he could probably not be heard through the glass, he swung open the door and tried again. “Har-ding, wait!”
Har-ding did not stop walking. If anything, his pace quickened. He didn’t even look back, merely continued on with his shoulders hunched forward, like he was preparing to walk into driving rain.
“For god’s sake.” Christopher nearly stepped into the garden to pursue him but remembered that he was wearing a pair of delicate velvet slippers, as he had had no plans to go gallivanting about the fields that morning. He paused to consider how much time he would waste if he ran upstairs for his boots. Too long, he decided. He called again: “Would you wait just a moment?”
Still no response. Har-ding was shrinking into a black dot on the horizon, and Christopher was standing there like a fool, watching it happen.
Damn it all. He had so enjoyed the look of the velvet slippers, but if they were destined to be ruined, so be it.
Christopher launched himself outside. He didn’t even think to get his hat.
“Har-ding!” He stumbled a bit on a stone, but hastily righted himself and gave chase once more. Though the day was fair, the recent rains had left patches of mud at regular intervals, and Christopher fell victim to one, sinking into the muck up to his ankle. “Can you at least slow down? Your legs are longer than mine. It’s not fair.”
Har-ding did not slow, but neither did he speed up. Apparently his dignity would only allow for an escape at a fast walk and not an outright run. Christopher, however, had no such qualms, and ran as best as he could in his soggy slippers until he finally came abreast of his erstwhile valet.
“Now look here,” Christopher wheezed as he tried to catch his breath, “what are you doing? Skulking about the house, not even saying a word to me.”
Har-ding kept his eyes trained forward as he strode on. “I only came back to collect my things.”
“Your things?” Christopher stumbled over another rock.
“I will write with directions on where to send my pay packet, if that is convenient to you,” Har-ding said with serene detachment.
“It’s wholly in convenient!”
“I see.” Har-ding nodded. “Keep my last month’s wages, then, if you think it fair.” He veered sharply to the south, to the path that would take them over the footbridge where they’d quarreled all those days ago. Christopher followed.
“I don’t want your wages. Would you please stop walking?”
“If you would like one last chance to harangue me, my lord, I’m afraid I must decline.” They reached the bridge and began to cross it.
“I’m not haranguing, I’m merely— I don’t understand what you’re talking about! Do you -really mean to quit your post?”
Har-ding stopped so abruptly that Christopher nearly collided into his back. He turned so that they stood facing each other at last at the apex of the little bridge. The look on his face was one of perfect blankness.
Christopher, as usual, felt it necessary to fill the silence. “If that’s what you want, of course, then leave all you like. You’re under no obligation to stay. But your letter said you’d be back in several days, and I honestly don’t know what’s made you change your mind, and . . . and I suppose you don’t owe me any explanation, -really. It’s only, after the way we left things, I’d hoped we could . . .” He petered out, not knowing what else to say. He’d spent days planning this speech and the words had flown from his head. He looked down at his muddied slippers. “But if you wish to go, I can’t stop you.”
There was a long moment in which no one spoke. Then: “You’re the one who wants me gone,” Har-ding said slowly, “aren’t you?”
“What?” Christopher whipped his head up. “N--no! Quite the opposite. I want you—-here,” he stuttered. “Have I ever given the impression I didn’t?”
“You left a note at the post office for me,” Har-ding said.
“Yes, and?”
Har-ding shrugged helplessly. “As I said in my letter, you were to leave word for me there if I was not required any longer.”
“Wait a moment.” Christopher squinted at him. “Did you read my note?”
“I didn’t see the point,” Har-ding said. He ducked his head. “Truthfully, I— -I could not bring myself to read a dismissal written in your hand.”
“Dismissal?” Christopher gaped at him. “You thought I—-?”
“Didn’t you?” Har-ding insisted, his face transformed by doubt.
Christopher was not a violent man. He had never in his life struck a fellow human, had never dreamed of raising his hand in anything but a cheery greeting. Yet in that moment, all the frustrations and grief of the last few days collected into a single gesture. While Christopher was not exactly proud of it, he found it completely necessary.
He swatted Har-ding right in his damnably stalwart arm. Har-ding gasped and pulled away, more in shock than pain if his affronted look was any indication.
“You ridiculous fool!” Christopher cried. “Who leaves a note unread? Who!” He shoved at him, though this time Har-ding was more prepared and stepped back so that he did not take much of the brunt. Christopher advanced until they were both right at the bridge’s balustrade. “If I leave you a note, you’re meant to bloody well read it! I spent ages composing that note!”
He reached out to give Har-ding another shove, but Har-ding dropped his valise on the ground and snatched up his wrists so they were locked in a sort of grapple. “What did the note say, then?” Har-ding panted.
This close, Christopher could see the flecks of honey in his eyes. He loved those eyes. “It said you’re an ass.”
“So I am dismissed?”
“Yes! I mean, no! Would you just—-?” Christopher struggled in his iron grip. “Let me g—-!”
He never did finish his demand. They pushed and pulled at each other until both were knocked off balance, tumbling over the balustrade and into the pond. They hit the water with a loud splash that would have surely caught the attention of any passersby, had there been any. Christopher barely had time to thank his stars for the small favor before remembering that he couldn’t swim.
For obvious reasons, he had avoided the sea for the last decade. And as there was no way to join his contemporaries in swimming naked in Cambridge rivers, he had never ventured into anything more aquatic than a warm bath. Yet now, as he sank to the murky sludge of the pond’s bottom, he wished he had made an effort to acquaint himself with the basics. As it was, he was going to drown before he could even attempt to make a grab at his own happiness. Before he could even tell Har-ding—-well, anything.
No, Christopher decided as the air left his body in great billowing bubbles. No, he wouldn’t die like this. Or at least, he would put up a hell of a fight first. Har-ding deserved that much; he deserved the world.
In the dark of the water, Christopher desperately tried to find his way upward, and finally, after much flailing and choking on water, burst through the surface. “James!” he cried, kicking his legs out behind him with all his strength. He couldn’t see; the slimy water was in his eyes. Panic took him by the throat; he couldn’t see him, and if Har-ding couldn’t swim either, then . . . “James, are you—-?”
A hand brushed his. “I’m right here,” he said, and Christopher felt he could weep in relief.
“James!” He flailed closer, trying to swipe his wet hair from his face as he went. “You can’t drown! I won’t let you! Hold fast to me, and I’ll get us—-”
“Christopher.” Har-ding stood up in the water, allowing rivulets to rush down the planes of his body. Christopher blinked up at him. The water came only to the middle of his chest. “It’s not that deep.”
“Oh.” Flushing at his own foolishness, Christopher gathered his legs under himself and, after a few slips in the slick mud, managed to stand as well. He kept clinging to Har-ding’s arms as he did so, though. Just to be safe. “Ah. It -really isn’t very deep at all,” he said.
“No,” Har-ding agreed. He plucked a length of blackish--green pondweed from Christopher’s lapel and flicked it back into the water.
“You tossed me into a pond,” Christopher said, more in awe than anything accusatory.
“You pushed me as much as I tossed you.” Har-ding’s eyes flashed. “My lord,” he added a bit too late.
“None of that,” Christopher snapped. Then, softening, because it -really had been both their faults, “You -really didn’t read my note?”
“I left it with the postmistress. Cowardly of me, I know.” Har-ding ducked his head. He released his hold on Christopher’s arms. “So . . . I’m not dismissed?”
“Not as such. I want to marry you, you see,” Christopher said in a rush.
Har-ding raised his eyes once more, though they were now covered with a sheen of confusion. “You’ve . . . changed your mind? You were so adamant. Before.”
“I still am.” Christopher plucked Har-ding’s hands from where they dangled at his sides and held them. “I don’t want you to go back to petticoats for any reason, least of all this.”
“This?” Har-ding looked more confused than ever. A furrow of three upright lines appeared between his brows. Christopher was thoroughly charmed by them. “I don’t understand. This is . . . everything. Your inheritance, the Abbey, all your family land and holdings.”
“It’s nothing. It’s worthless,” Christopher said. “I don’t care what happens to it.”
“But, my lord—-”
“James, -really,” Christopher chided. “Drop the habit, will you?”
“Christopher,” he amended, though he sounded pained, “the entire point of your marriage was to fulfill the terms of your father’s will. Why would you marry me if not for that?”
“For the simple pleasure of waking up beside you in the morning, if you would allow it,” Christopher said. His heart was in his throat. He felt a bit dizzy, but he couldn’t let his courage fail now, not when Har-ding was staring at him, open--mouthed and lovely despite being soaked to the bone with pond water. He needed to say what needed to be said, regardless of how his voice shook. “Of course, I would understand if the notion of marrying a penniless nobody would not strike you as a decent bargain. It’s only—-these last few days have given me time to consider my own happiness, and it seems rather obvious that I am happiest in your company. And I would stay there—-if you’ll have me—-for as long as I’m welcome.” He dared a glance up at Har-ding, but his shocked expression remained much the same. “Oh, James, I’m not even making any sense; this is not the proposal I had in mind.”
“But if I am not to be your wife, then,” Har-ding said, “would you be mine?” He looked utterly destroyed by the idea. Christopher could see it in the bend of his brows, the set of his stubborn mouth. “You would be miserable, living like that. I couldn’t bear it.”
Christopher cocked his head. “Oh, so it’s completely fine when you make the huge sacrificial gesture, but if I were to do so—-?”
“Yes, yes, I see your point,” Har-ding grumbled, “but I wasn’t thinking of my own happiness when I made my proposal. Only yours.” Something in his face softened.
“Well.” Christopher gave a helpless shrug. “The two are rather intertwined now, I think.” He gave Har-ding’s hands another squeeze. “Neither of us would make a good wife, James. Let’s both be husbands to each other.”
Har-ding was thunderstruck; there was no other word for it. He looked at Christopher like he’d just invented fire, or the wheel, or some other concept that would turn the whole of history on its head. “How would we do that?” he asked. “Without your title or your property, how would we live?”
Christopher dredged up a smile. He hoped Har-ding was on the verge of agreeing, but he wouldn’t believe it before he heard the words with his own ears. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? The world is wide and full of grace.” He leaned in until their mouths were mere inches apart. “Would you walk through it with me?”
“Yes.” Har-ding breathed. “Yes, I—-”
Christopher kissed him. It was a clumsy effort, as he was a little overexcited and not very experienced in kissing, but that didn’t seem to matter. It certainly wasn’t how he’d pictured their first kiss—-the soaked clothes, the lack of privacy, the fact that he had lost one of his slippers in the mud—-yet Christopher wouldn’t have traded it for all the gold in the empire.
Pond water rushed around them as they moved closer together, Har-ding’s arms holding him tight. Their mouths settled into a more pleasing arrangement once Har-ding took control. Christopher closed his eyes and let himself be kissed back.
Har-ding, at last, pulled away. “Is this real? Do you actually want me?”
“My dear, dear fellow.” Christopher laid his palm against Har-ding’s wet cheek. It flushed a lovely, dusky pink under his touch. “Of course I do. I love you entirely.”
“Then yes.” Har-ding clasped his hand over Christopher’s to hold it to his face. “I will go with you. Anywhere.”
“And you won’t regret attaching yourself to Mr. Winterthrope instead of the Earl of Eden?” Christopher tried to inject a lightness in his tone that he did not feel.
Har-ding, as usual, sensed the seriousness of the question. “It’s you I love, not the trappings. Just you.”
He kissed him again, hard this time, and filthy, their wet mouths slotting together in a way that stole Christopher’s breath.
“Though, come to think of it, you’ll probably need to change your name,” Har-ding whispered as they pulled apart. “Winterthrope will not serve, not if we are to run away and leave your past behind.”
“Hm. Pity I can’t just take yours. Mister and Mister Har-ding.” Christopher twined his fingers in Har-ding’s sodden cravat. “Well, you’ll have to pick a new one for me. All in good time. But first—-” He went up on tiptoe to put his lips to Har-ding’s ear, his nose brushing a damp curl. “I might need your assistance in undressing.”
Har-ding’s eyes burned like coals as he regarded Christopher. “At once, my lord,” he said, and practically carried Christopher out of the damned pond and back to the manor.