by Lee Rowan
“I know, Mama, but… she hasn’t changed one bit, and I suppose neither have I. Always the trouble child, aren’t I?”
“Don’t be foolish, David. My, you look splendid! I’ve told your father that we need to have family portraits done now that you’re all grown, but I suppose you’ll be off to sea before I can arrange that.”
“Wait until Genie’s a little older,” he suggested, raising an eyebrow at Will. “I just got this uniform, and I’m not in a hurry to change it. How are things going with the rest of the family? And how are you?”
“Proud enough to burst!” She hugged him again. “Your father will be so vexed that he missed you.”
“He can tell me that himself, sometime. But you tell me, would you care to see King John at Drury Lane this Friday evening?”
“With a military escort? I certainly would!”
“I come by it honestly, you see,” Davy told Will. “I’m going to take Will out to Vauxhall tomorrow—he’s never been, and I think everyone should see it at least once.”
“Yes,” she said. “But I saw a notice in the Times today that tomorrow’s spectacular will include the Duke of York’s band as well as the fireworks. That’s a little more exuberance than I’m quite ready for—and besides, there is one horn player who invariably blows flat, and that sets my teeth on edge. I’m sure you boys will have far more fun if you’re footloose and fancy-free.”
Davy winced. “Thank you for the warning—we may not stay for the marching band!”
The rest of the evening went much the same way. If he did not quite feel like one of the family, Will certainly felt a welcome guest, and though he was awed by the size of the house (only a little ballroom, her ladyship said, but with four girls to launch—five, counting Jane—it was such a convenience), the mansion did feel like a home, despite its elegant décor. And though he was ready to leave by the end of the evening, he was in no hurry to escape. It was good to see Davy so relaxed and happy after all the tension and trouble of the previous month.
“NOT SO bad, then, was it?” David asked as they settled into their room at the Red Lion. His mother had offered them hospitality but seemed to understand that two young men on the town might prefer to be at liberty—even though she had no idea what it meant in this case—and she’d sent them home in the family carriage. The coachman had known David since he was eight and took the chance to congratulate him on his promotion. Since it was an open landaulet, they’d had to keep their conversation general until they got back to the hotel.
“Not bad at all,” Will said. “Your mother is delightful. Apart from being snubbed by your sister, did you enjoy the evening?” He yawned, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his waistcoat.
David sank into one of the comfortable chairs flanking the table. “Will, I can’t recall a happier day in my whole life. Touch wood! Really, it was very nearly perfect. And we’ve a week of treats to look forward to—though we can omit Astley’s if you like. They’re doing Fair Rosamund, and you might find her a bit overwrought. Friday we must go back to Stratford’s—later in the day, I think, and he may not have my undress uniforms and other gear until next week.” He realized he was starting to ramble and said, “But what would you like to do?”
Will shook his head. “As I said, I’m game for almost anything. If you want to visit another bookshop, I’ve been thinking there might be some military history I’d enjoy—and I saw a poster that they’re digging up the ruins at Pompeii. That would be interesting, if anything has been published on the excavations.”
“I am never going to turn down a bookshop,” David said. “It’s as well we have other readers on the Calypso, because I can’t possibly keep everything I’ve been wanting to pick up. If it’s ruins you want, we must stop by the museum. Anything else?”
Will seemed hesitant, standing behind his chair and shifting restlessly. “No, nothing I want to do, particularly. But I was wondering…. Your old sweetheart…. I’m not certain how to say this. Davy, do you see the two of us in that way—something that is good and pleasant for now, but without a future?”
“Will!”
“It’s all right if you do,” Will added hastily. “Our situation… it’s not one that can ever be recognized. Your father would probably kill us both if he ever found out, if the Navy didn’t do it first, but—”
“Will, stop. Please, sit down.” As he did, David fetched out the bottle of champagne his mother had sent with them, and two glasses that he’d had sent up from downstairs. He poured a glass for each of them, watching the bubbles rise. “I have loved you as a friend—and more—for three years now. What happened a few weeks ago… like this whole day, it was better than I had ever hoped. I know this is all very new to you. It is to me too. I had never dared hope…. I don’t know how long it will last, or how it will end, or if we can somehow make it last for the rest of our lives. But I hope we can.”
Will bowed his head, and David wondered if he’d just put his foot in it.
“Will? How do you see the two of us?”
Will looked up, blinking back tears. “I don’t want it to end. Ever. I don’t know if we can do it either, but that is what I want. Only…. Davy, you’re the son of an earl. You’re capable of so much more than a dangerous, illicit connection—”
“If we both want this to continue,” David said, choosing his words carefully, “then, for now—let’s just allow it to continue. I don’t see any need to look for some vague dream when I have what I want right here and now.” He picked up his glass and touched it to Will’s. “Here’s to a future—together.”
THE ROAD from Portsmouth to London had seemed to go on forever. On the return trip, even though they were on the road all day long, the miles sped by just as the past week’s whirl of activities had. Their conversation slowed and stopped toward the end of the journey, as though they were both preparing to keep a close watch on every word. After the last change of horses, they decided to sit opposite each other instead of side by side, just to get back into the habit of separation.
But Davy was up to something; Will could see that in his eyes. Finally he could contain his curiosity no longer. “Very well, I’ll ask. What is it?”
“You know me too well. I had thought to keep it until Christmas—it’s too long to wait for your next birthday.”
“Oh, no,” Will said. “I hope you haven’t wasted—”
“Absolutely not a waste, Mr. Marshall. And I shall enjoy it as well.” He pulled his small traveling bag onto his lap and unbuckled the straps. “Something you said gave me the idea.”
Will was on tenterhooks as Davy brought out a flat package wrapped in stiff paper, unfolded the wrapping, then took another sheet of paper off what looked like a small rectangle of cardboard. “It’s just a little souvenir. See?”
He turned the cardboard over so that Will could see it—and read the legend at the bottom: “The New Uniforms!”
Above it was a lively line drawing of two young and carefree officers, Davy smiling, his hands outstretched as though sharing his glorious garb with all and sundry and laughing at himself all the while. Will stood a few feet away, giving him a slightly reproving look but unable to be very serious.
Will remembered the moment as though it were yesterday instead of a week ago. “I didn’t know he’d drawn that!”
“I saw the sketch before you did, and asked him to put it aside,” Davy admitted. “It’s what you said you wanted—and I wanted one of you, too. This is harmless, no matter who might see it—just a couple of fellows larking about at the tailor’s.”
“It’s perfect,” Will said, holding it to the light. “I wonder why Mr. Stratford didn’t want to keep it!”
“This is ink, drawn from the rough sketch—so he may have the original. I told him to ask my mother for permission if he wanted to use it in his shop. My guess is she’ll have it for herself if he does.”
Will took a last look and handed it back. “Keep it safe. I wondered why you brought that case with y
ou, instead of packing it away!”
“Anything else in my trunk can be replaced,” Davy said. When the picture was safe once more, he shifted to sit beside Will and fastened the window curtains shut. “This is our last chance for God knows how long, Mr. Marshall. I suggest we make the most of it.”
ALL SOULS EVE
MIDSHIPMAN DAVID Archer woke in the dark, frowning as he tried to catch the edge of his vanished dream. Or was it a dream? He could not be sure. Something was wrong with Will; he knew that much. Since sodomy meant death in His Majesty’s Navy—and since Will Marshall was a loyal subject of His Majesty—Archer would never be able to tell Will how he felt. But his love, cherished like a small lamp in a dark cave, lent him an awareness of how things stood with his shipmate. Even now, Archer could not-quite hear something, hovering just outside his perceptions.
He sat up, his eyes growing accustomed to the dim light. Full moon tonight, All Hallows’ Eve. The cook had made a little soul cake and tied it out on the bowsprit—not that he was superstitious, mind, but one just couldn’t be too careful. Who knew what might be abroad on a night like this?
“Hello, Davy.”
No north wind could blow colder. Archer closed his eyes, steadied himself, then opened them again.
His nemesis stood before him: George Correy, pale as the grave, wearing midshipman’s breeches and a plain shirt. The horrible dark blotch across his chest spoke of his death wound. “Cat got your tongue, boy?”
Archer swallowed. This was not possible. “You—you are dead,” he managed. Dead two years now, and at Will Marshall’s hand. Will had not bowed under Correy’s bullying, as Archer had done; he’d faced Correy’s demands and threats and called him out. Only eighteen, but his clean shot put an end to Correy’s reign of rape and terror among the younger midshipmen. From that day on, Archer had been Marshall’s, body and soul—if only Will had wanted either.
Correy leered as though he knew all that. He shrugged. “Hasn’t stopped me, though, has it? Not tonight.” He took a step forward, clearly expecting Archer to give ground.
“You are dead,” Archer repeated, trying to convince himself. “You have no power here.”
“Oh, don’t I?” Grinning, he swung a fist, and Archer ducked vainly, knowing he’d moved too slowly.
But with a strange, damp chill, the fist passed through him, and with that proof, his courage returned. “You cannot touch me.”
“Not yet, Davy-boy, not yet—but I will. You’ve grown since we last met, haven’t you? Gotten above yourself. But you don’t have the shelter of your body, boy. You’re a naked spirit, just as I am. And when you despair, you’ll sink down to a level where I can reach you.”
Archer felt very strange, realizing there was still a body in his hammock. His own body, wrapped in a blanket, snoring a little. As he held his hand before his face, he realized that the body he wore now—this body, that felt as real as any—was glowing faintly, and a bright silver cord stretched back to the self in the hammock. He looked back and forth between his hand and his bed, bewildered.
“You think you’re strong, do you?” Correy waved toward the hammock. “You don’t have that flesh swaddling you, you little git. You left it to help your dear friend, and you can’t get back until the morning. By then you’ll be mine again, Archer.” A savage flash of teeth. “All mine. Forever. You and that swaggering bastard who shot me. I’ll have you both.”
Oh, my God. Will.
Even as he thought it, he was in Will’s little cabin, gazing down on his sleeping friend. But the sleep was very, very deep, and Archer saw another silvery cord stretching up through the ceiling. “What have you done to him?”
Correy smirked. “Not much. Not yet. Nightmares, Davy. You know all about nightmares, don’t you? I know I taught you the very best I could.”
This made no sense. It had to be some kind of dream. “You are not real.”
“Tonight I am. You know what night this is. And your wonderful Captain Smith—” He spat without effect. “—has brought this ship into a very special place. The veils are thin here, boy. I was finally able to pass through, and I can stay all night.”
“How—?”
“Oh, of course. You’re still living, you wouldn’t know. It’s attachment. Strong feeling, love or hate. And you must know, my dear Mr. Archer….” The ghostly fingers shivered along his face, clutched into his throat. “You must know how very cordially I do hate you both.”
Archer felt that hate, stronger than a physical blow.
And Correy saw it, his face lighting with an ugly anticipation. “Oh, you’re getting closer, aren’t you? Closer all the time. It won’t be long now, Davy.”
He had to get to Will. And as quickly as thought, he was there—up in the fighting top, where Will knelt against the mast, head bowed, one arm draped over the rail, his stare focused down into the water. He didn’t look up at Archer’s arrival or seem to be aware of his presence, even when Archer knelt beside him.
“Will?”
“He doesn’t know you’re here,” Correy whispered in his ear. “In his dream, he saw me drive a knife into your heart and throw your body overboard.”
“But you never—”
“I would have, if I’d had time. And that’s what I showed him.”
“But he killed you! He put you out of our lives forever.”
“Oh, that.” Correy aimed a kick at Will; he flinched, as if he felt something. “There! Much better. He’s getting down to my level. He doesn’t know he saved you, you see. He thinks the dream was real, and the truth was just a dream. And when he gets down here, I’ll have him. He won’t be able to go back to his body. Perhaps I’ll see if I can take it, instead. I always wanted to be a Lieutenant….”
Archer searched the deck below. Was there no one else on board who could see what was going on, who might help?
“No one.” Correy answered his thoughts as though he could hear them. “There’s no one else aboard who shared that special bond we three have. You were both such tender little morsels, so vulnerable. No one can see me now—or you either. They have their own affairs to mind….”
He waved a hand, and Archer was suddenly aware that the ship was full of shades, some of them in uniforms, English or French, some women, children—loved ones who died while husbands and fathers were at sea. The men awake, on duty, were wholly oblivious, while the others saw only those to whom they were bound, through love or hate.
What in God’s name am I going to do?
“Will?” He put a hand on Will’s shoulder, and it sank through, and Correy laughed—and as Archer’s heart contracted in fear, the shoulder under his hand grew firm. If feelings governed contact, then he had reached that same level of despair where Will was caught. All right, then. At least we’ll go together. “Will!”
Will blinked and looked up, and his eyes filled with tears. “Davy!” He caught Archer’s wrist. “Oh, God, Davy, I’m sorry, I never guessed he’d—”
“I’m all right, Will. It’s all right.” How to explain this madness? “I’m not even hurt.”
“Are we both dead, then?”
Correy leaned in between them. “Yes, you are, you little dog, and now you’re mine.”
“No!” Archer pushed at Correy, but his hand passed through. Good. Good. The bastard was at some lower level still. Of course. “No, Will. We’re both all right.”
Will only stared in bewilderment. “But if Correy’s dead, and we can see him—”
“He won’t believe you, Archer,” Correy purred. “This doesn’t fit into his little logical, mathematical mind. Isn’t it a delicious paradox?”
“Correy, shut your ugly face!” He knelt beside his friend. “Will, don’t you remember? You shot him a week after you came aboard. You freed us all. He never left Portsmouth after that because he was dead!” This, from a man who was apparently floating around a frigate like a will-o’-the-wisp. Why should Will believe him? I don’t know that I believe it myself. I shall feel a fool in
the morning.
But he knew, somehow, that this was real, that he was fighting for both their lives. “Don’t you remember? You must remember the duel, at least. You can’t have forgotten that. You’d hardly come aboard the Titan before he was after you.”
“All a dream,” Correy interjected. “Everything you remember about him, it’s just a dream.”
“You were there.” Will’s grip tightened on Archer’s arm. “On the Calypso, under Captain Smith. We went overboard, were marooned on an island. You were there, Davy. I don’t know how—”
It was Archer’s turn to stare, at hearing the memory of his own dream from his friend’s lips. Was it possible? “Yes. It was a dream, as this is a dream, but the Calypso is real, captain and crew. We’re aboard her now.” He held his breath, watching the emotions shift on Will’s expressive face. They had been lovers in that dream, but Archer had thought it must have been his own unworthy fantasy. Had that been like this, shared dreams? Did Will really share his feelings as well? Surely not in his waking mind—Will had shot Correy for attempting to seduce him. He prayed that Will would not be frightened away by the memories, back into Correy’s grasp.
Will looked down at his hand, finally, and relaxed just a trifle. “I can touch you.”
“Yes.”
“No!” Correy grabbed for their shoulders, as though to push them apart, but his touch left no sensation this time, none at all. He was sliding down, or they were moving up; somehow, the gulf was widening. “No, you little whoresons, you’re mine, you hear me—”
“No, we’re not,” Archer said firmly. It was fear that pulled them down, and what was it that cast out fear? He had the answer now, he knew, if only…. “Will, do you remember that dream, of the island?”
Will’s dark brows drew together for a moment. “Yes. I never remembered it before, I couldn’t. The island, and sharing a hammock, and we—” He looked up, a dawning light in his eyes. “Davy, we are dreaming, aren’t we? This is not real? I can touch you?”