“Lord George,” she exclaimed, beaming at him. “What a lovely surprise.” Her smile nearly split her face. “What brings you here today, sir?”
Having no idea himself, Wes could only sputter helplessly for a moment before giving up and sliding his gaze away. It helped him not at all that he had done his best to refrain from extra pills all day and the result was he felt so raw and exposed he wouldn’t be surprised to learn the skin had come free of his spine, letting all the sensations of the world rush at once into his brain.
His silence didn’t seem to upset her. She only smiled and held out her hand. “Come, my lord. Come have some tea.”
He let her take his hand, let her lead him to a comfortable chair beside the fire, even though he felt very foolish doing so, as if he were a little boy she had found on the street and was tucking in for some comfort. The thought prompted him to glance around looking for the young man he had seen when he’d visited a few weeks ago. He was in the same place he had been then, even wearing the same clothes. He did not cast a single glance at Wes, and he appeared to be taking great care to do so. Other than the boy, the room was empty, save the white-capped old woman who settled in a rocking chair near the front window, taking some sewing from a basket and losing herself in it at once. The room was quiet and warm, the only sounds the click of the young man’s chess pieces, the creak of the old woman’s rocker and the crackle of the fire.
Wes wanted to speak, to explain to Miss Barrington why he had come, or at least to invent some reason, but even in the gentleness of her parlor he found himself tongue-tied. After a few sputters, he gave up and sank back in his chair.
She smiled comfortingly at him. “There, my lord. No need to upset yourself. It’s a long journey from your part of town to mine. Take some tea and collect yourself a moment.” She stationed herself in the chair across from him. For a few minutes she let him steep in quiet, and then she began a comforting but endless prattle. “The donation your man sent over was most kind. I used it to pay our rent for the next several months, with leftover enough to take the children to Covent Garden for some ices. Some of them. We have six children here, you see. Four boys and two girls. We could have more easily, God knows, for the streets are littered with homeless children, but I’ve found six is about all I can manage at once, and even then sometimes that is too many. Difficult, sometimes, knowing the ones I let go will come to bad ends. But better to do what can be done with a few than do badly by many. This is what I tell myself.”
She smiled a little sadly. “I find ones who are damaged, you see. Stammerers, sometimes, but sometimes they don’t speak at all. Everyone deals with tragedy in different ways. And as I tell them, it doesn’t matter to me how one gets out of a hole, just so long as they get out of it and go about their business.” She reached for her own cup of tea. “Though to be honest, I do better with older children, or adults. You would think they are more difficult, and it’s true. But the honest truth is that I’ve had more practice helping addicts and full-grown lost souls.”
She paused, then looked at Wes kindly. “Don’t mind me, dear. I’ll just keep prattling on until you feel comfortable enough to speak. Didn’t see any reason not to fill you in a bit while I did so.”
Wes blinked several times. She was a sort of female Rodger Barrows, he supposed, though she smiled more. Somehow he doubted she also ran an illegal smuggling ring on the side.
He cleared his throat and tried to manage his end of the conversation a little better. “W-W-Why d-do y-you d-do this?”
“Why, because I’m a silly American. Wasn’t it obvious?” She laughed. “To be honest, I can’t even sort it out myself. I began nursing one addict, but I lost her. In a sort of stupid grief I simply went out and got myself another. She lived, and for a time that was enough. She kept house for me, and I tried to decide what to do with my life next. Somehow that became helping another, and then another. And then we discovered a pack of urchins living behind our bins in the alley, and of course I brought them in and fed them, and of course they stole anything worth taking once I was asleep.” She looked pensive. “I suppose it’s gone that way with everything. I ruin my first attempts, but I do all right on my second, and it becomes a habit after that.” She shrugged. “That’s all I have for an explanation. I didn’t fit in at the salons of the other do-gooders, and I hated how we only talked of reform, yet actually achieved so little. It all comes together like a puzzle somehow, I suspect, when laid out on the table.”
Simply listening to the woman made Wes dizzy. “H-How-How were y-you ever a st-st-sta-stammerer?”
He expected another laugh and saucy dismissal. But she did not laugh. Not even a smile cracked her lips. She turned to the old woman at the window. “Mrs. Howard, would you take Tommy upstairs?”
The woman looked up startled, but she nodded and rose, moving with a lumbering, arthritic gait. “Of course, Miss Brannigan.” With a whisper in the boy’s ear, she helped him from his chair and nudged him toward the stairs. Once the door closed, Miss Brannigan turned back to Wes.
“It’s a bit of a grim tale, Your Lordship. But if you truly want to hear it, I will tell it to you.”
When Wes gave her a nod, she returned the gesture and smoothed her hands over her skirts.
“I was born in Chicago, but my parents had a yearning to head south, away from the snow. And so when I was five, we packed up a wagon and set off as adventurers. We got as far as Missouri.” She kept her eyes on the fire. “We were overtaken by bandits. They murdered my father and raped my mother. Several times. My sister and I were hidden beneath the wagon, where Mother had told us to go if there was trouble. Mary had the shotgun, and after the third time they raped our mother, her cries tore at Mary, and she came out brandishing the weapon.”
She shut her eyes. When she spoke, her words were little above a whisper. “Th-They r-raped her with it. They s-s-sodomized her with it until she bl-bled. Then they s-sodomized her themselves. And then my mother.” She paused to take several more breaths, but she kept her eyes closed. “I stopped watching then. I c-couldn’t take any more.”
Wes wasn’t sure he could either. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. Before he could muster the words she was speaking again, this time with her eyes open as she stared at the fire.
“My memory is faint past that point. I know from others’ retelling that once the bandits were passed out from whiskey, my mother freed herself from the rope they’d used to tie her to their tree, and she killed them. She routed the wagon back to the road and drove us hard to St. Louis. And there we lived. Mother sold everything in the wagon, plus the wagon, and we rented a room. She did baking and sewing and charity work. We had money enough—we’d lived quite well in Chicago—but outside of sending Mary to school, she spent none of it. And we never spoke of that night on the road when Father was murdered and they were raped. Mary sobbed often at night, but other than smiling less, even she pretended nothing had happened. For myself, I simply didn’t speak. For three years, I was mute. I have dim memories of it, of doctors examining me, of whispers that I had been damaged. That’s all, however. I don’t remember why I didn’t speak. Just that I wouldn’t.
“And then when I was eight, a carnival came to town. Mother took me. I remember a bright red tent and rainbow ribbons streaming from it. I wanted so desperately to go inside, but Mother was heading the wrong way, and the next thing she knew I was sobbing and crying, ‘Tent! R-Red tent!’ And she sobbed as well, and hugged me, and bought me a ticket to the tent. They had a lion inside, in a cage. It looked sad.”
She sighed and smoothed her skirts. “And so then I spoke again. Stuttering horribly, but I could speak. Mother kept me at home for fear teasing from schoolgirls would make me stop speaking again, but she taught me well, not just to read and write and do sums but to cook and clean and care for things. I was her shadow on her charity work, which often took us to alms houses. She was particularly tender to the women there, and she would sit and listen to their stories. And then w
hen I was thirteen she took fever, and everything went poorly again.
“Our aunt came to fetch us back to Chicago, but she was hard and slightly cruel to Mary—and Mary ran away the second we arrived. Aunt Millicent only cared for the money that came with us, and she happily spent it and left me with her mother. Though this in the end turned out to be a blessing. Nana Fairchild was a lovely old soul. It was she who taught me how to overcome my stutter. She let me sleep in her room and even in her bed when I woke crying. She finished my lessons and convinced her daughter she was responsible for my education, and she saw that I was sent to a good finishing school. She outlived my aunt as well, by six months. And when she died I was of age, and all our family’s money was mine. I used it to find my sister—and I spent nearly all of it to do so, landing all the way over here in England.” She smoothed her hands over her skirts. “And that, Your Lordship, is how I came to be a stutterer. Stammerer, of course, as you say.”
Wes’s tea had grown cold, forgotten in his slack hands. “I h-h-have n-nothing s-s-so g-g-grim.” Lord help him, but he felt a fool beside her. Who had troubles such as hers?
“I should say,” she went on, “that not every stammerer has a tale of woe. I don’t want you to assume so. Something in your eyes, however, insists that you do. And I want you to feel comfortable telling me, which is why I tell you mine. Do you know, everyone who tells me their tale begins as you did: ‘it isn’t so bad.’ As if they should be ashamed for letting it affect them, as if everyone in the world has better right to sorrow than they.” She shrugged. “Life is pain, Lord George. We all deal with it as we can. Some of us feel safer swallowing our voices. Some of us hide in our anger. I prefer not to judge the method of coping but to do what I can to help others let go of the pain.”
She let him digest this, taking his teacup from his hands and reaching for the pot to refill it.
“I think,” she said, her tone light once again, “we should touch only on pleasant subjects from here on today, sir, but I do hope you will come visit me tomorrow? Or would another time be better?”
She added milk and a sugar to his tea and passed it over. Wes sipped absently, still reeling. But after a few moments he said, “F-F-Friday. At t-t-ten. W-W-Would it s-s-suit you?”
Her smile split to show pretty, even teeth. “It suits me very well, Your Lordship.” She took up her own cup of tea and sat back. “Now you tell me, sir, about your plants. Because from what I have learned, you are famous for them.”
Wes laughed. After another sip of tea he was still smiling. And as he launched into an explanation of the Royal Society and the gardens at Regent’s Park, he realized he was scarcely stammering at all.
By the third week of seeing Albert, Michael began to feel impatient. With himself, with Albert—he wasn’t sure of the source, but he couldn’t seem to shake the sense that more should be happening. His nightmares had stopped. He had, twice, napped in his own bed, alone. He felt ready for something more. For congress, possibly. Their last few carriage rides had left them both breathless and flushed and rock hard. Kisses had become only the opening act. They soon gave way to fondling beneath waistcoats and groping trousers. Their hair knew no mercy. Their necks were banquets. Any second now Michael suspected he would undo Albert’s trousers and reacquaint himself with his lover’s cock with the same sort of passion. He simply hadn’t quite done so yet.
Albert hadn’t ever pushed him to do so, nor to let him have the same pleasure, the pleasure he was, in fact, paying for. In fact, he made no moves of a sexual nature without Michael’s express permission, and sometimes even then he had to give him a second encouragement. Though once that was settled, he clearly had no reservations of any kind.
It wasn’t just sexual encounters Michael was starting to want. He longed to do things with Albert and not tour another bloody garden. He’d managed to get Albert into a bookstore, once. That hadn’t been so bad, but Albert had merely waited near the door looking uncomfortable, not browsing with Michael as he’d hoped he would. Forget coffeehouses, and never speak of pubs. Albert simply went white and shook his head when Michael mentioned them.
The thought of taking him to Covent Garden was laughable.
Actual gardens, however, or parks, were fine, and any day the weather was good enough, they toured them. And they were lovely, true. It was only that Michael wanted something more. Something… Something…
Something normal.
He let this revelation rattle around in his head as he stared at his own reflection in a mirror, getting ready for yet another day with Albert. Yes, normal. That was what he wanted. A foolish yen, most likely, and yet no amount of chastising himself kept the desire away. Perhaps that was what he was in love with, what Rodger saw.
Normal had evaporated so long ago, and the joke was that even then Michael had struggled for it. He hadn’t thought about his school days in years, but every time he was with Albert he couldn’t help but remember what it had been like to stride about London as a normal boy, wondering how he could swindle his mother out of more sweets or a new book. He’d closed his heart to that boy so long ago, not letting him out, for the world Michael lived in now was too grim for him. But with Albert, the boy, now a man, always wanted to come out to play. With Albert, Michael wanted to explore London. To share books. To delight in things. And yes, sometimes they did. But all too often just as Michael felt that boy inside him rising from his sleepy corner, ready to play again, Albert was coming up against his own terror of public places and shutting down.
Michael stroked his reflection in the glass. He had a pretty face, he knew. A boyish, pretty face. Many, many men had told him so, had traced the outline of his lips, praising the beauty of their line before nibbling on them as if they were a rare delicacy. When he worked, he made sure to rouge them slightly, and he powdered his face, smoothing and whitening it. His hair was always loose and down, as pampered as a girl’s.
But not with Albert. When he prepared himself to spend the day with Albert, he applied no rouge and no powder. His hair went back into a queue, leaving bits on top to style with pomade, and each time he prepared himself he wished he could cut it and give himself a modern style.
Normal. A normal style for normal outings.
He finished his toilet, tugged on his jacket and shoes, and headed downstairs to wait for Albert. He had been coming later and later, explaining that a project was keeping him through most of the mornings. More and more lately he seemed to welcome their naps as much as Michael. Except today Michael didn’t want to collapse in Rodger’s office, nor did he want to doze as they drove around town. Today Michael had a plan.
When Albert finally arrived, Michael drew a deep breath, steeled himself, and asked, “Could we go to the Athenaeum today?”
He had worked out the phrasing of this carefully, but even now he had to bite his tongue almost literally to keep from tacking on softeners. He wanted to brush this off as a casual, almost random request, but it was not. He’d been waiting for Albert to suggest this himself since they’d first discussed it weeks ago, but he had not once so much as brought it up again. This was another case where that boy inside him had come out again, desperate and eager, determined to let no one and nothing take away his pleasure.
The hardened, world-weary Michael who had spent a decade whoring braced himself for a rejection. He tried not to look it. He tried to project easiness, as if he didn’t really care, it was just a whim, but he suspected he failed.
Albert blinked at him. “M-My club? You w-w-want to g-go?”
Michael did his best to steady himself. “Yes. Please?”
He waited for the excuse, for the dismissal, for the awkwardness. Though Albert did look slightly uncomfortable, he only nodded and said, “Sh-Shall we g-g-go now?”
And they went. After all his preparation and fear, Michael found it hard to believe it had been this easy, but it was, and they were in the carriage and headed for Pall Mall.
Michael had only been to this part of town with
Albert a few times when traffic routed them so. He had done his gawking then, trying to be casual until he’d realized the heavy traffic made Albert so uncomfortable he wouldn’t notice. Michael was able to temper himself somewhat this time, though he still had to press his face to the glass like an eager child as they passed Trafalgar Square, St. Martin-in-the-Fields and the line of gentlemen’s clubs until at last they arrived at the Athenaeum.
It took every ounce of Michael’s control to contain his giddiness. When he’d been a boy in school he’d boasted to the boys in his dormitory that he’d be a member of the Athenaeum one day. He’d wanted to be a scholar of books then, until his mother had pointed out a more practical career would be better. He’d decided to be a lawyer, but he would be the most literary lawyer London had ever seen. And he would belong to the Athenaeum, he’d bragged, and he’d take all his meals there, spending evenings he wasn’t working on cases discussing the arts and sciences with the most brilliant minds in Britain.
He’d become a whore instead. Yet here he was, at the Athenaeum at last.
It was so white. So gleaming clean and classical and white, not even a pigeon dropping staining its marble stairs. He longed to crane his head and gape like a country bumpkin at the decorative frieze, but he managed to resist, looking as collected as he could as he followed Albert up the steps. When he felt his queue brush the back of his neck, he touched it self-consciously and tucked it into his collar. He would not play Albert’s whore today. He would be a literary man, as he had wanted to be long ago. Just for today.
“Good afternoon, Your Lordship.” The doorman welcomed them inside—and Michael gave up and gaped as he saw the foyer.
Grand didn’t even begin to describe it. It wasn’t ostentatious, either. It was simply…perfect. Elegant, aristocratic, clean and spare. Great classical arches and curved ceilings with geometric relief contrasted marble statuary and grand tropical plants. Gas lamps burned everywhere, their soft hiss contrasting against the hushed sound of men’s footsteps on the parquet. It smelled elegant as well: the gas, to start, but also the mixture of tobacco, sandalwood and the distant whiff of scrubbed floors. Only a few men lingered in the main entrance, but in the distance he heard muted voices in conversation and laughter. Educated voices, trained in elocution.
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