His conscience pricked him; why should this Easterby have to pay for his, Lamont’s, faults? Why, because of his own perverted nature, shouldn’t they be able to resolve this matter like gentlemen? Easterby wouldn’t ever find him attractive anyway. Lamont couldn’t convince himself there’d be any chance of the other man returning his affection if he offered it, so it would be safe to invite him for tea and cakes at least. He considered the matter again, briefly, but once he made his mind up he became precipitate. Today—it should be today. He found a stiff piece of card, drafted an invitation and delivered it to Easterby’s pigeon hole. All forgiven—tea and a scone at four o’clock should you wish to confirm this fact.
He was absolutely amazed when on the stroke of four a tentative knock struck his door. He opened it to find a still shamefaced Easterby who seemed like he wanted to talk to a spot that lay beyond Lamont’s right ear. “I hope I got the right time, I...”
Lamont stopped him in painful mid flow; he couldn’t bear to listen to such an embarrassed introduction. “Come in, please. The kettle is boiling and it won’t do to keep the brew waiting.”
Easterby entered, all awkward corners and shyness. He perched on the edge of a chair and looked pained. “Your shoes, I’ve brought my cheque book...” he reached for his pocket.
“Oh, for goodness sake, there is absolutely no need. I managed to rescue the shoes, with help from my scout. There is no more to be said.” Lamont busied himself with the rituals of tea making, trying not to look at Easterby’s long, elegant fingers or his dark, feminine lashes. All the things that added to his allure. The man had turned himself out well, although his clothes had seen better days and Lamont knew he’d guessed correctly that a new pair of brogues would have made a severe strain on Easterby’s bank balance. He’d expected that the gap in their social and financial standing would help him to keep his distance but it didn’t—again and again his gaze drifted towards his visitor’s handsome, shy face.
Lamont had put together a plan to get him through, to let him enjoy the time spent with this attractive young man without disgracing himself. In the first place he wouldn’t use Christian names. He hadn’t known the real name of the young man he had picked up in London.
They call me Domino, for obvious reasons. One nudge in the right direction and I’m flat on my stomach.
Lamont hadn’t shared his own name at all, making the boy refer to him as “sir” throughout. It was cold and impersonal and while part of him had wanted the lack of involvement, the absolute anonymity, part of him had despised it. It kept reminding him that it had just been a sordid business transaction—no love or affection, not even friendship.
The second point was simple. He wouldn’t let Easterby touch him, not even for a handshake. There had been plenty of touching in Lamont’s car with Domino; he hadn’t left a bit of that lad’s body unexplored.
I don’t mind what my gentlemen get up to—do whatever you like, sir.
But the experience had been curiously unmoving—fun, of course and he’d had a final burst of unbelievable pleasure, but the whole thing was just disappointing. Perhaps it was because any trust, any friendship, any love, had been missing, so Lamont found it empty of all meaning. He wasn’t like other men seemed to be, he couldn’t disconnect the physical sexual act from the mental experience accompanying it, and that created a stalemate. If he wouldn’t let himself get close to someone—for fear of rejection, denouncement, violence—then he might never find the ultimate communion. The ultimate in pleasure.
So he and his visitor simply drank tea and talked. Easterby began to act less like a naughty boy called to the Headmaster’s study to explain his conduct and Lamont felt less like a lecherous satyr on the hunt for an innocent to debauch. They found some common ground—an interest in the stories about Sherlock Holmes, a fondness for stodgy traditional English puddings, an affection for the music of Gilbert and Sullivan. They even found things to laugh over in the exploits of an obnoxious physics student who’d come a cropper on the river in a crew of little ability but plenty of swagger. Easterby brought the laughter to a sudden end by leaping up, making a hurried apology and saying that he had to leave immediately. Another engagement, he pleaded, so sorry.
This proposed departure was so abrupt and unexpected it spurred Lamont into action. “But you’ll come again? I was planning a picnic on Saturday—can’t just take myself. Will you meet me here and we can go down to the river?”
“What time?” Easterby ventured, after a long pause in which he seemed to be mulling things over.
“One o’clock would be splendid.” Lamont bit his lip, knowing the danger he was putting himself in. He’d held out well this afternoon; how would he fare on some secluded river bank?
“Then one o’clock it is.” Easterby bowed slightly and left.
Lamont watched him go, fairly certain that the excuse had been a false one, not knowing why he’d been so rash as to extend the invitation to meet again. He went over to the still warm chair and ran his fingers along the back, where Easterby’s head had at last rested while he’d been relaxed and laughing. He sat down in the same seat and entertained his old thoughts—joy combined with guilt and self loathing.
~
Easterby almost ran to his room; there hadn’t ever been another appointment of course, he just wanted to get out of a place in which he was feeling far too much at home. He needed to be away from company in which he was feeling uncharacteristically at ease. Separate from the temptation to touch another man.
He’d found the last half an hour to be one of the best of his life. He’d found someone he could talk to and who seemed to like talking to him, and quite unbelievably that person had been Hugo Lamont. But to have accepted an invitation to a picnic on the river—to be risking an intimately close encounter—he wasn’t sure he was ready. Perhaps he’d never be ready.
Return to TOC
Chapter Two
“Quails’ eggs?” Easterby felt puzzled by the elegant little ovals, unsure whether he should eat them or merely admire them.
“Indeed, Mr. Easterby,” Lamont grinned. “I can be quite a glutton for them.”
“Please, call me Edward, if that would be acceptable.” Edward was uncertain whether this was a touch too forward, but the champagne had put audacity into him that he hadn’t felt since he’d first come up to Oxford. He’d never been invited to a picnic by the river in all those months, even when October had brought a splendid Indian summer and everyone else seemed to be making the most of the sunshine. He would never in a million years have expected being asked along by such a man as Hugo Lamont, who had his free choice of companions and would hardly be likely to choose an unpopular and introverted guest. But chosen he had and Edward was very grateful. He attempted a little smile.
“If I’m to call you Edward, then you must call me Hugo.” His host smiled, but Edward thought it was forced. “I absolutely insist. You can’t be my guest and then not address me as my equal.”
Edward hesitated over the use of first names, happy to invite, reluctant to accept, but felt obliged to comply. “Hugo,” once he had used it, the name tasted as sweet as honey on his tongue, “I feel quite speechless at the spread you’ve produced for me. I’ve never seen half these things before, though I dare say I’d recognise the names.”
“You’ll have heard of this.” Hugo dipped a little spoon into a small jar of tiny black pearls. He motioned for Edward to put out his hand and dabbed a sample of the stuff on his fingertip. “Caviar—try it.”
He did. He grimaced. “So that’s what the stuff is like—seems an awful lot of fuss about nothing.”
Hugo lay back and roared with laughter. “Edward, you are such a breath of fresh air. So many people I know here are full of their own importance, want to show off about their knowledge or fine taste or exotic places they’ve been. But you are simply honest and decent and when I’m in your company, I don’t feel I have to make any sort of effort.” Except that he seemed to be making an effor
t not to touch Edward in any way. He’d kept his own fingers to the very end of the caviar-laden spoon.
Edward blushed. “You shouldn’t speak like that. It’s not proper.” He sounded like a parlour maid who had been given ‘sauce’ by a house guest, but his honour had been affronted. He fancied Hugo beyond all reckoning and was certain the man could never feel the same. Any sign that Hugo was being familiar would just raise his hopes unduly, and he did not want to even acknowledge the possibility that it might occur.
“Oh, why ever not? It’s the truth. There are very few people I just enjoy spending time with, and when they come along, I like to make it plain to them.”
Edward watched his new found friend smile and laugh, transfixed by his beauty—the red-gold hair that shimmered in the sunlight, the blue eyes that rivalled the sky for brilliance. He wondered what it would be like if Hugo let him touch that hair, how it would feel beneath his fingers, whether it would smell of lavender soap.
“Should we go and watch the cricket one day? I like nothing more than watching the lads getting themselves covered in grass stains. The sound of leather on willow, nothing like it.”
Edward nodded. “I agree with you entirely—an outing to a match would be delightful.” He smiled and fell quiet, unsure of where this conversation was going, apart from an invitation to watch sport. He knew he was enjoying this time with Hugo more than anything he’d experienced in Oxford. He yearned to spend as long as possible in the man’s company, he was just not ready to admit it to him, just in case he was answered with a rebuff. Hugo is naturally kind, he told himself, he’s just being pleasant. There was no deeper meaning and there was no point in getting his own hopes up.
He couldn’t have thought more intently if he were solving a chemistry puzzle. At some point he had to know whether he was simply tolerated or if there was more to the friendship of the glorious creature beside him. Except this wasn’t a matter of science; there was no yardstick to measure his conduct against, no previous encounter to be compared with. He was a total innocent, and while he despised himself for what he felt—unnatural didn’t begin to cover it—he felt drawn to Hugo like a moth to a flame or a child whose determination to approach the fire is only reinforced every time they are told not to touch. But he wasn’t ready to touch just yet.
So they ate, they drank, they chatted and Edward found the afternoon wore on pleasantly enough.
~
The plates were bare, the bottle of wine empty and the two young men on the river bank were too full to attempt another morsel. Hugo lay back on the mossy bank and stared at the blue sky. “Today has certainly turned unseasonably warm for March, Edward, but we won’t complain in case someone hears and does something to rectify it.” Hugo was at last comfortable about using his friend’s Christian name. He’d worried about it all morning, aware that they couldn’t continue with Lamont and Easterby, but knowing it would mean the first level of the defences that he’d constructed for that first meeting would be breached. There were other walls, other ditches and towers, but the curtain had been broken. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not, this was unknown territory.
He looked up. “Come here... no, right next to me so I can see both you and the sky at the same time.” It was as if he’d spoken his innermost thoughts and he was cross at himself for making so bold a suggestion. Words once spoken can’t be recalled and he shivered as his guest moved closer. Hugo had been very careful, when offering the caviar, not to allow even a cat’s whisker of contact. It had been his next line of defence, along with not mentioning anything personal or too close to the heart. If he could keep this as friendship, then he’d be fine—at least that’s what he kept telling himself.
It would have been terribly easy to simply reach up and draw a line down Edward’s spine. That would have been an undeniable invitation, a statement of intent. Yet Hugo still had no idea whether he wanted to go so far or whether he would want Edward to accept the invitation if he did. This situation was unique—for once in Hugo’s life desire and friendship had coincided. Perhaps this was even the budding of love, a precious bud that could easily be nipped by the frosts of a rejected pass. The risk of making a move and having it turned down, of then losing a precious acquaintance, was far too great a one for him to take it lightly.
He’d been aware all afternoon that he was being scrutinised, in the same way that he’d been casting glances at his companion. Surely he couldn’t expect Edward to be having the same fantasies that he was trying so hard not to indulge; fantasies about reaching out and touching another man? Hugo shivered at the thought that Edward wouldn’t necessarily reject a pass.
That could be even worse, being able to kiss Edward, to touch him. Would Hugo end up hating the man as much as he hated himself, just for letting him exercise his unnatural desires? Would a kiss ever be enough? Could they leave it there—wouldn’t it logically end up with them moving towards a bed or the back seat of a car or any one of a dozen squalid places that his mind could run to? And then they would both loathe each other and curse themselves.
Hugo stared at the sky, stared at his friend’s back, tried very hard not to look at him, failed and got angry with himself. Quite unexpectedly, Edward moved even closer, sitting so near that Hugo could feel the warmth of the man’s body through his shirt. He realised he was being given a clear signal that he was liked—more than liked. It was beyond all his hopes and filled him with fear that he’d give in and disgrace himself. He could reach out and pull Edward to him—that’s how it would start, and it would end in tears.
Very slowly, Edward leaned down and nestled against Hugo, laying his dark head on the man’s chest. Hugo didn’t reject the movement, although he felt himself become noticeably tenser and his breathing wasn’t as relaxed as it had been. He relished the warmth created by muscle and flesh meeting and as he felt Edward tentatively nuzzle against the open buttons of his shirt, he enjoyed the way the hairs on his chest brushed against his friend’s smooth cheeks. Guilty pleasures, all of them; Hugo felt as if he’d ceased breathing altogether, but still he didn’t push Edward away.
“This is idyllic, Hugo, I wouldn’t be anywhere else or doing any other thing at this time. You have no concept of how rare it is for me to find myself so content. Like being a child again.”
Hugo couldn’t speak. His second line of defence had come down and he had no idea of either what to do or what he really wanted. The whole situation was impossible. Slowly he put his arm around Edward’s shoulders and held him lightly. All he could concentrate on was to keep his face, his lips, away from any part of this beautiful young man. It would be terribly easy to just move slightly, rest his chin on Edward’s head, smell his hair, kiss his brow. There had been no tenderness like this with Domino, things had been wild and frenzied that night.
You seem like you’re in a proper hurry, sir. I like to meet a gentleman that knows what he wants and sets his store by getting it.
Every time Hugo thought of what he’d said and done, he hated himself even more for having sullied himself so readily with an unknown man. Especially when he found it so hard to find intimacy with someone he knew and liked. They lay together, Edward trying hard to get closer and Hugo keeping him at a distance, until the unseasonably warm day started to cool and they had to leave the riverside and go back to college.
They parted at the porters’ lodge, having barely said a word during their return. Edward had been too enraptured and Hugo too scared that he would invite his friend to meet again.
“Will you take coffee with me tomorrow after chapel? I can’t produce a picnic like you managed today, but I pride myself on the quality of the coffee I make.” Edward’s eyes held such a pleading look, like a child desperate for another piece of cake, that all Hugo’s resolve disappeared, like the heat had totally vanished from the day.
“I will. Most kind, thank you.” And not trusting himself to utter another word, Hugo turned and lugged the hamper and rug back to his room.
As the evenin
g drew on, he was glad he’d had the foresight to fill a bottle to warm his bed, despite the turmoil his mind was in. It was going to be hard enough slipping into cold sheets, ready for a night of nothing but thinking, without being cold as well. That afternoon he’d broken all the rules he’d made. He’d called Edward by name, they had touched and held each other close—and while they hadn’t kissed, if they met again it was merely a matter of time.
If they met again. He suddenly decided that he should write Edward a note, push it under his door, say the afternoon had all been an awful mistake, call off the meeting for coffee and prevent any other occasion of meeting. He should do just that. He couldn’t.
~
Clear skies that had been a blue banner all day, letting the sun warm the air, had left a cloudless night that threatened to be cold enough to even produce a sharp frost. Edward lay in bed unsleeping, shivering slightly as his body met the cold sheets, feeling a strange mixture of excitement and dread. Hugo had let him touch him, had allowed him to lie with his head on his chest, hadn’t rejected or teased him. It was a gift beyond price. But Edward had no idea whether this was right or wrong. He couldn’t tell one from the other any more, being too blinded by the brightness of a golden smile. He had been told often enough that to love another man in anything other than a fraternal way was immoral. He’d heard awful stories of what had gone on between some officers and their batmen in the trenches, when the strain of conflict had led to what the tellers of the tales referred to as sins almost beyond forgiveness.
This had always puzzled him. Edward knew they were always told in chapel to value loving kindness above all other virtues, and he’d naturally concluded this meant that any unnatural affection between men had to be full of cruelty and animal lust, emotions that soiled and marred any spark of true love. But he’d felt no such thing that afternoon with Hugo—just a tender affection for each other, a delight in their mutual company and a need for gentle contact. Such things hardly seemed sinful.
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