A Private Gentleman (25 page)
Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
Yes, Albert. Why don’t you? Why didn’t you bring more?
Wes shut his eyes as he drew a breath to steady himself. It took him three
tries to break into his voice. “I’m f-f-fine. Th-Th-Thank you.”
Michael didn’t appear convinced. “Perhaps we should get you home. You
should rest.”
Wes wanted to argue with him, but the truth was he was now so rattled by
withdrawal he could barely speak. Eventually he gave in, and within a mere
three hours of having collected Michael, he was now returning him to Dove
Street.
Back in his own rooms, he paced in agitation for another hour before he gave
in and took enough opiate to render him unconscious.
He confessed his failure the next morning with Miss Brannigan. Though he’d
expected chastising from her, she surprised him by projecting only empathy.
“Setbacks are expected,” she told him as she poured what had become their
ritual tea. It was something herbal, not proper British black, and the grassy scent
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of it had yet to seem palpable to him. “In my experience, it’s best to work hard to
avoid setbacks, but when they occur, it’s wise to forgive one’s self and move on.”
Wes tried not to make a face. His irritation, however, he could not stow. “It’s
qu-quite one thing to th-th-th-theorize over addiction and an-n-n-nother to
experience it.”
She raised an amused eyebrow at him. “I agree. Nevertheless, if your goal is
to be free, focusing on the difficulty of the task will not aid you. Only working
toward freeing yourself will.” She took a sip of her tea. “For the record, it isn’t
just the drug, I think, whispering to you, telling you that you need it. It’s your
own fears and sense of desperation trying to keep you from stumbling out into
danger, which to your mind is anything that exposes you. Destructive as the
opiate is, it feels safer than the alternative.”
Wes stared at her, unnerved. How had she known about the voices?
She smiled at him in her kind, patient way. “Before we do exercises today, I
believe it’s time we delve into some of your history, since these fears seem to be
holding great sway with you now. Have you given any further thought to what
might have caused the onset of your stutter?”
No, he hadn’t, and he had no intention of doing so. “I d-d-don’t wish to
discuss my p-p-past.”
The eyebrow again. He longed to pluck it out. “You have state secrets, my
lord, you must preserve?”
He glared at her. “I w-w-was shy. R-R-Reserved. I h-h-had no f-f-friends.
They th-th-threatened to send me to a m-m-mental ward. Th-This isn’t r-r-reason
enough?”
She tilted her head slightly and regarded him with new thoughtfulness.
“Except they didn’t threaten to commit you until
after
you began stuttering.
Yes?”
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Wes paused, first confused, and then angry. He had a vague sense that it was
irrational, but the thought was easily displaced with the tide. How dare she.
Stupid American upstart. If this was not enough, before he could gather himself
to give her a piece of his mind, she spoke again, carrying on in the same mild
tone as if she had no idea how offensive she was being, prying into his life like
this.
“You say you had no friends. Was there a period where that changed? Did
you have friends at a previous point, and then things shifted?” She finally
seemed to realize he was offended and gentled further. “It isn’t my intention to
pry into your life. I merely wish to find that moment where things changed for
you. And failing a defining moment, I hope to find a pattern. I’ve been accused
of peddling female nonsense and much more colorful things, but I do believe
there is some merit in examining our pasts. For myself, it wasn’t as if I decided to
stop speaking. Certainly I don’t remember any such thing. All I remember is
being afraid—afraid, and guilty. Afraid somehow I would do or say something
that would make horrible, bad things happen again. Afraid that this time they
would happen to me. Afraid that I would be spared again, and this time
someone would think to be angry with me for not suffering along with them.
And none of this of course was even conscious. Just a demon following me
wherever I went.”
She reached out, tentatively, and placed her hand on the side of Wes’s chair,
almost touching his knee, but there was nothing remotely sexual in the advance.
If it was anything, it was motherly. “Do you have such a demon, my lord?”
Wes stared at her. He didn’t know where his rage had gone. He suspected it
had evaporated as he’d huddled again with her beneath a wagon in the dark, in
the terrified space inside his mind. No, she wasn’t poking. She’d suffered beyond
anything he’d ever heard, except perhaps Michael, though it was a bit like asking
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which was worse, cutting off both legs or both arms. Yes, she knew demons. She
knew that cold fear, worrying what might come, worrying that one should have
done differently, worrying that one might be found out, that they might know—
The room, already still and quiet, seemed to darken at the edges of his vision,
and an odd ringing began in his ears as the old, sludgy memory surfaced.
“One,” he managed at last, stumbling w-w-w-w-w-wuh over the word for
almost twenty seconds. She sat through the whole of it, patiently, undisturbed by
his struggle. Which perhaps was why the rest came much easier. “One d-d-
demon.”
She didn’t look eager. She didn’t look apprehensive. She only looked like
Penelope Barrington, ridiculously patient, kind and eager to listen. To his
surprise, Wes found himself willing to speak to her.
“When I was a small b-boy,” he began, “just seven years old, a b-burglar
broke into our house while I was at home. My n-nurse had fallen asleep, and I
had crept off to the library to r-read. A corner by the window boasted a strange
little n-nook made by remodeling some thirty years p-prior. The carpenter had
simply used a f-false board to cover the gap, and he did not nail it into p-p-place.
If I removed it and h-hid it behind the curtain, I could settle inside with an old b-
blanket and a few pillows.” He smiled, lost in the memory, seeing the space so
vividly in his mind’s eye. “It was m-my favorite place.”
His smile faded. “The burglar, h-h-however, came in through the w-w-
window beside me—there was no h-hiding from h-him. I suppose he had
expected easy p-p-pickings. The library isn’t far from the b-b-butler’s p-pantry,
and with my p-parents away, they had let most of the st-st-staff take h-h-holiday.
My b-b-brother was at school, so it was just my n-nurse left with me at h-home.
Who would suspect a thief in m-m-midday with servants still about? But there I
was, upsetting his p-p-plans.”
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Wes stared off into the darkness of a corner of the room. “I r-r-remember that
he had a knife. I r-r-remember it glinting in front of my face. I r-r-remember him
threatening to c-c-cut m-me—” He shut his eyes, cheeks burning crimson. “I r-r-
remember soiling my b-b-breeches. He l-laughed at me.” Wes kept his eyes
closed and went cold as he recalled the rest. This part took some doing to spit
out. “Th-Then h-h-he-he t-t-told m-me he kn-kn-knew where m-my m-m-mama’s
r-r-room was, and if I w-w-wasn’t a g-g-good b-b-boy and h-h-helped, he’d c-c-
come b-back and c-c-cut her th-th-throat.”
“Oh,” Miss Barrington cried. This time she didn’t just place her hand on his
knee—she reached for his hands and clasped them tenderly. “You poor boy. And
you did, didn’t you? You helped him to save your mother. Helped him rob your
own house.”
Wes had his eyes open again, but he was staring down at the carpet, eyes
blurry. “T-T-Took him to all of it. H-Helped him f-f-find m-m-more than he ever
c-c-could have alone.” She had withdrawn from him as he began to speak, and
he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “He m-made me hide b-back in my
c-c-corner. S-Said he would be w-w-watching. S-S-Said if they c-c-caught him h-
he’d expose me and I’d h-h-hang with him.”
She didn’t give an outburst this time, but he could hear her fury in her
exhale. It soothed him, in an odd way. He pressed on.
“Wh-When my father came home, he was in a r-rage. H-He was v-v-vicious
to the staff, c-c-certain it had been an inside j-j-job. I l-l-lurked in the h-h-h-
hallway, guilt t-t-t-tearing me ap-p-part.” Memory caught him for a moment. He
recalled that sick, terrible feeling, knowing that rage should be directed at him.
Then came the rest, like lifting a dirty rock and finding worms. He shook a little.
“Th-They d-d-decided it w-w-was the sc-sc-scullery boy. B-Beat him b-b-b-
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bloody. Kn-Knocked out t-t-teeth. N-N-Never kn-knew wh-what happened to
him after. Just that he was g-g-gone.”
Her hand touched his arm this time, just briefly, like a grounding wire. “And
it was after this that it started?” she asked, after a lengthy period of silence.
“Your stammer?”
He nodded. He wasn’t sure, but he thought so. “N-Not right away. C-Came
on s-s-slowly. F-F-Father scolded me for it. M-Made it w-w-worse. At school they
t-t-teased m-m-me, m-m-more than b-b-before. T-Teachers s-s-said I w-w-w-was
w-w-wrong in the h-h-head. M-M-Mother stood up for me.” He let out a ragged,
heavy sigh. “B-But th-then she was d-d-d-dead.”
It sounded so pathetic, out loud. Like he was a silly child complaining about
his lot. His mother had died in childbed: nothing extraordinary. Yet lost as he
was in the past, it indeed felt, as it had then, like the most crushing blow the
world could deal him. He’d been able to bear it then, but to have his one
advocate, his one solace gone—the only person who had ever seemed to
understand him, extinguished—it had been too much.
He had stammered after the burglary. After his mother’s death was when
he’d begun to withdraw.
“I h-had n-no friends,” he whispered. He shook his head, staring unseeing at
the carpet still. “N-Not before. N-Not after.” He swallowed. “Not n-now.” He let
the words hang in the air for some time, a terrible confession. Part of him hoped
she would say something. Offer pity. A cry of dismay. Laugh, even. But she
remained quiet, and he couldn’t look at her, and somehow he began speaking
again. “M-My brother, for a w-w-while. When we were y-young. But I was too
sh-shy for other b-boys. I d-didn’t d-d-d—”
He stopped abruptly, going cold as he realized what he’d been about to say.
I didn’t dare let them find out what it was I truly wanted of them.
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Now he had to glance at her, and of course she was looking eager,
encouraging. “You didn’t what? Go on. It’s all right. You can tell me.”
“No.” He almost barked the word. “No.” Sliding back into his chair,
regaining his posture, he shook his head. “N-No.”
He braced himself, ready for her to goad it out of him—or to try, for he
would
not
confess this, not to her, not to anyone—but she did not make the
attempt. She only smiled that smile of hers and leaned back in her chair as well,
though her posture was much more relaxed.
“That’s enough for today, I imagine. Perhaps we should end with more vocal
exercises.”
It must have been all the thinking of his youth, for Wes in honesty almost
groaned aloud, like a boy at his lessons. He did not, however, and he did her
exercises as instructed. “Maw-maw-maw-maw-maw. Moo-moo-moo-moo-moo.”
Covering his ears and reciting the alphabet at the top of his lungs as she banged
on the piano in the corner in discordant clangs and slammed a cymbal against
the top of it to add clatter off the beat. Repeating childish rhyming phrases with
every word repeated. “The the the the rain rain rain rain fell fell fell fell on on on on the the the the plain plain plain plain.”
Trying
to stammer. “T-T-T-T-T-Tickle.
P-P-P-Pickle.” He didn’t know why they did any of it. It wasn’t as if it had
helped. Just as dragging up his past had not aided him in any way.
It made him angry. Helplessly, maddeningly angry.
When she called their session complete fifteen minutes early, he was
relieved, and after stammering the barest of thanks and essential pleasantries, he
reached for his coat. When he started for the front door, she stopped him and
nodded toward the back of the house.
“There’s one more exercise I’d like you to try, my lord. And to do it, we’ll
need to go to the alley.”
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He frowned at her, but more out of confusion than anything else. When she
reached for a thick woolen shawl and headed into a hallway, he followed her.
She led him through the house, past closed doors and cupboards, all the way