by Bonnie Dee
“What is my job?”
“Bank manager, I expect.” Jay closed his eyes, counted to ten. “Please don’t. I don’t want this to be mean or petty. I plan on recalling that we had a wonderful time together.” As soon as the pain receded, he hoped that would be possible.
Nigel said a few other things. He told Jay he loved him. He said they could find a place in London, and make it a perfect home for both of them. Nigel would hardly stay in this house at all. He would make plenty of time for Jay.
Jay listened but didn’t answer, because Nigel didn’t really say anything new.
He counted out his money—more than he’d expected—and wrote a letter to his uncle. Eventually, Nigel grew silent, and soft footsteps sounded as he walked away from the door. At two a.m., Jay hefted his bag, grabbed the letters he’d written and left the room. He passed the sitting room, where Nigel was asleep on the sofa, slumped on his side, still dressed in his somber bank suit. Jay fought the urge to wake him or kiss him. Too dangerous. He studied him instead, a long last look, then he walked out of the house.
Chapter Seventeen
After his return from his fateful business trip to Paris, Nigel had struggled with restlessness, longing and a colorlessness in his life. But that period of discontent was nothing to what he experienced after parting from Jay for the second time.
Before, the handsome man from France had been almost a daydream figure, vivid yet not quite real. Now, Nigel knew Jay intimately as a person and had become so attached to him, it felt as if a part of himself had been amputated.
He worked as late as he could at the bank to avoid his empty house. He ate at his club, usually alone, avoiding any card games or other entertainment, and soon he stopped even eating there, because the socializing that took place seemed dreary and the conversation trivial. When he did return to his house, he wandered from room to room until he could stand the solitude no longer. Books or newspapers didn’t interest him. The idea of attending any sort of show at a theatre was impossible as it would only remind him of Jean Michel’s sultry voice singing a French ballad. His sense of loss was excruciatingly painful and made all the worse because it didn’t have to be that way. He and Jay should have been able to hammer out some sort of compromise.
Nigel began to take to the streets, walking through quiet neighborhoods at night, marching until his feet were sore and he was exhausted enough to sleep when he at last reached his bed.
The days were easier. He’d officially been promoted and Tucker began his instruction in his new duties. That kept him very busy. It was a different sort of work from what he’d been used to because, for the first time, he was in authority over others. It was no longer just Nigel and his columns of numbers. He would be expected to resolve problems and deal with personnel—an honor and a great responsibility.
Yet it was hard to take pride in his new position or his new small yet private office. He had “arrived”, so to speak, but there was no one waiting for him on the dock with a welcoming smile as his ship came in.
He was in mourning, but no one was dead. If he wanted to, Nigel could take a train, a ferry, another train, and be in Paris in less than two days’ time. The beloved face he most wished to see was still there. The voice still singing. The hands still long and elegant. The body strong and beautiful. And the eyes as stormy gray as ever.
Jay still talked and walked and laughed and drank and danced and sang and probably made love, but Nigel wasn’t with him to witness it. He’d allowed true affection to slip away like smoke between his fingers.
But on the days when he wasn’t moping and regretting, Nigel grew angry. Had what he’d offered really been so terrible? An apartment along with a stipend to ease Jay’s way, a safe little nest where they could be together, unbothered by the world? He hadn’t meant to suggest Jay would be like a mistress. Surely Jay understood that. It was the only possible way Nigel could imagine for them to continue on together without destroying his career.
Like the pendulum of a clock, he swung back and forth between hurt and anger, pain and frustration, and with every minute, every day that clock ticked off, Nigel—rather than getting over his hurt—grew more and more mired in it. While disappointed in Jay for not appreciating Nigel’s predicament, he began to actively hate Turner and the other bank managers for putting him in such a quandary. Why couldn’t they have left well enough alone, turned a blind eye, so long as he was accomplishing his work?
Two months post-Jay, and Nigel scarcely recognized the sour, foul-tempered individual he’d become. Not a word from Jay. Not even a message to say he’d arrived safely and was happy to be home in Paris. Nothing but silence.
The pendulum ticked back the other way—isn’t this what Nigel deserved after completely ignoring Jay’s attempts at compromise? The man had been willing to travel back and forth across the channel, living a half life in two cities in order to create some balance between his affection for Nigel and the life he needed to live. Nigel hadn’t even heard what Jay was trying to say. He’d had his own agenda, his own all-important needs, and he’d been willing to box up Jay like a china doll in order to achieve them.
One day, exactly like any other, Nigel trod the familiar path to the bank under gray clouds that perfectly matched his mood. He’d barely entered his office when Turner summoned him.
What now? My tie is too wide? My hat on at too rakish an angle? My shoes aren’t polished highly enough to suit? Nigel sat heavily on the chair in Turner’s new office, once again facing his superior and realized with sudden clarity that no matter how high he rose in the bank hierarchy, Turner would always be above him.
“I need to speak with you about one of our clerks,” Turner began without preamble. “You’re going to have to give him notice. As his direct superior, it’s your responsibility.”
Nigel clenched his teeth, swallowed and then spoke, restraining his irritation. “All the clerks under me are performing admirably. I have no complaints about any of their work.”
“It’s not a matter of his work. This comes from the board. Rumors have come to light—more than rumors, actually—that bring this man’s character into question.”
“In what way? Is he charged with embezzlement? Falsifying documents? What are the charges, and who is the man?” Nigel seemed to have lost his ability to be deferential to his superior. He asked these questions aggressively and without tact.
Turner frowned, his gaze piercing under those shaggy brows. “Ethan Culpepper. We don’t need to go into specific details of his behavior. Suffice to say he was spotted entering a certain venue with a reputation for…a specific sort of debauchery.”
Culpepper’s secret life had come to light at last. It had only been a matter of time, since the man wasn’t nearly as circumspect as he ought to be. Hell, even Nigel had known, and before Jay, he hadn’t been what one could call an observant man. But Nigel couldn’t bear to go along with the orders from above on some vague charges. At the very least, he needed to hear Turner say them out loud.
“What specifically is Mr. Culpepper being charged with? The man is an exemplary employee, and I refuse to let him go without a concrete reason I can point to when I speak with him.” The challenge flowed too easily from his tongue, as if it had been waiting there to be called up at a moment’s notice.
“Refuse?” Turner glared. “It is not your place to refuse. The decision has been made and no more clarity than that is required. You will talk to Culpepper, explain that his behavior is such that his association with Herries Farquhar and Co. must be severed. He will understand the underlying reason without any details mentioned.”
Nigel’s mother used to have a small terrier, a ratter at heart. It would seize on to a tug-of-war toy and refuse to let go no matter how great the strength of the person holding the other end. The dog might be shaken this way or that, even be lifted off its feet, but would not let go. Nigel finally understood how little Zoe ha
d felt.
“By whom was he seen? What exactly was Culpepper doing to call his character into question, other than entering a…what sort of establishment, precisely?”
“I have already told you. These details are not necessary for you to know,” Turner thundered.
Nigel listened, horrified, as this terrier-like version of himself continued to growl and dig in. “They are if I’m the one who must fire the man. Am I to let him go without reference?”
“Yes, of course! The bank wants no connection to this man, and certainly won’t endorse him to a new employee. Mr. Warren, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
“May I remind you, sir, that fairly recently I was accused of inappropriate behavior by someone who leapt to conclusions about me,” Nigel pointed out. “I will not inflict the same misjudgment upon Mr. Culpepper. Not without knowing all the facts of the matter.”
Nigel crossed his arms and relaxed into his chair, perhaps the first time he’d ever felt the back of the chair pressed against his own. He’d always been perched nervously on the edge of his seat while in Turner’s presence. Now he would sit there immovable as a rock until his boss spoke the words he waited to hear—the truth.
Turner’s broad face had turned bright crimson. At last, he threw the accusation through gritted teeth like a javelin at Nigel. “Very well. A bathhouse. The sort where men go to meet other men. A place not mentioned in polite society, but which exists in the shadows. The depths of depravity that go on in such places… It’s unspeakable.” The man shook his head.
“I see. Who is it who spotted Culpepper entering? And what was that person doing in such an area?”
“It doesn’t matter! That is not your concern. Summon Mr. Culpepper and explain to him he is being let go. That is all you have to do.” Mr. Turner lowered his voice. “You have received the promotion you desired. Now is your opportunity to prove yourself. You are here to work for the bank, follow our standards and not establish your preferred codes of conduct, Mr. Warren. Your new position is to enforce our rules with the men in your department.”
Nigel’s chest hurt, and he felt a little light-headed. Then he realized it was because he’d stopped breathing. He slowly inhaled. Exhaled. Allowed the pendulum on Mr. Culpepper’s clock to tick back and forth a half-dozen times before he spoke.
“I’ve devoted my life to the bank. I’ve given…everything to my work. So you’ll understand, sir, if I wish to perform my job to the best of my ability. As a manager, I want the best possible men working under me. From what I’ve seen, Culpepper is an invaluable employee.”
Another breath in. And another out, as Nigel watched his terrier-self take an even firmer grip on the rope.
“I will not fire him, Mr. Turner. Not for the reasons you’ve given me. If the board wants him out—if you want him out—you must do it yourself.”
The ultimatum had the effect of a bomb going off. Absolute shock made Turner’s face a nearly comical mask, frozen with his mouth open and his eyes wide.
“You would defy the board’s wishes? For Ethan Culpepper?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I must. Insubstantial accusations of behavior that has absolutely nothing to do with how Mr. Culpepper performs his work are not sufficient to let him go.”
Turner appeared completely perplexed, as if a fish had learned to walk and talk and come dancing into his office on its fins. He stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor and threw out an arm, pointing dramatically toward his door. “Get out. I’ll deal with you later.”
Because he’s completely nonplussed, Nigel thought. Probably no underling had ever refused an order Turner gave.
Nigel dipped his head in acknowledgment, got up and walked toward the door.
As he opened it, Turner’s loud voice stopped him. “You don’t fool me, you know. Your kind bands together. That’s the only reason I can imagine for you protecting a pervert such as Culpepper. Before, I wasn’t certain about you and was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. You claimed to be trying to gain an introduction to a chorus girl. I chose to believe you. But now I know what you are, sneaking about the city at night.”
He said no more than that, a threat of future action, but it was enough to send Nigel out of the office with his heart pounding. Turner couldn’t fire him on the spot, much as he might like to. There was protocol to follow. But Nigel’s tenure at the bank was in serious jeopardy. His temper getting the best of him, he’d thrown away every ambition he’d ever entertained. He’d made his point but lost the position he’d given up so much for.
Given up everything for! How was it he could stand up for Culpepper, a man he didn’t even like all that much, but hadn’t been able to dig in his heels about Jay?
The sneering words “sneaking about the city at night”, God above, how they struck home, though not the way Turner had wished.
Turner’s words brought him shame—but not for his affection for Jay. They reminded him how he had offered the man he professed to love a sneaking sort of a life, a mistress’s apartment. He would have relegated Jay to a dirty secret and dismissed the importance of his musical persona.
Men in their position couldn’t easily live together as they might wish to, but Nigel could have offered Jay more respect than that. He should have recognized Jay’s needs as a performer, his ambitions and the very essence of who he was and tried to find some workable solution for them both. If only Nigel had been as fearless then as he’d been today, he wouldn’t be regretting his solitude every night.
Partway between Mr. Turner’s office and his own, Nigel stopped walking again. The clerks at the counter, Culpepper among them, stared at him. Had they heard any of the argument? Turner had loudly hurled his final comments while the office door was open.
Nigel met Culpepper’s gaze, and the man gave a slight inclination of his head, a sign of acknowledgment and thanks. But from the look in Culpepper’s eyes, he understood his days were numbered. One way or another, he’d be released without a reference after years of diligent work.
If that was the world they lived in, it wasn’t worth it. There must be a better life than this. All in a rush, Nigel understood that half measures weren’t going to be enough for him any longer.
“In for a penny, in for a bloody pound,” he muttered as he swiveled on his heel and marched down the hall. He paused outside the office to glance at a familiar portrait of a long-dead banker. No passion in that pale, stern face—and once Nigel would have admired that lack of emotion, that stiff upper lip, that gentlemanly restraint, but now he couldn’t even recall why he thought it admirable.
He marched back into Turner’s office.
Without bothering to close the door behind him, he said, “Mr. Turner, I regret to inform you I’m giving notice. You can take bloody Herries Farquhar and Co. and shove it up your arse.”
Chapter Eighteen
January 1902
“Je vous laisse avec votre haine
Mais laissez-moi partir loin de vous
Moi, je meurs d’amour
Moi, je meurs d’amour”
The wistful final notes of the tune evaporated into the dark, smoky air of the club. The audience was silent for a respectful few moments, then burst into applause.
Jean Michel wiped his eyes, careful not to smudge his eyeliner. He’d moved himself to tears with the sad tune and mournful words. But that wasn’t much of a challenge these days, when he was as likely to burst into showers as Paris in April. He had to remind himself daily that he was glad to be back here and that he didn’t regret the flat in London he hadn’t taken. A flat where he might be rolling in bed with Nigel at this very moment, or perhaps laughing over dinner, or sitting on the floor and talking about life and art and dreams of a future together.
He straightened his back, swept a curtsy and gracefully swayed backstage.
“Well done, cherie.” R
oger, in her kimono over trousers, long black hair flipped over one shoulder, gave Jean Michel a hug scented with exotic, spicy perfume. “It’s been so long since I’ve come to one of your shows. I’d forgotten what an amazing artiste lives among us. Brava, ma belle!”
Jean Michel grabbed Roger by the arm and dragged her toward the dressing room. “Since you’re here, you can help with my quick change. I must be let out of this straightjacket of a gown and can’t reach all the buttons on my own.”
“I live to serve.” Roger’s clever fingers began to separate buttons from holes all the way up his back. “And so… Over the past months, you haven’t spoken much of your time in London. The uncle, he is well, yes?”
“Mm-hm.” Jean Michel kicked off his shoes and searched for the next pair he needed.
“And your English lover, also well? And you miss him, non?”
“Not the time to discuss this, Roger,” he said breathlessly. “I can’t think about romance, I have to sing about it, and I need my next costume on in order to do that.”
“You are a nightingale, and he wanted to cage you. Is that not the heart of the matter?” Roger might be a stage set designer, but she fancied herself a poet. Jay wished she would shut up—but Jean Michel was grateful for her help. She’d finished the buttons and now helped tug the skintight gown down his shoulders.
“You flew away, back to Paris, yet, now you are here, it too seems like a cage.” Tears glistened in Roger’s wide green eyes. “Ah l’amour. It is a painful switch that strikes us again and again until we can’t tell pain from pleasure.”
“Right.” Jean Michel grabbed the blue dress off its hanger and thrust his arms into the narrow sheath. Why were all his dresses like straight tubes, hugging his body? Oh right. For fashion’s sake. He looked damn good in them. Like a willowy girl without much cleavage—no more than what the light padding in the bodice of the gown gave him.