“Not to worry. I’ve a loyal militia contact who’s monitoring him. It’s amazing how fast money makes a man friends. Mr. Sweeton felt so guilty after shooting you, he admitted to planting my pistol, and even said he was mistaken about me being a highwayman,” Augustus said, touching Elias’s wrist.
“What about the investigation into the Joneses’ murders? Mr. Sweeton wouldn’t have killed them. He just framed you in an opportunistic fashion. That still leaves the question of who actually murdered the Joneses unanswered.”
“That’s not our problem,” Augustus said.
“A Christmas blessing,” Elias said, and Bess clutched his elbow tighter.
“I’ll kill that Sweeton fucker myself if I ever see him again, for what he put you through,” Bess said. Elias heard a few gasps from people standing within earshot.
“I’ll supply the broom,” Augustus muttered.
Midnight Mass had all the charm of Kitwick’s usual service but the additional magic of taking place in London. The choir and organ were grander, the incense stronger, the candles louder, the congregation bigger. Elias leaned against Augustus as they sang along to familiar melodies, the warmth and scent of hundreds of humans in damp wool rising the longer they remained in the drafty nave. It felt good to be there, among other people, his twin and the man he…loved…by his side.
Elias, who never did well in crowds, waited with Bess and Augustus while the nave emptied slowly at the end of the service. Instead of departing once the way was clear, they walked the echoing chambers of the Abbey as Bess and Augustus read the memorials of kings, queens, poets, playwrights, composers, and politicians passed. The voices of carolers on the front steps drifted inside:
Hark! the Herald Angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!
Peace on Earth, and Mercy mild,
God and Sinners reconcil’d.
“So, we’re reconciled?” Augustus, who was leading Elias by the right elbow, murmured in his ear.
“We’re not sinners,” Elias retorted.
Augustus stood in front of Elias and bowed until his lips grazed the bare knuckles of Elias’s left hand, bound tightly against his chest with his sling. “I’m glad you know it.”
Elias’s cheeks grew hot. He knew no one but Bess could see them, or Augustus would not have done such a thing.
“You’ve beautiful hands,” Augustus continued in a soft voice.
“So I’ve been told.”
“But something’s missing,” Augustus said, stroking Elias’s fingers with his thumb.
“What the devil do you mean?”
“They look awfully bare.”
“It’s warmish in here, but I’ll put on my gloves before we go outside,” Elias said. Augustus had bought him a lovely pair of kid gloves.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what the fuck do you mean?” Elias demanded.
Augustus took hold of Elias’s fourth finger and straightened it. “This finger. It looks naked.”
“It is naked,” Elias replied.
“Oh my God,” Augustus said. “You don’t understand, do you?”
“I told you,” Bess said, sounding annoyed. “We’ve never talked about this, and he’s obviously never seen one, so he has no idea what you’re on about.”
“What are you on about?” Elias snapped, exasperated.
“Eli, what does it mean if someone wears a ring on the fourth finger of their left hand?” Augustus asked, sounding bemused.
“How the fuck should I know?” Elias asked. “I don’t go about holding the hand of everyone I meet and asking after the significance of their jewelry!”
“Jesus Christ,” Augustus muttered. “I should’ve talked about this with you first.”
“About what?”
“The fourth finger of the left hand is reserved for wedding bands,” Augustus said. “I want to put a ring on yours. It’s been in my family for generations and I was meant to give it to my wife, whomever the fuck she was supposed to be. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Elias went numb. “You want to get married?”
“Yes, you ass!” Augustus yelled, his voice echoing around the Abbey.
“Is that allowed?” Elias demanded. He had never heard of two men marrying.
“No,” Augustus admitted. “But I don’t give a damn.”
“Well I don’t, either,” Elias said, straightening his fingers. He was shaking. “Now put it on me, you inveterate pederast.”
Bess burst into tears.
Chapter Forty
Christmas day was a quiet affair. Neither Bess nor Elias had any means to purchase gifts, and Augustus knew he had pushed the limits of his luck with gifting Elias a wedding band. Lord Nelson presented Augustus with a dead mouse in his boot. Augustus had shrieked in disgust but thanked Lord Nelson with a fishy treat once Elias explained the mouse was Lord Nelson’s idea of a Christmas gift. Mr. and Mrs. Tulk welcomed them all downstairs for a modest goose supper with mulled wine and roasted chestnut dessert by a warm hearth. If they noticed Elias’s new jewelry, they did not ask after it.
The short days of dying December passed in a flurry of snow, city strolls, carolers, and games with the Tulks. With Bess and Lord Nelson by his side, Elias missed nothing of Kitwick but his old pianoforte, especially since Augustus finally bought a new violin. Though rusty after months without playing, he was a talented musician, entreating Elias, Bess, and the Tulks to regular evening performances. Augustus would kick Lord Nelson out whenever he started to sing along, but he accepted Elias’s critiques humbly.
“I’ll get you a pianoforte when we’ve a place of our own,” Augustus said. He could tell Elias missed music.
“Oh, so we won’t be boarding with the Tulks for forever?” Elias asked carelessly.
“Of course not. We need our own bedroom,” Augustus said, kissing Elias’s ear.
“Right you are,” Elias agreed.
Elias took off his sling on New Year’s Eve. His arm was stiff, but he knew it was time.
“I miss my pianoforte,” he said, stretching his arms over his head for the twentieth time that evening and wincing. He was in the Tulks’ parlor with Augustus and Bess, though the Tulks were away visiting family elsewhere in the city. “I’m itching to play. I wish I could right now.”
“I can grant that wish,” Augustus said, drawing Elias from his cushy chair.
“How?”
“I know a church with a Miller pump organ,” Augustus said. “One row of keys.” He must have searched when doing errands. Elias’s heart swelled. “Wait here. I’ll get your cloak.”
A few minutes later, Augustus dragged Elias into the snowy streets of London and led him to a church in a nearby neighborhood. Bess followed in their wake, pelting an indignant Augustus with snowballs.
“Steps,” Augustus warned as he brushed his cloak free of snow, and he and Elias mounted the seven steps of Saint Serge’s Church, Elias using his cane to gauge their depth. The door was unlocked, and Augustus led them through the chilly nave, up a flight of narrow, shallow stairs, and into a cramped space. “Sit,” Augustus said, and directed Elias onto a low bench. Augustus took Elias’s hands in his, slipped off his gloves, and placed Elias’s fingers on a line of keys before him. “Here,” he whispered. “Feel free to make music.”
Elias touched the unfamiliar keys, stroking them lightly at first, then more forcefully as he gained confidence. The organ was in tune and much more powerful than Elias’s old pianoforte. He was almost intimidated by the volume of the instrument, but then his fingers fell into an old routine, and he coaxed a hymn from the ivory, wood, and metal.
It felt wonderful to be making music again. He barely let the last notes of the first hymn die before he began another, and when that was done, he flowed seamlessly into one of his own compositions. By the end of the third piece, he had been playing nearly a quarter of an hour, and so he lightened up a moment, composing on the spot an airy, slow piece to transition to the he
avier personal composition he intended next. The one he had played when he and Augustus had been temporarily at odds, the one Mrs. Brown had told him was so sophisticated and rare.
“You there!” a voice cried from somewhere below. Elias froze, and the organ’s music petered out.
“Shit,” Augustus muttered.
“Uh-oh,” Bess said, a hand on Elias’s shoulder.
“You there!” the voice, masculine and authoritative, repeated. “Just what are you doing? Who are you?”
Elias stood, knocking over the bench with a crash. “Get me out of here,” he whispered, reaching for Augustus. Augustus seized his hand and pulled him back the way they had come.
“Wait,” the man said, migrating. “Wait! Where are you going? Who are you?”
They raced down the stairs and were halfway through the nave when someone grabbed Elias’s trailing arm. Augustus felt the drag and stopped pulling. There was a clicking sound.
“Let him go or by God—” Augustus was always quick on the draw.
“Wait,” the man panted. “Don’t shoot. I need to know. Who are you? Where did you learn to play like that?”
Elias stood still, uncertain. The man had not let go of his arm.
“I’m Elias Westwood,” Elias replied after a moment. Augustus squeezed his fingers. “And I learned to play like that from one Mrs. Jane Brown in Kitwick, Surrey.”
“Who wrote that third piece? I’d never heard it before. It was exquisite!”
“I wrote it,” Elias said.
“Why, you must show me the sheet music!” the man cried. “I’ll pay you for a glimpse!”
“I can’t do that,” Elias said, sweating.
“Why ever not? What price are you asking?”
“I cannot write sheet music,” Elias said, tilting the brim of his hat back so the man could see his eyes, “because I’m blind.”
“Merciful God,” the man said. He still held fast to Elias’s arm. “Come to the vicarage with me. All of you. We have a great deal to discuss, young man.”
And that was how Elias became organist of Saint Serge’s Church.
* * * *
On New Year’s Day, when Elias was still dazed about his new employment opportunity—not to mention the fact Reverend Shepherd said he knew of several potential patrons who might sponsor Elias’s composing endeavors—he and Bess took a walk about Saint James’s Park alone, arm in arm. They had left Lord Nelson alone with Augustus and had bets on how many scratches Augustus would have by the time they returned. Elias had put his imaginary money on none, but Bess asserted Augustus would have at least three, and probably a bite too.
“This is like a dream,” Bess murmured as they walked. “Town…you and Augustus, fucking engaged or married or whatever. You have a job…a prospective patron or two or three. Elias, I can’t believe how things have changed so much so quickly!”
“It’s pretty odd,” Elias agreed. Reverend Shepherd was giving him a month to familiarize himself with Saint Serge’s Church’s organ—which had more buttons and functions than the average pianoforte—and usual hymns, and Elias was invited to practice for several hours every day. He could not wait to get started that evening.
“Oh!” Bess cried, making a small squealing sound. Elias knew at once she had just seen something adorable. “What’re these precious babies?”
“Kittens, marm,” a childish voice replied. “Me father’ll throw them in the Thames if they don’t have a home by sundown. Please, take one for free!”
“Bess,” Elias began to object. He did not think Augustus could bear another cat.
“An ally for Augustus,” Bess interrupted.
“Oh,” Elias said. “Well, in that case.”
* * * *
“What the fuck is this?” Augustus demanded when Bess deposited a rustling basket in his lap. Lord Nelson, who had not scratched or bitten Augustus in their absence, mewed inquisitively as he wove between Elias’s legs.
“What’s it look like?” Bess retorted.
“Did you get me a cat?”
“A kitten,” Elias corrected, loosening his cravat as he came to sit beside Augustus on the sofa in their room. “What do you think?”
“Jesus Christ,” Augustus muttered. The kitten mewed pitifully, and Elias’s heart lurched. Lord Nelson bounded into his lap, sniffing loudly. “Why?”
“Don’t tell me you’re frightened?” Elias asked, smirking.
“I can’t say your Lord Nelson’s endeared me to the species.”
“Which is why Bess and I thought you needed a kitten to raise up loyal to you,” Elias explained.
“Needed?”
“Mhmm.”
“Oh no, oh dear, oh my God. A cat. A kitten. What do I feed it? Where does it shit? It’s so tiny. Tiny paws, tiny ears, tiny eyes, tiny whiskers.” The kitten mewed again. “Tiny voice.”
“I’ve seen that look before,” Bess said. “He’s falling in love.”
“Shut up,” Augustus murmured. “Good God, why is it so soft?”
Augustus named the kitten Napoleon because, he said, Lord Nelson needed a worthy adversary. He trained Napoleon to respond only to French commands. Napoleon and Lord Nelson were fast friends, as the cantankerous Lord Nelson, charmed at last, seemed to view the addition to the Burgess-Westwood household as a protégé. Under Lord Nelson’s tutelage, Napoleon became adept at leading Elias, though he tended to favor Augustus’s orders over Elias’s or Bess’s. Perhaps it was their pronunciation.
They all eventually settled into a sensible terraced townhouse on the edge of Belgravia, within walking distance of Saint Serge’s Church. Their wealthy neighbors were scandalized by their disdain for displays of affluence, bohemian lifestyle, Bess’s steady stream of visiting beaux, and, of course, the god-awful name for their French kitten.
Elias did not give a damn what the neighbors thought. He was the darling of Saint Serge’s Church, and he was getting paid handsomely to play and compose music. He holidayed in Bath, Hampshire, and Rome; performed in Paris (much to the increased disapproval of his London neighbors); and fucked or was fucked by Augustus everywhere. Bess always joined them on their travels, sometimes with a beau or two in tow. She took after their mother and never settled down, at least not for very long.
Augustus sold the Westwood family home near Mitton and bought a new estate in Kent. He invested in textiles, notably the burgeoning silk industry, and did very well for himself. He became something of a philanthropist for London’s poor.
Kenneth Davies did, in fact, go on to study mathematics at Cambridge. He gained a reputation as a flighty sort of genius, known in some circles for his intense relationship with an older professor. The Burgess-Westwood home was always open to him, and he and his professor visited often.
“Remember that time you were running away from responsibility and our relationship and you said you loved me? What a molly,” Elias would sometimes say to Augustus.
“Remember that time you took a bullet for me on a horse in a forest during a snowstorm and you said you loved me? Sentimental sap,” Augustus would shoot back.
“God, I can’t believe you love me. That’s so embarrassing,” Elias would mutter, feeling affettuoso as anything and trying to hide it.
“I offered you a goddamn family heirloom wedding band! And you accepted it!” Augustus would cry, grabbing Elias’s adorned left hand and shaking it. “You took my name!”
“All the same,” Elias would say. “Disgusting.”
“Shut up!”
Such exchanges would invariably end with violently passionate kisses. Elias had, in more ways than one, met his match in Augustus Westwood.
Loose Id Titles by Qeturah Edeli
The Highwayman Came Riding
* * * *
The HEARTWOOD Series
Prick of the Thistle
Sword Dance
Qeturah Edeli
Qeturah is an incorrigible recluse. She lived in Europe before she came to North America, but has never lived
somewhere people can pronounce her name properly. She enjoys fencing, beekeeping, and caffeine. Her family is pleased she is putting her classical Swiss education to good use with her naughty novels.
Visit http://qeturahedeli.strikingly.com/ to find out more about the author, or join her GoogleGroup at https://groups.google.com/d/forum/qeturahedeli
The Highwayman Came Riding Page 27