“You really are as naive as he says you are,” Kenneth murmured.
The idea that Kenneth Davies thought Elias naive was too much.
“I am not naive, Mr. Davies. I am selective.”
“Eli,” a new voice said. Elias sat up straight on his stool. He knew that voice. It was less nasal than the last time he had heard it, as though Augustus’s pollen-related suffering was abating.
A hand brushed Elias’s knee, and Elias was too shocked to do anything. Presumably, Augustus could see whether anyone in the tavern was looking at them, but Kenneth was right there. “Is this seat taken?” Augustus whispered. The bold bastard.
But he had come, as he said he would. Augustus had come to Kitwick to visit Elias.
“Shut the fuck up, you dumb shit,” Elias hissed.
“What, you think your molly friend minds if we flirt?”
“If you flirt, you mean. Anyone could see us.”
“Lucky for us, I’ve two sharp eyes and can see no one gives a damn what we’re doing right now.”
“I don’t mind,” Kenneth offered. Then, when neither Elias nor Augustus said anything, “Who’re you?”
“I’m—”
“He’s Cynthia,” Elias said, biting back a laugh.
Kenneth seemed to accept this. “Pleased to meet you, Cynthia,” he said. “I hope you don’t think me impertinent, but who’re you to Mr. Burgess?”
“I’m his beau,” Augustus replied.
Elias’s blood boiled. “You’re not my beau, you loathsome cur.”
“We’re still negotiating the details,” Augustus explained breezily. “And who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Kenneth Davies.”
“Yes, but who’re you to Eli?”
“An acquaintance. We have a common friend.”
“We do not,” Elias snapped.
“What sort of acquaintance?” Augustus pressed.
“Oh God, fuck off,” Elias said. “The idea that I could ever—with the likes of Kenneth Davies or—”
“What’s wrong with me?” Kenneth asked, sounding wounded.
“Er, nothing.”
“Is it because I have a lisp?”
“No.”
“Well it’s certainly not because you think me ugly!”
“It’s more that we have nothing in common,” Elias explained. He thought he heard Augustus snickering.
“We have a certain redcoat in common, Mr. Burgess.”
Everything clicked at once. “Did he send you here?”
“No, that would be absurd.” Elias could hear the lie plain as day on Kenneth’s lips.
“Dear God, are you so irretrievably taken by him you would do his bidding to spy on his would-be beau?”
“No.”
“Mr. Davies, if you’ve finished your compote, I suggest you leave.”
Kenneth’s spoon clattered against his dish.
“Mr. Burgess, he only wanted to know if you’re safe and interested in continuing and developing your, er, friendship.”
“And he asked you to ask me that? And so you did?” This whole situation was preposterous.
Kenneth leaned close to Elias, so Elias could feel his breath against his ear. “I’m not selfish. And I understand what he sees in you.”
“You can tell your friend to go fuck himself. Or you.”
“I will,” Kenneth said, standing. “Here, Cynthia,” he said, “take my stool. Good night, Mr. Burgess. Do please tell Miss Burgess I adored her compote with cream.”
“Good night, Mr. Davies, I shall,” Elias mumbled, feeling overwhelmed. When Kenneth had left and Augustus had settled next to him, their knees brushing, Elias put his head in his hands. “Did I just get propositioned by the beau of my would-be beau on behalf of said would-be beau? Is this what romance is? What a farce.”
“Different strokes for different folks, I suppose,” Augustus muttered. “Are you always polite to that idiot? I’ve never heard you so respectful. You only said ‘fuck’ once to him.”
“It was a fucking accident,” Elias said. “It won’t happen again. And do you mean to say you’re not that way?” Elias demanded.
“What? Chasing after anything with legs for miles and a pretty cock? No.”
Elias broke into an instant sweat. “What did you say to me?”
Augustus cleared his throat. “Er, forget it. Can’t a man get a drink in this establishment?”
Still sweating, Elias tried to maintain a facade of togetherness. “I thought you couldn’t hold your liquor.”
“It’s a special occasion.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Reuniting with the object of my affection.”
“I’m not an object.”
“That depends on context. Surely you know the difference between a subject and an object. Should I give you a tutorial?”
“You just made me a grammatical object.”
“Indeed I did.”
“Fuck you.”
“Wish you would, honey.”
“Ugh,” Elias groaned, standing. He had to fight a smile. “What do you want?”
“I once had a licorice spirit in Neuchâtel,” Augustus said loftily. “Absinthe, I believe it was called. Have you any of that?”
“Does this look like Nuhshattle to you?” Where the fuck was Neuchâtel?
“God, you’re so English. No culture, no tongue for French. I’ll have some elderberry, then.”
“What, and you aren’t English?” Elias demanded as he felt his way back around the bar.
“I am. A red-blooded patriot to the core. I’ve just traveled, that’s all. The Alps are beautiful. And the Switzers are so very sophisticated.”
“Not like us here,” Elias said, feeling for the round bottle of elderberry. Finding a bottle of the right shape and size gritty with the cellar’s flour, he pulled out the cork and took a sniff. An 1801 Barbo spiced rum. He put the bottle back, then picked up and uncorked another. Local 1797 elderberry. With great caution, he poured a portion then corked and returned the bottle to the shelf. He handed the glass to Augustus.
“Well, there’s something about your look that’s a bit cosmopolitan, anyway.” Augustus said. “Can’t say anything about your patrons.”
“Wish I knew what I looked like.”
“Lovely. You look lovely.”
“Shut up and drink your goddamn wine.”
“As you like, Mr. Burgess.”
“Barkeep, another ale,” a voice Elias recognized as Mr. Jones’s said. There was the thud of an empty tankard on the bar. Elias felt for the tankard, knocked it over, picked it up, and filled it.
“Here you are, Mr. Jones. Do stop there, lest my father be forced to throw you into the gutter at the end of the night again. For the seventh week running.”
“Thanks, boy,” Mr. Jones said, sliding his drink toward him. “And who’re you?” He must be speaking to Augustus.
“I’m Augustus.”
“Haven’t seen you ’bout town afore.”
“I’m new here.”
“What’s someone dressed like you doing in Kitwick?”
“Just enjoying the local beauty.”
There was a funny sensation in Elias’s stomach, and his knees felt tight. He busied himself wiping his fingers.
“Not much beauty round Kitwick,” Mr. Jones said.
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“You’ve got a prosperous tongue in your head.”
“No, I’m just pretentious.”
“Eh?”
“I put on airs.”
“Huh. Don’t suppose you’ve seen Elias’s little trick yet, have you?”
“No,” Augustus said, sounding amused. “What’s that?”
“Oh, hell, don’t start,” Elias began, but Mr. Jones spoke over him.
“We’ve a local genius here,” he said. “A right academician.”
“Is that so?” Augustus sounded genuinely surprised. Elias’s temper flared.
“Wha
t, the idea of me being clever is a stretch?” Elias snapped.
“An unprecedented addition to your—”
“Give him a pint, any pint,” Mr. Jones said, “any glass, any tumbler, let him sniff it, he’ll tell you what it is, down to the year. He’s got the nose of a bloodhound, our Elias does.”
Elias ran his tongue over his teeth, annoyed. Someone asked him to do this at least once a night whenever he tended.
When Augustus spoke, Elias could hear a suppressed laugh. Damn him, Augustus could tell how it irritated him!
“You,” Augustus said. His voice sounded distant as though he was turned to address someone at a nearby table. “May I have your drink for a second?”
“Christ, here it goes,” Elias muttered. “You git.”
“Thanks,” Augustus said, then thumped something on the bar in front of Elias. “What’s this?”
“Seriously?” Elias asked. “Are you really making me do this? You know I served this very drink not an hour ago.”
“Humor me,” Augustus murmured, so Elias held out his hand. Augustus, catching on, placed the glass against his fingers. Elias retrieved it, lifted it to his nose, and sniffed.
Fruity. Cloves. Cinnamon. Fresh oak. Tangy. Soft, like Lord Nelson’s fur.
“Come now, give me something harder than that,” Elias said, putting the glass down. “Mulled wine made last week with an 1802 French Syrah.”
“Is that what you ordered?” Augustus asked, speaking to the man whose drink he had borrowed.
“The very one.”
“You’re joking,” Augustus said.
“You’re right,” Elias said, tossing his head, “it’s actually a cup of steaming piss.”
“How do you do that?” Augustus demanded.
“The same way you know what you’re looking at,” Elias said.
“I’ve got to try this another way. Maybe you’re just remembering.” Elias heard his footsteps come around the bar, then felt Augustus at his side. Augustus rummaged around, clanking bottles.
“I have a system, don’t mess it up,” Elias snapped. “Shapes, then sizes go together.”
“No worries. Here.” Augustus shoved something under his nose.
“A 1776 chardonnay,” Elias replied. “Careful with that.”
“Jesus Christ.” There was more clinking. “What about this?”
Elias inhaled. “A 1796 cabernet sauvignon.”
“And this?”
“A 1799 cabernet sauvignon.”
“That’s eerie.”
“You’re eerie.”
“What a retort. A king of debate.”
“You’re a king reprobate.”
“Better. What’s this?”
“A 1795 merlot.”
“What the fuck.” Augustus sounded giddy. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Me neither.”
Augustus presented Elias with new bottles until they were interrupted by another patron. Once Elias had given him his drink, Augustus touched his elbow.
“You’re amazing,” Augustus murmured.
“And you’re maddening.”
“I would kiss you if there weren’t fifty other people here.”
“You can kiss my ass,” Elias growled.
“May I?”
“Ugh, don’t be disgusting.”
Augustus remained by Elias’s side until last call. He did not introduce Augustus to Bess, who was busier than usual, as he was not ready for her reaction.
“I’m staying at the Prissy Peacock,” Augustus said, the toe of his boot pressing lightly into the top of Elias’s foot. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Perhaps you can introduce me to your sister then.”
“Fine.”
“You know you can’t wait.”
“I can’t wait to put my head to pillow and sleep. I can wait a very long time for you to return.”
“But you’ll wait,” Augustus said, sounding smug, and left.
Chapter Sixteen
Augustus did not return the next night. As he had not yet collected his coat, Elias did not fear he had left Kitwick, though he was irritated Augustus had not kept his word. Instead, Elias was entreated to the company of Mr. Sweeton.
“Mr. Burgess,” a deep voice greeted him early in the evening. Elias had expected someone of note had just entered the tavern, for the noise levels had dropped. It must have been Mr. Sweeton’s red coat.
“Mr. Sweeton,” Elias said, sliding a tankard of ale across the tavern to Mr. Jones.
“Ta, child, a word to your father and a kiss to your sister, bless your poor blind eyes,” Mr. Jones said, collecting his ale and walking off. It was his first drink of the evening, and he was always most courteous sober.
“How are you, Mr. Burgess?” Mr. Sweeton asked. A stool creaked as he took a seat across the bar from Elias.
“Well. What can I get you?”
“Tankard of ale, if you please,” Mr. Sweeton said. Elias began to draw this up, but fumbled the tankard when Mr. Sweeton addressed him again. “Why haven’t I seen you around Mitton?”
“Got sacked,” Elias muttered, regaining control of the tankard. He had slopped ale on the floor, but it was not a complete disaster. He set the full tankard in front of Mr. Sweeton and wiped his fingers on the cloth tucked into his apron.
“I’d heard about that.” Mr. Sweeton sounded angry.
“Mr. Scorsby said he couldn’t keep me on since I’d lost the post three times.”
“You didn’t lose it. It was stolen.”
“The outcome is the same. And are you more indignant for me or for you?” Elias asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t have a reason to go to Mitton regularly anymore. Not that you’d noticed.”
“I had noticed, you know,” Mr. Sweeton said, putting his hand on Elias’s. Elias jerked away, scandalized. What if someone saw? “I haven’t seen you in three weeks. I thought something had happened until the new post boy assured me you were well yesterday.”
“How worried you must have been.”
“Yes.”
“So worried it took you three weeks to investigate, and only after Kenneth Davies told you I was entertaining a guest.”
“Mr. Davies said no such—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Anyway, I was very busy, Mr. Burgess.”
“I, a blind man, can walk to Mitton in a few hours. You have functional eyes and a horse. If you’d been that worried, you could have put your mind at ease very quickly.”
Mr. Sweeton drew a sharp breath. “Please don’t belittle my feelings for you.”
Elias scoffed.
“In all seriousness, Mr. Burgess, I’m smitten,” he hissed, not sounding pleased about it. He grabbed hold of Elias’s elbow.
“In all seriousness, Mr. Sweeton, I’m over it.”
“Mr. Burgess!” Mr. Sweeton held his elbow tighter. “You’re wounding me.”
“You’re wounding me,” Elias said, yanking his elbow from Mr. Sweeton’s painful grasp.
“I don’t know what I can say to make you understand.”
“It’s not saying things I care about. It’s doing things. And you never do anything that reflects what you claim to feel.” Not like Augustus, who had temporarily moved to Kitwick to be near him after he had promised to do so. But as Augustus had yet to show his face today, could he really mean all the things he said?
Elias heard Mr. Sweeton approach around the bar before he seized Elias by the shoulders and tugged him into the back stairwell. Elias never knew why he went with him without protest. Once they were concealed behind the thin wood door, the voices in the tavern a dull buzz, Mr. Sweeton shoved Elias against the wall and kissed him on the mouth.
Elias pushed him away. “Yes, yes, we’ve covered how you lust for me.” He wiped his mouth. “Understood!”
“Mr. Burgess,” Mr. Sweeton murmured, “if you knew how you torment me…”
“Don’t confuse lust with affection,” Elias sn
apped, stepping away. “I might not be as experienced as you, but I know at least that.” Bess had made him repeat that to her many times when he had first declared his interest in the Mitton postmaster. He knew what it meant to have someone care for him, because he had Bess to set an example. And he knew not to undervalue his worth. He deserved someone who liked him in totality, and not just his ass. Someone who understood his sense of humor and could return his banter. Someone like Augustus.
Wait, what?
“I haven’t confused anything. I want you, and I care for you very much.”
“Ugh, you’re making me nauseous. You’ll have better luck with Kenneth Davies, I assure you.” There, he had done his bit for Kenneth. “Good day, Mr. Sweeton.” He made to leave, but Mr. Sweeton grabbed him by the wrist. How had he not yet realized how much Elias hated that?
“Wait!” Mr. Sweeton cried.
“I said good day, Mr. Sweeton.”
Elias shook free and went back to the bar undisturbed. Mr. Sweeton did not return for his drink.
Chapter Seventeen
The next afternoon, when Bess had gone to Mr. Scorsby’s to check for the post, Elias was left to tidy the tavern on his own as Lord Nelson napped on a stool. Elias was barefoot to feel the grit as he swept beneath the tables and chairs, collecting the detritus in a pile to the left of the door for Bess to deal with when she returned. He started when there was a knock at the door.
“Er, come in?” he said. Bess never knocked. The door swished open and a cool gust of September air floated into the room.
“Eli.”
Elias leaned on his broom. He knew he must look odd, coatless and barefoot, but Augustus had seen much more already. “Augustus.” Lord Nelson gave a mew of recognition but did not descend from his perch.
“Sorry I didn’t stop by yesterday as promised. Something came up.”
“What was that?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
Elias resumed sweeping. “Fine,” he said.
“How’re you sweeping?” Augustus asked, shutting the door. It must be dark for him in the tavern, for Elias never lit candles, but Augustus did not complain.
“With a broom and my own two hands.”
“No, but there’s a pile of dirt by the door. How do you do that?”
The Highwayman Came Riding Page 11