Mrs. John Rowan clucked her tongue and sighed. “What is this world coming to? Terrible, terrible.”
“Have you nothing but a sheet to wear?” Mr. Sweeton asked.
“I’ve a rather reduced wardrobe at home,” Elias said, “but Bess insisted on coming here directly after I returned to Kitwick.”
“Aunt Alice, don’t we have anything we can give him to get home?”
“Oh, this sheet will do just fine for now,” Elias insisted, “it’s not like there’s anyone in Kitwick who hasn’t seen me naked by now.”
“I haven’t,” Mr. Sweeton began, as Mrs. John Rowan said, “Of course, of course. I’ll give you a new outfit, dear, free of charge.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Rowan,” Elias protested, “I couldn’t possibly let you do that.”
“I’ve some lovely patterned silk I used for a waistcoat just your size. It’s the bizarre style, you know, rather old-fashioned, but it’ll suit your classical features. You’ll be the first man in town to wear it in fifty years,” she continued, as though she had not heard him. Elias had the growing impression she was selectively deaf at times.
“You are so kind, Mrs. Rowan,” Bess said, squeezing Elias’s wrist. “Isn’t she, Elias?”
“Yes. That is very kind of you, Mrs. Rowan.” Elias had never had a silk waistcoat before. “Thank you very much.”
Bess spent three-quarters of an hour selecting a new hat, coat, cravat, shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. She had Elias try on a few different articles before she was satisfied, and she, Mrs. John Rowan, and Mr. Sweeton discussed their thoughts on each new outfit together.
“Those trousers fit him very well,” Mr. Sweeton commented of the second pair.
“They’re a bit snug,” Elias countered, wriggling a little.
“I think they look excellent,” Mr. Sweeton replied.
“I agree, they look good on you,” Bess said. “We’ll take those ones, Mrs. Rowan, thank you.”
* * * *
“We didn’t even ask Mr. Sweeton to help apprehend the highwayman,” Elias said once they had left. He had called for Lord Nelson from the doorstep, but Bess had said he was nowhere to be seen.
“No. I think he might investigate of his own initiative.”
Elias fiddled with a button on the front of his new coat. He slowed when he realized Bess’s cunning. “That’s why you wanted me pathetic,” he hissed as the garden gate swung shut behind them. “For Mrs. Rowan, not for Mr. Sweeton.”
“Of course,” Bess said. Her step was easy, her tone carefree. “You wouldn’t have been nearly as convincing if you knew we were trying to get her materialistic sympathy.”
“You’re terrible. She’s a poor old woman.”
“She’s not poor. She’s a successful business owner. You should’ve seen her china. It was Willow. She can afford some charity. Besides, you look damned dapper now. And you should have seen the way Mr. Sweeton looked at you when you came out.”
Elias tilted his head, his stomach fluttering. The man with the nice voice had looked at him in a particular way? “How’d he look at me?”
“Like he wanted to go for a stroll sometime.”
“How could you know that from a look?”
“It was more the note he passed me.”
“Note?”
There was a rustling as Bess extracted a slip of paper from her sleeve. “‘Please tell your brother I am interested in hearing more of his harrowing tales. I will be by your father’s tavern the day after tomorrow if he is interested in joining me in a stroll down the lane.’”
Elias swallowed with difficulty; his mouth was dry. “What do I do?”
“Go with him.”
“Bess! Not all of us are as loose as you. Courting does not come easily to me!”
“You talk to him as you did just now, only I won’t be there and neither will Mrs. Rowan.”
“But I was terribly rude to him!”
“He liked it.”
“How do you know?”
“He gave me the note, didn’t he?”
Here, Elias had to agree. For whatever reason, Mr. Sweeton had liked his cheek. Whether he intended their stroll to be amorous or amicable, Elias could not tell, but as long as he could listen to that rich voice uninterrupted, he was not complaining. And Mr. Sweeton would probably put his hand on Elias’s elbow! There were perks to being the blind boy of Kitwick, and one was that men could touch him in public view and not cause a scandal.
Chapter Five
Elias had no idea what Mrs. Scorsby said to Mr. Scorsby, but he still had a job by the time he went to bed that night. His trip to Mitton and back two days later was uneventful, so he returned by midafternoon with enough time to freshen up before his excursion with Mr. Sweeton. Bess retied his cravat and styled his hair for him as he sat in a chair in their bedroom.
“You look good,” she murmured, sweeping his hair into a ribbon at the nape of his neck.
“You would say that.”
“Come now. The older we get, the less we could pass for each other. I’m going to have to start shaving you daily lest you look like a half-grown ragamuffin by the afternoon. And you’ve no bubbies, besides.”
Elias ran a hand over his chin. “Thank God for that,” he muttered, standing. “I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Bess hooked her arm through his elbow. “Right, are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” she asked as she led him down the stairs.
“Positive.”
“I could follow at a distance.”
“I don’t need a chaperone to walk down the lane.”
“What about Lord Nelson?”
“Cats make him sneeze. You know that.”
Bess sighed. “I don’t want you to go alone. You’ll be with a strange man, who’s rather large.”
“With whom you arranged for me to meet!”
“Yes, well, I’m having second thoughts.”
“I’m not, and that’s what matters. And you said he was large in a few ways, didn’t you?”
“Elias…” She led him over the threshold into the tavern.
“If I’m not back in three-quarters of an hour, send father after us. If he can walk.”
“It’s not yet six, I’m sure he could stumble down the lane.”
“Fine. I’ll tell Mr. Sweeton we have a time limit.”
“Not to worry, Miss Burgess, I’ll have your brother back to you in one piece.” Elias froze. Mr. Sweeton had been waiting for him in the tavern. How much of their conversation had he overheard?
“See that you do, Mr. Sweeton,” Bess replied sternly.
Elias jolted when a new, thicker elbow clad in felted wool threaded through his free arm. He rested his hand against it and Bess released him. Mr. Sweeton’s shoulder was higher than Elias’s, so he must be tall.
“I’ll have my eye on my pocket watch.” Bess had stolen their father’s pocket watch years ago. He never missed it. “Three-quarters of an hour, and not a moment longer.”
“Yes, Miss Burgess.”
Mr. Sweeton led Elias from the front door of the tavern, around the back, and to the grassy lane stretching a few miles beyond. Elias knew it passed several homes and businesses before it wended through an orchard and into farmers’ fields.
“How are you today, Mr. Burgess?” Mr. Sweeton asked. He did not warn Elias of changes in ground elevation as they walked, so Elias progressed even slower than usual. He supposed he could ask Mr. Sweeton to tell him, but he did not want to draw attention to his abundance of unorthodox needs at present. For the first time in a long time, Elias felt self-conscious.
“Well, thank you. And yourself?”
“Well.”
“And how is your aunt?”
“Well. And your sister?”
“Well.”
Was this what Bess did for endless hours with her beaux? It was tedious. But Elias did not know if Mr. Sweeton was
interested in him in that way, so he said nothing more. Being nervous made him polite, and it felt unnatural to him.
“Your hat is most becoming,” Mr. Sweeton said.
That was not a normal thing for one man to say to another, was it, Elias wondered. He stumbled, but Mr. Sweeton gripped his arm and held him up.
“Careful, now.”
“Thank you. Bess selected it for me,” Elias said, not bothering to acknowledge Mr. Sweeton’s sparing him at least a bruised knee and cut palms. Mr. Sweeton ought to think of what a walk down a bumpy, grassy lane was like for Elias, and warn him about the hills and holes as they approached. Bess always did. “She has a good eye for what flatters me. I’m afraid I can’t say anything about your outfit. But your voice sounds very rich today.” He was going out on a limb, but Elias needed to know how Mr. Sweeton meant for this stroll to go if he was to remain sane.
Mr. Sweeton must have been surprised, for he said nothing for a long while. When he did, his voice was a low murmur. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but your eyes are the most exquisite I’ve ever seen.”
So it was that way. “And probably the most useless,” Elias snapped, at ease.
“They’re not useless if they draw me to you.”
Elias snorted. Now he knew how this was, it was easy. His sassiness returned with full flare. “No one has ever accused them of being magnetic before. Mr. Sweeton, I daresay you’re flirting with me.”
There was an even longer silence than before.
“And what if I am?” Mr. Sweeton asked.
“I don’t mind, but I don’t much see the use in it. You’re leaving for Mitton in a few weeks, and I haven’t any patience for frivolity.”
Mr. Sweeton clutched Elias’s elbow so tightly he gasped.
“There is plenty use in it,” Mr. Sweeton said, his voice low. It sounded like his lips were very close to Elias’s ear, for Elias could feel his warm breath on his skin. “Much can be accomplished in only a few short weeks.” His voice was deeper and richer than Elias had ever heard it. In spite of himself, he tilted his head closer to Mr. Sweeton’s mouth.
“Thank you, Mr. Sweeton, but I don’t think we have the same intentions.”
“What are yours, then?”
“I thought I was going for a walk with a socially awkward militiaman,” Elias said, testing the waters. “What are your intentions?”
When Mr. Sweeton spoke, there was a growl in his throat. “I’d like to sodomize your sweet face, pretty-boy.”
Elias choked on his breath. “Excuse me?” He coughed.
“You heard me.”
“Yes, but I was giving you the opportunity to retract your outrageous statement.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
Mr. Sweeton paused a beat or two. “So you don’t want me to do that?”
Elias had no idea what it would entail, but he understood it was something intimate and probably invasive. “No, I don’t,” he said. Not for the time being, anyway. Not until he found out what that word meant, beyond being some illegal form of interpersonal activity. Mr. Sweeton released Elias’s elbow, leaving him feeling adrift.
“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Sweeton said. “I think I misunderstood.”
“What did you think you understood?”
“I thought you were a bugger.”
“You mean that I like men?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Oh.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to do anything with you, though. We’ve only just met.”
Mr. Sweeton made a strained sound. “You’re not like most men, are you?” he asked.
“I’m blind, I’m a twin, I’m a—what did you say?—pretty-boy. On numbers alone, I’m not like most men, no.”
“So much the better.” Mr. Sweeton took his elbow again, which made Elias jump. He recovered without Mr. Sweeton’s apparent notice. “You’re intriguing.”
“You flatter me.”
“It’s true.” Mr. Sweeton’s hand was gentle and he stroked Elias’s upper arm with his thumb. It felt nice. “So,” he began again, “what does a blind man do to pass the time?”
“What does a sighted man do to pass the time?” Elias fired back.
“Works. Socializes. Has a family.”
“There you go. Do you have a family of your own, Mr. Sweeton?” The idea was absurd.
“No.”
“Do you want one?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You want a wife?”
“It might be nice. I can have children that way. I do like children.”
Elias contemplated this. “You would marry a woman, though you are interested in men?”
“It’s not an uncommon thing to do. Some men like both. Maybe I will too.”
Fair enough. “Have you ever courted a woman?”
“Not seriously. Have you?”
“Heavens, no.” Elias shuddered at the thought.
“Do you want a family?” Mr. Sweeton asked after a pause. This conversation was much heavier than Elias had anticipated for a first walk down the lane. He made a mental note to ask Bess if discussion usually progressed so quickly, or if things were supposed to remain light for at least the first stroll.
“The thought never appealed to me. Children would be more things for me to trip over for about twenty years apiece. I’ll just be the proverbial perverted uncle to Bess’s children.”
“How noble. Something to which we should all aspire.”
“I do believe you’d make a splendid perverted uncle.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Sweeton said. “You can’t tell, but I’m blushing.”
Elias fought to contain a bark of laughter. Despite his thoughtlessness, Mr. Sweeton was almost charming.
“Mr. Burgess, I feel the need to tell you we have rounded the bend in the lane and are now in the shade of a large plum tree.”
“I know,” Elias replied, sniffing. “Even if I hadn’t memorized the bends of the lane, I can sense the change in light and smell the plums.”
“No one can see us,” Mr. Sweeton continued.
“That makes sense.”
“I would like very much to kiss your cheek, Mr. Burgess, if you would let me be so bold.”
Elias pondered his offer. “You may.”
Mr. Sweeton held his elbow still as he pressed his soft lips to Elias’s cheekbone. He was clean-shaven, and his breath was warm, the tip of his nose grazing Elias’s temple. He still smelled of horse and polish, but beneath those odors, Elias detected a heavier scent, like aged oak. The kiss was slow and sweet, and Elias’s stomach fluttered in response. When Mr. Sweeton pulled away, he wanted to grab him by the collar and pull him back to him. To do what, he knew not.
“That was nice,” Elias said, because he thought the kiss warranted a reaction.
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
They resumed walking.
“Are you a virgin?” Mr. Sweeton asked. There was no doubt about it in Elias’s mind that this was not a first stroll topic. Despite his plethora of prostitute acquaintances, Elias had lived a sheltered life; he only ever discussed politics and liquor with the women of the night who frequented the Peach and Pear. He knew he was a virgin, but he did not know what he needed to do to not be one anymore.
“Does it matter?” Elias demanded.
“No,” Mr. Sweeton said as they continued their walk. “But it might explain your behavior.”
“How many men do you think have interests compatible with mine in Kitwick?” Elias asked.
“At least one,” Mr. Sweeton murmured.
“And whom I would find to my liking?”
“None.”
Elias tapped Mr. Sweeton’s wrist. “Right you are.”
“I see.”
“And are you?” Elias prompted.
“What?”
“A virgin?”
Mr. Sweeton drew a halting breath. “In what
sense?” Elias was glad Mr. Sweeton felt awkward when the question was turned on him. He should, after asking Elias what he had.
“In the sense you meant when you asked me.”
“Er, no.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?”
“Not really. I don’t care what you do with other men.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” Elias said, deadpan. “Why should I?”
Mr. Sweeton breathed slowly for a few moments. “I care what you do.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I like the idea of having you all to myself.”
“You don’t have me.”
“No. Not yet.”
Elias was not sure whether he liked this sort of talk.
“You might not ever.”
“We’ll see.”
“You’ll see. I can’t.”
“Yes.”
They continued in silence, the long grasses rustling underfoot, the orchard leaves trembling overhead.
“Am I the only blind person you know?” Elias asked after his third stumble. It was a subtle hint at Mr. Sweeton to try to empathize.
“I had a blind grandmother,” Mr. Sweeton offered.
“Everyone and his dog has had a blind grandmother in Mitton, it seems,” Elias muttered.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
The rest of the stroll was uneventful. Once they had turned around and made their way back the way they had come, Mr. Sweeton asked to kiss Elias again before they reentered public view.
“I think once is enough for today,” Elias replied.
“You’re like some chaste damsel,” Mr. Sweeton murmured, touching Elias’s cheek. Taken by surprise, Elias turned away from his fingertips. “Sorry.”
“I can’t see you coming unless you’re backlit and cast a shadow directly over my eyes. Everything takes me by surprise unless you give some sort of warning. I’ll flinch a lot unless you verbalize.”
“Oh. Of course. Sorry,” Mr. Sweeton said.
“Don’t apologize. Just stop surprising me.”
“Some people like surprises.”
“I hate them.”
“I understand why.”
“Finally, a little sense from you.” Elias heard the haughtiness viscous in his voice.
The Highwayman Came Riding Page 4