by JL Merrow
Philip nodded. “Given what happened to you, I can understand her fears for his safety.”
Danny gave a short, bitter laugh. “Wouldn’t be trees she’s afraid of.”
“No?”
“No, it’d be that, begging your pardon, sir. Not my place.”
Philip stared, confused, and then it came to him. “Drayton? But the worst he’d do would be to call the constable, surely?”
Danny gave him a long, hard look and then seemed to come to some decision. “Well, now, sir, would there be anything else you’d want to know about poaching? For if not, I reckon I’d best be trying to sleep, now.”
“Oh! Yes, of course. I’m sorry; I hadn’t realized how late it had become. I’ll let you rest. Ah, good night, Danny.”
“Good night, Mr. Luccombe.”
Banished from Danny’s society, Philip felt curiously bereft. He wandered irresolutely to the drawing room, but the whisky decanter seemed to have lost its luster. Philip hadn’t realized until now just how tired he felt. But of course, that would be due to the afternoon’s exercise, he recollected. Perhaps he should make that a regular activity? He really thought he might be able to sleep, tonight, without the help of alcohol.
It was a curiously uplifting thought, and Philip retired to his room with an unwonted smile upon his lips.
* * *
Christmas Day dawned bright and clear. Frost had painted merry patterns on the windows in honor of the season, and Danny was sure the aches in his chest and leg had lessened. He had a warm bed, the prospect of good food and pleasant company later, and he knew his mam and the kids were provided for. Danny couldn’t remember a Christmas these past few years when he’d awakened so content. Even the grief that thought brought with it didn’t chase away his good humor. He fair beamed at Mrs. Standish as she brought him his porridge.
“Well! And you’re in fine fettle this morning for an invalid, Daniel Costessey!” she exclaimed with a pleased expression.
“It’s seeing you, Mrs. S. Does my heart good to have a good-looking woman bring me food in the morning,” he teased.
“Get away with you! We’ll have no more of that nonsense or Mr. Standish will have your hide, that you can be sure!”
Danny grinned as she bustled out in mock outrage. Sure enough, she was humming a merry carol as she went back to her more usual duties.
* * *
Settling back to read some more about Marley’s ghost, Danny was surprised to look up and find Standish hovering at his elbow. “Bloody hell! Begging your pardon, Mr. Standish, but you might want to warn a man you’re here.”
Standish gave him a long, considering look. “I’m just on my way to bring Mr. Luccombe his morning tea, and I thought it would be a good time to have a friendly word with you, Costessey.”
Danny grinned. “And here was me thinking you couldn’t wait to wish me a Merry Christmas! Well, come on then, out with it, though I’m blowed if I know what I can have done to upset you, laid up in here like this.”
Standish’s lips tightened. “It’s Mr. Luccombe. He appears to have taken quite a liking to you, Costessey, and, to speak plainly, I would not wish to see his trust abused. You may not be aware of this, but we at the house are quite… protective of the master.”
Danny narrowed his eyes. “Oh, aye? Well, I don’t reckon he’s done so well, moldering away in this bloody tomb with you being all protective. Seems to me he could do with a mite less protection and a mite more… life,” Danny finished awkwardly. He’d been as near as damn it to saying “love,” but he could hardly come out with that in front of Standish.
“I believe I have made my position clear,” Standish said stiffly. “Now, I must not keep Mr. Luccombe waiting. Good day, Costessey.”
* * *
“Good morning, Sir. And Merry Christmas.”
Philip blinked up at the dark figure of Standish placing his morning tea upon the bedside cabinet.
“Thank you, Standish. And to you, too, of course.” Philip was a little surprised to find that he did actually feel something of the joys of the season. It wasn’t as if the hole Robert had left in his heart had healed over, precisely, but there was no denying it didn’t ache nearly as acutely as it had used to. “Time, the great physician,” Philip murmured to himself as he set about the business of shaving and dressing.
Once ready for the day, he gave himself a searching look in the glass. Too pale still, perhaps, but he thought he looked a little less haggard than he had done of late. Feeling strangely buoyed by this observation, he set off down the hall to wish the compliments of the season to his guest.
Costessey was looking unusually solemn as Philip walked in, but he soon broke into a smile. “Merry Christmas, sir,” he said cheerfully.
“Thank you,” Philip smiled. “And to you, too, of course. Oh, you’re eating breakfast?”
“Just finished, sir.” Danny moved to place his dish upon the bedside cabinet, and Philip hastened to take it from him.
“Don’t want you upsetting those ribs,” he said by way of explanation of his actions, and also to cover his confusion at the tingle he’d felt as their fingers had brushed. Or had he just imagined it? Yes, that must be it.
Danny was looking at him expectantly, and Philip realized he’d been silent too long. “I, ah, I wondered if you’d like me to read to you? So you don’t get any more of those headaches?”
“That’d be right kind of you, sir, but won’t you be wanting your breakfast?”
“Oh, I don’t tend to eat in the mornings. Not much of an appetite, I’m afraid,” Philip said apologetically, although thinking about it, he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, really.
“You need to get out in the fresh air more, sir. That’ll build you up an appetite right enough.”
Philip smiled. “I think you’re right. You know, I did go out yesterday, and it was… rather pleasant. I, ah, I went to see your oak tree.”
Danny grinned. “Hope you gave it a bloody good kick from me!”
Philip found himself laughing. Lord, how long had it been since he’d laughed? “It was looking sorry enough for itself already, if truth be told. I’d say you gave as good as you got. Now, where did you get to with A Christmas Carol?”
“End of the first chapter—or stave, as he calls it. Right surprised I was, to see Dickens writing jokes—‘More of gravy than of grave!’” He chuckled and then turned sober once more. “But he’s a daft bugger, that Ebeneezer Scrooge, and no mistake. Rich as bloody Croesus, and never spent a brass farthing save on the bare necessities. What’s the point of being rich if you’ve no life?”
Philip felt a smile twist his lips, even as he felt a corresponding twist in his stomach at Danny’s harsh judgment of the miserly recluse. “You know, I’d have laid good money on you never having heard of Croesus!” He colored, realizing what he’d said. “Lord, that was terribly patronizing of me, wasn’t it?”
But Danny was smiling. “No, sir, don’t you worry. I’d reckon you’d be right about most of the folk around here, but my mam’s always been right keen on those old Greek stories. She had a book of them she used to read us when I was little.” His smile grew broader. “Matter of fact, when I was born she wanted to call me Jason, but my Da wouldn’t hear of it. Said that like as not I’d get enough knocks out of life without some fancy-arse name for folk to laugh at.”
“I suppose he was right,” Philip said with a grimace. “Still, I think it would have suited you,” he added, his mind already conjuring up an image of young Danny in white tunic and sandals, dispatching screeching harpies with sword and dagger. “Of course, Jason came to a rather unhappy end,” he remembered.
“Ah, but that was only because he made too many promises to too many women,” Danny reminded him with a knowing smile. “I reckon I’m in no danger of that.”
Philip felt a sort of uncomfortable sensation in his stomach at that and covered his confusion by opening the book once more. “‘When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that l
ooking out of bed, he could scarce distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber…’”
* * *
Two hours later, Philip felt his voice starting to grow hoarse. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken for so long. “Well, I suppose I’d better go,” he said reluctantly, closing the book and stretching the kinks out of his shoulders.
Danny nodded. “I won’t keep you, sir. But it’s been grand, having a bit of company, so I’ll thank you for that, sir.”
Philip didn’t know quite what to say to this. “I feel rather a low sort, taking credit for altruism when I’m sure I’ve enjoyed the morning at least as much as you can have,” he said, shrugging a little self-consciously.
Danny’s smile grew warmer; Philip felt as though he could feel the heat from where he stood. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”
Philip really couldn’t think of anything to say, now, so he simply gave an awkward nod, and left.
* * *
No more than half an hour later, Danny looked up to see Luccombe in the doorway once more. Seemed as how he couldn’t stay away. Well, Danny had no objection to that.
“I, well, I thought it was a bit silly, me sitting in the dining room all alone, and you up here, so I thought I might have my Christmas lunch in your room. If that’s agreeable to you, of course.” Luccombe smiled hesitantly. Danny wondered if he realized he was going to break the spine of that book, twisting it in his hands like that.
“I’d be glad of the company, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Will we manage, do you think?” He raised an eyebrow. It was a small room, and there wasn’t a lot of furniture that could easily be adapted into a dining table.
“Well, you’ll have to have a tray, of course, but I’ve asked Standish to have a folding table brought up for the occasion.”
And right enough, there was Standish himself, bringing in the table and setting it up by the bed.
“I could fetch a chair from the dining room, if you would prefer, sir,” he offered, giving Danny a glance that said plain as day, “I’m watching you, lad.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary, do you, ah, Costessey?” Luccombe gave Danny an apologetic smile, although whether it was for calling him by his surname once more or for his assumption that Danny wouldn’t mind him sitting on the bed, Danny couldn’t tell. Both, probably, knowing Luccombe. Danny felt a sudden surge of protective fondness for the man.
“No, sir, we’ll be just right as we are,” he assured Luccombe, and he was rewarded by the smile turning genuine.
Lunch, brought in by Mrs. Standish and one of the girls, was the finest meal Danny had ever seen in his life. There was even wine, although just a couple of glasses, broken heads and alcohol not being generally supposed a good mix.
“She’s a grand cook, Mrs. Standish. If she weren’t spoken for I’d marry her myself,” Danny said with a grin, pushing his well-cleaned pudding bowl aside.
“Best not let Standish hear you saying that sort of thing,” Luccombe commented teasingly. There was a brightness in his eyes Danny didn’t reckon he’d seen before, and the good food and wine had brought a touch of color to his cheeks that did a man good to behold. How old must he be? Not yet thirty, by Danny’s reckoning. Right now, with the firelight casting a warm glow upon his delicate features, he looked more like twenty.
“You’ve never thought of marrying, then?” Danny asked. “Must be right lonely here, all on your own.” He didn’t reckon Luccombe would think of the servants as company; he hadn’t been brought up to it.
Luccombe seemed to flush a little. “I’m afraid I’m not really one for company, these days. But I confess—” He broke off, staring out of the window.
“Sometimes,” Danny encouraged him, “you wish you had someone to share all this with?” He slid his hand across the blanket until it was resting on Luccombe’s and began to rub gently along that pale, soft hand with his thumb. Emboldened by the lack of any outrage on Luccombe’s part, Danny brought the hand up to his mouth and kissed it softly. For a moment, it was bliss—and then Luccombe reared up like a startled horse and wrenched his hand away as if Danny had tried to trap it in one of his snares.
“What- what the Devil do you think you’re doing, Costessey? This is not- this is not—” With a look of horror, he turned and fairly ran out of the room.
Danny stared after him as his heart smashed into a million pieces and his stomach tore itself to shreds. He’d been wrong about Luccombe. He wasn’t queer at all. He’d been disgusted by Danny’s touch, and like as not he’d have Danny thrown out of his house before the hour was out, broken leg or no. Danny could only hope Luccombe wouldn’t set the law on him. Christ, what about Mam and the young’uns? They’d be turned out for sure, if the shame didn’t kill them first. “Aye, you fell on your head right enough, Daniel Costessey,” he snarled bitterly. “Shame it weren’t a bit harder, you’d have saved a heap of trouble if you’d died out there!” He punched the headboard, but the pain it caused wasn’t near enough to distract him from the greater pain of knowing what a fool he’d been.
He had to do something. Talk to Luccombe, explain—lie—beg him not to take this any further. Flinging off the bedclothes, Danny lowered himself out of bed, his ribs protesting all the way. His left leg was heavy and unwieldy in its splints, and as Danny’s foot hit the floor it seemed like a bolt of lightning shot up his leg and grounded itself in his teeth. Panting and fighting the urge to whimper from the pain, Danny pushed himself up to standing and took a hesitant hop forwards.
It was sheer, blinding agony. Danny’s leg was on fire, and his ribs felt like they were constricting around his heart and lungs, squeezing the life out of him. Holding onto the wall as best he could, Danny took another hop, and another. He felt sick with the pain, and for a moment honestly thought he could go no further, but angrily he reminded himself what was at stake and, gritting his teeth, managed to open the door.
He was in a long, narrow corridor with doors to either side and at the far end, a staircase. Right. That was what he’d aim for. Unable now to stop the whimpers that forced their way between his clenched teeth, Danny set off on his halting way. By the time he reached the stairs, sweat was dripping into his eyes, although he couldn’t have said if he was hot or cold. Felt like both or neither. But there was a banister there to hold onto, which helped. Slowly, so slowly, Danny started down the stairs.
Halfway down, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. The nausea was worse now, and when he looked at things, there seemed to be bits missing. But he couldn’t stop now. Can’t go back, he thought, and he took one more step before the blackness overwhelmed his vision.
* * *
Philip scarcely knew what he was doing as he fled from Costessey’s room. The man had… made advances towards him. And God help him, Philip had let him. Had welcomed it, even. It had felt like a drink of cool water on a burning summer’s day, like a cigarette after a month’s abstinence—it had been heaven. And then the guilt had flooded in.
How could he do this to Robert? No wonder they called this a perverted, unnatural kind of love.
But it’s been four years, an insistent voice told him. It sounded oddly like an echo of Robert’s well-loved, mocking tones. And there’s many a widow married before her year is out. Would Robert have wanted this for him? This half-life, spent lurking inside with the curtains drawn, mourning now for almost as long as he had known the man?
Philip stood still in the middle of the hallway, arrested by an almost painfully clear memory of his lover. They’d been punting in the late afternoon sunshine, and Robert had lain back upon the cushions looking positively decadent with a dish of ripe strawberries and a glass of champagne. Philip had said something to that effect, and Robert had laughed. “Too many bloody awful things in this world of ours, my dear. I say we should ‘sport us while we may’!” Philip smiled. Robert had loved to quote Marvell’s poems at him, and that one in particular. Philip supposed he had been rather coy, at
the start. It had been a full year before their friendship had turned to anything more… physical, and that it had at all was due, strangely enough, to Jack Costessey, Daniel’s father.
Philip smiled again at the image of his younger self, clueless as to the true reason for his fascination with the dark, roguish laborer and totally unaware that his love for his lively college friend was anything but platonic. Then, right at the end of the summer holidays before his second year at Oxford, Philip had been strolling in the grounds of the estate and had come upon Costessey and the scullery maid in flagrante delicto. They hadn’t seen him, thank God, being entirely too preoccupied with each other. He’d run back to the house and shut himself in his room, weeping bitter tears of sudden self-knowledge. Returning to Oxford a day early, he’d got roaring drunk in Robert’s rooms and confessed his unnaturalness. Whereupon Robert had put an arm around him, said “Well, then, we’ll just have to be unnatural together,” and kissed him.
It had been one revelation upon another, and to be perfectly honest, Philip had been more stunned than aroused by the kiss. Robert had soon persuaded him to thaw a little, though. Robert could have persuaded an ascetic to unbend and enjoy himself, had he put his mind to it. He’d been so full of life.
Philip could hear Robert’s voice, clear as day, as he recited a verse from his favorite poem:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
God, he’d been such a fool. Robert would have been appalled to see Philip immured within the manor, going slowly mad for want of company. He’d have been the first to tell him to find another.
Realising abruptly that he probably looked a trifle odd, standing stock still in the hallway and smiling to himself, Philip shook his head and spun slowly on his heel, uncertain whether to return to Costessey’s—Danny’s—room at once, or seek a little Dutch courage first. He still wasn’t entirely certain what he was going to say to the man. Possibly something along the lines of them having “world enough, and time”?