“I get that.” He nodded thoughtfully. “So we say it’s Steph’s mothering instinct. Steel Ed, silken Steph? He’s hard, but he knows how to keep his woman happy.”
“You bet I do!” Ed clenched his fist and made a grotesque movement with his arm. “Right, well—if you take it off my hands, then I won’t have to deal with the bolt fee or the disposal of the body, will I? Makes sense.”
The man in Hunters had been standing nearby, arms folded. He advanced toward George, hand held out. “There’s still my fee for the visit today, of course.”
“Oh yes!” Ed slapped the man’s shoulder and grinned. “You send it on to my friend Captain George here, seeing as this is now his horse. But, George, I won’t charge you for the hire of the horsebox! What?” He laughed as if he had made the funniest joke known to humanity.
“Good man.” George laughed and asked, “It’s just a lame leg, yes? Otherwise sound?”
The man knocked his wellington against the concrete. “Yes, just the leg. In fine fettle otherwise.”
“Just the leg? Could you drive a car that didn’t have any wheels?” Ed guffawed. “You’re welcome to it, mate, and if it’s good telly, then go for it. Right—things to do, deals to make, balls to squeeze, you know how it is. See you around, Brookesy!”
Ed slapped George hard across the back and made off across the stable yard.
George had acquired a horse.
This was a turn-up for a man who was planning a jaunt up the Amazon.
Chapter Nine
Avoiding a village celebrity in a place the size of Longley Parva was quite a mission, but Henry had to. Staff at the surgery, patients’ owners, Manjit with the morning post—everyone tried to plumb him for details about Captain George and their childhood friendship. And Henry would remember an appointment or claim that his phone was ringing with an important call—anything to save himself from the mortifying fact that he had, at last, come out—and to the man he had hurt all those years before.
Beside his bed, Henry put the Longley Spitfire beer mat bearing George’s face next to the framed photo of himself and George, side by side, at George’s passing out parade. George, handsome as could be in a khaki-green tunic with shiny buttons, his cap neatly tucked under his arm. Henry beside him, in his best tweeds. He had kept the photo in a cupboard, wrapped in tissue paper, too ashamed to look at it for fifteen years.
And now he touched his fingertip to it before going to sleep, and on rising in the morning. Each and every time, he wondered what on earth he could do. A crush on a straight man.
Pillock.
“What would you do, Billy, if you were me?”
Henry, in corduroy trousers and a grandad shirt with a fraying neck, peered up at the portrait of his ancestor. He had just come in from work and was polishing off a cup of tea.
“Hide from him, that’s what I’d do. But you, Billy? No, you wouldn’t. No one with a sparkle like that in your eye would hide. But he’ll never love me back, and I can’t bear to look at him. It breaks my heart. It’s best if I hide. Then again, where will I hide if Ed takes the manor?”
And could he hide from George? He had avoided his phone calls since that night in the garden, and he knew that his old friend would give up sooner or later. After all, George had people queuing up to be his friend.
George would forget him.
As that horrible thought occurred to Henry, there came a heavy knock at the front door. It was a no-nonsense sort of knock, a property lawyer coming to take his house sort of knock.
Knock knock knock. There it was again, insistent and aggressive.
“It’s all your fault, Billy. I ought to chuck your portrait on the fire, you improvident libertine. That’d serve you right.”
Clutching his mug of tea as if it were his only source of courage, Henry shuffled into the hall. He paused by the suit of armor that had graced the field at Agincourt and imagined himself donning it to go into battle against Ed.
Fool.
Henry pulled back the bolts on the door and blinked into the sunlight at his visitor.
“Hello, Fitz!” George grinned and clapped his hand against Henry’s shoulder. “Been avoiding me, old chap?”
Henry gulped.
“Oh—Captain George. Well—this is a surprise.”
No, not you, anyone but you. Apart from Ed, perhaps.
“Busy, George, busy vetting about the place.” Henry toyed with a shirt button, trying to look casual when this man was standing in front of him. The man he wanted to avoid but couldn’t. “I’m sure you can imagine what that’s like.”
“Well, I’ve got someone for you to meet.” George looked to his right and called, “C’mon, Jez!”
From the direction he had been looking, to Henry’s surprise, a sleek, black foal appeared. It was limping a little, he immediately noticed, and came to George as obediently as a dog, receiving a gentle pat on the head by way of thanks.
“What a lovely little chap!” A horse. A horse? “Hang on—George, have you bought a horse? A horse with a limp? Or have you just borrowed him for the day?”
“I’ve been ringing and ringing, Fitz, but you wouldn’t pick up the phone and little Jez wanted to meet you, so we had to come over.” He scratched the foal’s ears gently. “He’s mine, because Ed was about to have him shot by England’s best vet or some such rubbish.”
“I dropped my phone in the bath,” Henry lied in monotone. It was the best he could manage. “So you walked him here, from your cottage—or have you found a stable for him somewhere in the village?”
“He was in the kitchen for the first night, but he and I spent the day clearing out the shed, so now he has a place of his own while he’s still a little fellow. Not sure what we’ll do when he hits full-size, but for now, he’s got a fine pad.” George peered around Henry. “Can we come in, then, or have you dropped your house in the bath too?”
It would be rude to say no.
“Come in.” Henry gestured into the hallway with his mug. “Just having a cuppa. There’s some Earl Grey left in the pot if you want some.”
“Come on, Jez,” George urged the foal. “That okay, Fitz? He’s into architecture, he’d love to see the manor.”
“He—he could—” Be tethered up outside on the lawn? But there was something so childlike about George’s enthusiasm for the foal that Henry couldn’t bear to stop George from bringing it into his house. “Yes…why not? Come on in, Jez, welcome to Longley Parva Manor.”
“Master Jeremy Standish-Brookes, meet Mr. Henry Fitzwalter. Mr. Fitzwalter, Master Standy-Bee.”
Standy-Bee. There was a name he hadn’t heard for a long time.
“The pleasure’s all mine, Jez.” Henry stroked the horse with the practiced hand of an expert. He bent down and gently touched the lame leg, wondering how he could help the creature to lose his limp.
George beamed at the sight. He leaned on the doorjamb to watch, casual in jeans and a polo shirt—the one he’d worn to play a match for the Queen’s birthday, Henry noticed. That was the match at which he’d first been photographed with Eleanor Knight, later to marry one of that same monarch’s grandsons.
“Jez and I have got lots in common,” his friend said. “Same music, same films and he loves history. We both like jam tarts too.”
Henry laughed. He regretted ignoring George’s calls. They could be friends, and that would be enough. “Oh, George—please don’t feed him jam tarts! Come on through to the lounge. The pot’s in there and I’ll grab you a mug.”
“No tarts? Are you going to say no cream horns too?” George walked into the hallway, Jez following him at a sprightly enough pace despite his awkward leg. “Of course I wouldn’t, vet’n’ry. I do know a thing or two about horses!”
“Can you—can you just keep him off the rugs? The parquet’s easy enough to clean but the rugs… I have to send them to a specialist.”
Henry went off to the kitchen to find a mug and the biscuit tin and rummaged in the vegetable box for a
carrot. Balancing his hoard in his arms, Henry returned to find George sitting on the floor, the foal lying beside him with its head in his lap.
Just another day in Longley Parva. Nothing strange about this at all, nothing odd about leaving one’s lounge for three minutes only to return to find television’s George Standish-Brookes relaxing on the parquet with a foal.
And singing to it.
Singing Yellow Submarine, in fact.
George looked up at Henry and smiled, reaching the end of the verse. He stroked his hand through Jez’s black mane and said, “Your phone’s on the chair there, Fitz. It’s not in the bath.”
Henry turned his back to George as he poured the tea.
“I know, I should’ve answered your calls. Or at least sent you a text. I know how ill-mannered I must seem. But I was…overwhelmed. What I told you, about my—tastes. I’ve never told anyone before. And you’re the straightest man alive, and I—I felt so embarrassed.” Henry looked over his shoulder at his friend. “Milk?”
“Just as it comes, please.” He heard George draw in a deep breath, as though he was about to confess some dreadful thing. “I’ve got something to tell you, Fitz, and I am so terribly, terribly sorry for what I’m about to say.”
“It’s all right.” Henry spoke without conviction, his heart plummeting like a stone dropped down a well. “Just—say it.”
“First, I’m very touched that you shared your secret with me but— You’re going to go through the roof.” Another deep breath and George launched. “Jez slept in the kitchen just that one night and he sort of, well, chewed your shirt up a little bit. It’s beyond darning, Fitz, and I don’t want you to be furious but you will be—”
“I’m a vet, for God’s sake—I’m quite used to animals destroying my wardrobe. Heck—cut the shirt up and use it for dusters.”
Henry placed a mug of tea beside George, careful that it wasn’t too near the contented foal.
“Was that it?” Henry looked up at the portrait of Bad Billy, who seemed confused but ultimately charmed by the sight of the horse in his drawing room.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” George shrugged, looking down at his fingers as they tangled in Jez’s mane. “We were friends in the garden but once the gin wore off you wouldn’t even take my calls. Do you really think I’d judge you for being gay, Fitz?”
“I panicked when the bloody Crawfords turned up.” Henry scraped his hand through his hair. He’d hurt George again. Was he capable of nothing else? “I wanted to tell you… But you’re straight, it’s easy for you. At least, I imagine it is. I really wouldn’t know.”
“You should stop making assumptions. It’s not easy for me at all.”
Henry crouched down on the floor opposite George, the foal between them, and stroked Jez’s neck.
“The media poking their noses in all the time? I s’pose that must be a bind. I know I wouldn’t find it easy.”
“It was me who introduced Eleanor to her prince—he and I’ve been friends since Afghanistan. You lot just assumed I was the boyfriend. Perfect for Eli, since it meant she got to fly under the radar into Kensington Palace.” George smiled. “And I’ve built a whole career on a certain public persona, you know? A man’s man, as you keep telling me. Straightest chap on TV, happy to throw off his shirt for the sake of historical accuracy.”
“Are you—are you telling me…” Henry, you dimwit. “George, pardon my bluntness, but you are, aren’t you? Like me. Not straight, I mean.”
“I’ve always kept my private life private. There are some things that the public don’t need to know and my sexual preference is one of them.” George lifted his head, meeting Henry’s gaze. “But I don’t like you making assumptions about me, because you got it wrong. Again. I’m not a thief and I’m not straight, you just never asked.”
“I’m sorry.” There wasn’t very much else that Henry could say. He stroked his hand down the foal’s neck and brushed his fingers against George’s. “I truly am sorry, George.”
“And if you want to know—which you don’t, but I want to tell you—I would’ve done anything for you, Fitz.” George looked down again, his gaze fixing on Jez. “But you had Steph, so…”
The tears that Henry had managed to hold back for so long burst their banks with no warning. His head dipped with the force of them, and without meaning to, his bowed forehead came to rest against George’s. Tears splashed over Henry’s hand, over George’s, over the foal’s dark mane.
“Don’t cry.” He heard George’s voice, soft and pleading. “I’m going to get Ed off your back and sort all of that out and you won’t have anything to worry about, I promise.”
“Thank you. You were always so kind—I couldn’t help but love you.”
“And I’m going to find you a hell of a boyfriend as well,” he promised. “And he’s going to be the luckiest man.”
Henry brushed his hand against George’s again. This time he didn’t move it away, but laid it tenderly over George’s. What was it that he saw in George’s eyes, whenever they were turned to him? Was it affection, the sort that leads to—
“Do you have anyone, George—a boyfriend?”
“I’ve had a few flings over the years, not too many. The Sun got a long lenser of me with one of them, a sound guy?” He lifted his gaze, green eyes dancing with nostalgia. “And I managed to stay friends with all of them, so I’m not complaining, but I’ve been single for a while. I don’t want my private life splashed over the tabloids.”
Henry swallowed. Henry ran his tongue over his lip. Henry put down his mug of tea.
“Would it be weird… I suppose it must be, it’s silly of me to suggest…ask, even… George, why don’t we, you and I… Why don’t we jolly well give it a go?”
“The thing is, what with me doing the telly and whatnot, I tend to be rather unsure about coming out. I was so in awe of what you told me the other night because you’re shy and yet you’re the one who— I can’t just be out, you need to know that.” George sighed deeply. “But would you really want to? With me?”
“Yes! Of course I would! Why else would I have suggested it? You’re kind and lovely and too bloody handsome for your own good. It just depends if you can stand me. And the thing is—we can be discreet. No one will know. No one would even suspect that we were, you know, boyfriends.”
The word was strange and exciting in Henry’s mouth.
“Shall we give it a go? Our secret?” George’s fingers caught Henry’s. “And I am sorry about your shirt, honestly.”
“It’s just a shirt! Bloody hell, this is what matters—us two.” Henry laughed gently, tightening his fingers around George’s. “Captain George…would you do me the great honor of allowing me to kiss you?”
“I would love you to!”
Henry brought his free hand up to George’s face. Was he really about to do this? He had wanted this for so long and never believed it could happen. He traced his fingertips across George’s face, feeling the warmth of his skin under his touch, the contours of his cheekbones, the slight rasp of advancing stubble, then across those soft, full lips. He caressed the back of George’s neck and finally brought their mouths together.
Just a light brush of the lips but Henry groaned, so much pent-up passion threatening to break free that he had to stop for a moment to breathe. Then he began again, tracing his lips against George’s. He yielded to his tongue, slow and tender, exploring and tasting George as their kiss deepened.
He heard George’s breath catch, felt George’s fingers soft against his face, resting very gently on his cheek, the hand that held his own growing just a little tighter as the kiss went on.
George wanted him. It didn’t seem possible.
Yet he did, it was, because this kiss told him all he needed to know. It wasn’t tentative or nervous, but full of the enthusiasm that George seemed to pour into everything he did. And now he was pouring it into their kiss, and Britain’s Favourite (and Sexiest!) Hero’s hand shifted to rest on Henry’s
shoulder, clinging to that frayed shirt.
Henry combed his fingers through George’s thick, lustrous hair, sighing into the kiss at how good, how right, this felt. It was worth waiting fifteen years for.
Then a quiet whinny from the foal, and Henry moved his mouth from George’s, his fingers tangling in the hair at the back of George’s neck.
“Not in front of the children!” Henry joked.
George laughed softly. “I never thought I’d be your type, Fitz, not in a million years.”
“You always were. I just didn’t know what the hell to do. I only realized when… Do you remember that day we were walking back from the bus stop at Longley Magna, we’d been to Hove for the cricket, and you disappeared up into a tree? And you slipped and bounced off every branch and landed in the road?”
Henry rested his head on George’s shoulder, his voice a confiding whisper. “I thought you were dead, and there was this rush in my stomach, and I knew then that I loved you, just at the moment I thought I’d lost you. I begged you not to die, and then you opened your eyes and grinned at me. I was so relieved—but so scared. Because I was eighteen and I loved my best friend. What’s a chap to do?”
“I was hoping for mouth-to-mouth,” George whispered impishly.
“Did you know? Could you see it?”
George shook his head and admitted, “You’re possibly the straightest man I’ve ever met, then you got together with Steph and that was that.”
“Stiff upper lip, old bean. Got me out of many a scrape. And into them, alas.”
They sat in companionable silence, touching, caressing, until Henry said, “Shall we sort out dinner? Or do you need to dash off anywhere?”
“I’m just researching my doc, I’m in no rush to do anything,” his—his boyfriend—said. He looked at his watch, fastened about his strong wrist with a weathered, well-loved regimental watchstrap. “Do you want something here or shall we wander down to the pub?”
“If we go to the pub, we’ll have to be on our best behavior. No snogging in the snug.”
The Captain and the Cricketer Page 9