Iain leaned back in his chair. “I remember your interest in mimicry,” he said to James. “Do you remember showing me that bee orchid the last time I was at Wylde Manor?”
The last time he visited James. Neither of them was likely to forget that in a hurry.
James smiled tightly. “Yes, of course. That was when I was first becoming interested in mimicry.”
“Ah, the bee orchid!” Potts said. “Now you have piqued my interest, Mr. Hart. My own principal area of study is botany, you see.”
“Well, I’m afraid we won’t see any bee orchids where we’re going today, Mr. Potts,” James said, smiling coolly. “We’re bound for the woods, and as you will know, being a botanist, bee orchids prefer a meadow.”
“That’s a shame,” Potts said. “I should very much like to see one.”
“Well, there’s no need for you to miss out,” Iain said, spotting a chance to get James alone. “I’m sure Hart here can direct you to the likeliest place to look for them.”
Potts sent him a suspicious look, as well he might. “That’s all right,” he said. “I can look for bee orchids another day. We’re staying a se’nnight, so I shall have plenty of opportunity to explore the estate.”
“You could go and look for bee orchids, Sinclair, if you prefer.” James didn’t even look up from his kedgeree to deliver that set-down.
“Oh no,” Iain replied promptly. “I wouldn’t miss seeing your leaf-butterfly for the world.”
If he had to endure Potts to have James’s company, so be it.
JAMES HAD DECIDED, when he retired to bed last night, to avoid Iain as much as possible today, so it was aggravating to have his decision so thoroughly undermined before he’d so much as finished his breakfast. What was the point in stirring up the dying embers of their friendship now? They’d be going cold soon enough anyway, when he left England.
That thought made his stupid heart contract, which in turn made him feel wildly angry, and he increased his pace so that he was not far off running up the hill, leaving Iain—whom he’d abandoned with Potts a few minutes before—even further behind.
Served him right for insinuating himself where he wasn’t wanted, James thought savagely. He could hear the drone of Potts’s voice behind him as he lectured Iain about something or other, and it filled him with absurd satisfaction to know that Iain was probably having to listen to the self-aggrandising monologue that James had been subjected to the previous afternoon.
The vicar was not a modest man. In fairness, his botanical knowledge was reasonably good, but James found the man’s determined lack of curiosity tedious. Potts thought—had said so repeatedly the previous afternoon—that the sole purpose of all the astonishing diversity in the natural world was to demonstrate the glory of God. That was it, as far as he was concerned, and there was no more to say. When James had mentioned Monsieur Lamarck’s theories, Potts had waved his comments off dismissively, saying merely, Who can divine the Lord’s purpose, Mr. Hart?
Oddly enough, what the Lord’s purpose might actually be was the one subject on which Potts appeared to have no view.
James found it equally irritating that Potts seemed unable to see the loveliness in anything that was not obviously beautiful. He liked flowers—pastel-pretty blooms—but grasses, sedges, lichens, none of those held any real interest for him. Nor did insects or other small, humble creatures. Certainly not a butterfly that looked like a dying leaf. He hadn’t invited himself along on this outing because of any real curiosity about the common brimstone, only to talk about himself and show off his knowledge of plant anatomy and Linnean names to James.
James soon reached the top of the hill, pausing for a little while to get his breath back from his swift climb. The day was still and humid, the silent promise of rain permeating the warm, oppressive air. There was no birdsong to be heard at all, and overhead, the sky wore a cloak of grey clouds that hung low and heavy in the sky. Already, James felt sticky in his clothes, but he didn’t care. It was good to be out. It always lifted his spirits to have earth and rocks and grass under his feet.
He set off again, hopping over the stile and starting down the path to the woods, but after a minute more of walking, he slowed to a reluctant halt. Neither Iain nor Potts knew which way he intended to go, and if he went much further ahead, he’d be out of sight. Briefly, he wondered if he could give them the slip and pretend later he’d thought they were right behind him. After all, the purpose of this morning’s outing was to observe the butterflies’ behaviour. He already had all the drawings he needed, as well as specimens he’d collected and carefully preserved. Today, all he wanted to do was sit quietly and watch the brimstone in the wild, and he knew it was unlikely he’d get a chance to do that uninterrupted with Potts there. James would be amazed if the man could go a minute without speaking.
He was mulling over his options when Potts’s faraway voice hailed him.
“I say, Mr. Hart!” he cried. “Do wait for us!”
James sighed. He should’ve gone on ahead while he had the chance. He turned on his heel to see that Potts was in the midst of climbing the stile, Iain standing behind him on the other side of the fence. James began to walk back towards them, trying to suppress a smile as he watched Potts swinging his plump legs over the top of the stile in an odd, straight-legged fashion. Evidently, his breeches were too tight. It wasn’t easy to hold back the unkind urge to laugh, especially with Iain standing there, looking distinctly amused.
“You were getting quite far ahead there, Mr. Hart,” Potts scolded him as he finally stepped down from the stile. “And Mr. Sinclair and I aren’t at all sure which part of the woods you’re heading for.”
Now that Potts was finally over the fence, Iain vaulted it, not bothering with the stile at all. Potts sent him a brief look of disapproval, then turned back to James.
“Is it much further?” he asked, adjusting his bulky satchel on his shoulder. He’d insisted on bringing all manner of equipment with him, expressing surprise that James wasn’t bringing anything but a pocket notebook.
“Perhaps another hour of walking,” James said. He and Iain could cover the distance much more quickly but Potts was really rather slow. “But only about half of that is uphill.”
“An hour? Uphill?” Potts looked horrified. “And you’ve brought no provisions?”
“Provisions? What for?” James asked, puzzled. They’d be joining the other guests for the picnic in a few hours’ time.
Potts didn’t immediately answer James’s question. He seemed to be thinking. Then he frowned—a little overdramatically, James thought—and looked skyward, stretching one plump hand out, palm up. “Oh, I say, did you feel that? I’m sure that was a raindrop.”
“I didn’t feel anything,” James said honestly.
“Nor I,” Iain added, yawning. “Shall we proceed? The butterflies will be getting ready for bed before we see any at this rate.”
“I am quite sure that was rain,” Potts insisted. He sent James an apologetic look. “I am afraid I cannot risk catching a chill, Mr. Hart. I have a weak chest, you know. The last time I had a cold, I was in bed for a fortnight. I really think I should return to the house.”
A faint thrill of happiness coursed through James at the thought of being alone with Iain, and he pressed his lips together, annoyed at the automatic reaction. There was nothing to be gained by his being alone with Iain. They had said everything that needed to be said last night. James had forgiven Iain, and that was as far as he wanted to go. No more friendship, no more letters. What was the point anymore?
“Must you go, Mr. Potts?” he asked, a little desperately.
Potts sent him a sympathetic look. “I fear so. I’d be happy to discuss your observations this afternoon, though. If the picnic is called off—as I suspect it may be—we could talk over afternoon tea.” He offered James a glib little smile, then turned back to the stile without further ado and began the tortuous business of climbing back over.
Behind him, James laughed nervousl
y. “You’re not really going back just because of a few raindrops, are you?” he asked. “Even if there’s a downpour, there are places to shelter. Come, Mr. Potts. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”
Potts stilled in the act of climbing the stile, sending James a martyred look over his shoulder. “You are very young, Mr. Hart, and happily for you, quite without obligations. I, however, do not have that privilege. I have a wife and family to think of, and, of course, my flock. If I do not take care of my earthly body, how can I expect to take care of their eternal souls?”
This was another of the vicar’s rhetorical questions, judging by the way the man immediately turned away without waiting for a response. James glanced at Iain, who chuckled softly, rolling his eyes, and reluctantly, James’s lips twitched in response.
“Well, I’m very glad to have amused you both at least,” Potts said stiffly. Evidently, he’d managed to complete his descent more quickly this time. He was standing on the other side of the fence now, watching the wordless interplay between them.
“Jesus Christ,” Iain muttered, rolling his eyes again.
“If you could possibly refrain from blaspheming, Mr. Sinclair, I’d be obliged,” Potts bit out. “Unless you had forgotten, I am a man of the cloth!”
“Since you remind us at least once every five minutes, I hadn’t forgotten, no,” Iain drawled, his sarcastic tone making the vicar’s face purple up.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” James muttered. “Iain, do stop baiting Mr. Potts. And Mr. Potts”—he turned to the vicar—“I will be very happy to discuss butterflies, botany, or indeed anything else with you this afternoon over tea, but for now, I’m proceeding as planned. Will you be all right getting back to the house by yourself?”
“Of course,” Potts said coolly. “I do hope you do not get caught out by the weather, Mr. Hart. Though I must say, I fear you and Mr. Sinclair may end up getting quite drenched.” And with that gloomy prediction, he was off, bumbling down the hill, his fat satchel bumping against his ample hip.
“Thank God,” Iain sighed once he was out of earshot. “What a pompous ass that man is! You should’ve heard what he was saying on the way up here—he fancies himself as quite the botanist. As though he could ever hope to know as much as y—”
“What are you playing at?” James interrupted icily.
Iain looked almost comically surprised at that. “What do you mean?”
“All the times you’ve told me off for being obvious, for being indiscreet,” James accused hotly. “Yet this morning, you couldn’t have made it more obvious to Potts if you tried that you wanted to join us—and as if that wasn’t bad enough, you made it even more obvious just now that you didn’t want him to stay. What happened to being careful, Iain? Does that not concern you anymore, now that you’re going to India?”
“James, for God’s—”
“But then, why worry about consequences that won’t affect you?” James continued, throwing his hands up in the air. “After all, I’m the one who’ll have to live with any rumours you spark with your behaviour, aren’t I? Not you.”
“I thought you didn’t care about that sort of thing,” Iain threw back at him. “You’re the one who said I was excessively discreet, yet the instant I stop being so discreet, you’re the first to complain!”
“How dare you!” James hissed. “Despite your accusations, I never did or said anything in front of anyone that would have called the nature of our friendship into question. You were the one who saw dangers that weren’t there. That’s quite different from your behaviour just now—deliberately goading a man you know to be petty and interfering, just to amuse yourself. If I’d done that a few years ago, you’d’ve been furious with me, but now that you’re off to India and you won’t have to come across him again, you don’t care!”
He was breathing heavily by the time he finished that speech, fury suffusing him, a slow-burning anger fed by years of lingering resentment beginning to fire in his veins.
Iain didn’t say anything for a long time. His blue gaze tracked over James’s face, as though he was reading him, like a schoolboy faced with a page of Latin, brow furrowed with concentration. At last he sighed and looked away, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck as he stared down the hill.
“I’m sorry, Jamie,” he said softly, his tone resigned.
Just that. Nothing else.
James wasn’t entirely sure what Iain was saying sorry for. For his behaviour just now, or years before? Perhaps it was both. James decided not to ask. Instead, he gave a sigh of his own.
“Oh, come on,” he muttered. “Let’s find these butterflies.”
Chapter Fifteen
Holmewell’s woods were more extensive than Iain had realised. James led him over the hill and down a winding, descending path. It rained a little as they walked, but the thick canopy of leaves overhead kept them dry.
Eventually, the ground evened out, and after a while, they entered a glade that made Iain catch his breath.
“Good lord,” he whispered.
The trees were more widely spaced here, allowing a little light to dapple through, and the ground was a sea of bluebells, a rolling wave of purple, washing through the wood.
A bluebell wood.
James glanced at him, smiling. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Kate likes to keep this secret.”
They were the first words James had spoken to him since they’d set off again, and the tightness in Iain’s chest eased a little at the soft, friendly pitch of his voice.
“I can’t believe you were going to bring Potts here,” he said.
James’s mouth hitched up and Iain’s stomach lurched to see that familiar, quietly amused expression.
“I’d planned to take him somewhere else.” James said. “But since he decided to leave us to it, I was able to go back to my original plan.”
Iain smiled, warmed by the idea that James didn’t mind bringing him here. “Does that mean I’m forgiven for riling him up?”
James sent him a strange look, then gave a short laugh. “Yes, all right,” he said. “Why not? Let’s have all the injuries between us forgiven before you go, every one. A clean slate for us both, eh?”
And that was enough to have Iain’s chest tightening again, just at the thought of leaving England’s shores. Leaving James behind.
He swallowed hard. “I don’t think I’ve anything to forgive you for,” he said. “But I’ll gladly take your forgiveness, since you offer it so generously.”
James gave a sigh. It made him sound weary. “I don’t know about you not having anything to forgive. I probably expected too much of you. Asked more than any man could reasonably be expected to give. It’s just that I”—he closed his eyes before adding huskily—“I wanted you. Not only as a lover in the flesh, but in every way. Someone to share my life with, the way Kate and Edward share their lives.” He gave another of those short, unamused laughs that tore at Iain, and said wryly, “And I can just imagine what’s going through your mind right now.”
“Can you?” Iain said, and his voice sounded broken, rusty.
“You think I want the impossible,” James said, smiling sadly. He turned away, casting his gaze over the clearing, then pointed. “Let’s sit over there. If we’re quiet, I’m fairly sure we’ll see some butterflies. One of the curious things about brimstones is that they particularly favour purple flowers, so they should love this place.”
He set off in the direction of a fallen tree lying amongst the bluebells, and Iain followed in his wake.
You think I want the impossible.
But the truth was, what James wanted—someone to share his life with—wasn’t entirely impossible, was it? The evening he’d recently spent with Murdo Balfour and David Lauriston had shown Iain that. They had each other, though Balfour had had to wilfully destroy his own reputation to secure their future. Iain felt a sudden pang of something deep and aching, sadness perhaps, envy certainly, as he remembered that night. As he remembered the striking coincid
ence of love and desire between Balfour and Lauriston. That sort of connection had always seemed impossible to Iain, even frightening. Unnatural desires were bad enough, but they could be managed. Once the heart was involved though, a man could be so easily destroyed. Could so easily bring dishonour and shame on his family.
Nevertheless, now he found himself wondering...was it possible?
As Iain followed James through the clumps of nodding bluebells, that question echoed through him, over and over—was it possible? The words were a litany inside him as he walked, as the sea of indigo flowers gently undulated around him and their sweet, light, unforgettable scent drifted on the air. Iain was following James again—as he always did. Always coming back to James, in the end, forced to return by the invisible thread that bound him to this man.
Would a whole ocean be enough to snap that thread?
When James finally settled himself down on the broad log of the fallen tree, Iain sat beside him, marvelling inwardly at the calm silence between them when he felt as though his mind was all a-clamour, every nerve vibrating with the new truths he was discovering.
The fallen tree they sat on might be dead now, but it still held the warmth of a once-living thing. He felt whatever residual life it had sink into him, felt too the tremulations of life on the air, from the bluebells and the trees and all the creatures in the wood. He was part of this. Alive with it, and in it, with James.
He turned his head, meaning to say something of this to the man in his thoughts, but he stopped himself when he saw that James was already transfixed, that his watchful gaze was steady on something in the sea of flowers before them. God, but Iain loved that look on James, the expression he wore when all his formidable attention was caught, hooked by something that interested him.
What a thing it was to be the subject of that attention. To be seen like that, and known. James was the only person in the world who saw Iain. Who knew his heart. There were others who knew parts of him, even secret parts. But none who knew all, bar James. In the years they’d known one another, James had studied Iain as thoroughly as one of his specimens, and with the same curious-for-the-truth eye.
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