A Private Gentleman (26 page)
Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
to a set of stairs leading to a door which opened into a sort of crude garden. No
plants of any sort grew here, and there was barely any rock to stop the mud. The
small space was bordered all around by high walls of brick, wood and wire—
keeping it safe, he realized, from the more usual occupants of east London alleys.
Even in its crudeness, there was an elegance about it. A table and chair sat to one
side beneath a tarpaulin, a rough-framed child’s painting hanging as decoration
from the wall beside it. A much-patched ball sat beside bricks clearly used as
building blocks for play. All this was separated from the back half of the garden
by a wall made of rough planks behind which, Wes assumed, refuse was stowed.
As Miss Barrington led him around it, he realized this was not the case. It
seemed another game was set up here, though this one was much stranger. A
box of random bits of glass, whole, cracked and broken, stood to the side.
Beneath the opposite wall lay a pile of entirely broken glass.
“We stirred up a great deal today,” Miss Barrington began, her tone breezy,
but it belied the grimness he heard beneath. “If I send you away now, you’ll be
unsettled all day, and very likely you’ll fall back onto more opiates again. That
may not be something I can halt. But I would like to try.” She gestured to the box
of glass. “Use as much as you like. Throw as hard as you’d like. Shout. Curse.
Weep. Swallow it—whatever suits you, do so, but spend as much of that rage
and uncertainty I see on your face against that wall in whatever means seems
best to you.” She nodded back toward the house. “I will sit at the table and wait
for you. Take as long as you’d like.”
She disappeared then, and Wes watched her go, more than a little stunned.
She wanted him to break glass? As if it would help? Was she mad?
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With Penelope Brannigan it was difficult to say for certain. What he did
know was that it would be easier to toss a few pieces of glass than it would be to
argue that he had no need to do so. Sighing, he turned to the box and tried to
decide which piece to pick.
He chose a drinking glass with a large chip on the top. Hefting it in his hand,
he measured its weight, feeling slightly ridiculous. Then he lifted it up to his
head, tensed his arm and threw.
The glass shattered with a sharp, almost melodic crash and fell to join the
heap on the ground.
Wes stared at the point of impact on the brick, feeling a strange sense
of…relief? He couldn’t quite tell. Generally he detested strong noise, but the
glass breaking had an almost quiet shatter. Even so, it drowned out, in that
moment, the din from the tavern behind, children’s voices from the mouth of the
alley, and the sound of wheels and hooves on the streets. It had felt oddly good.
Noise. Destruction. His noise. His destruction. And there was a remarkable
mischief about it all. Breaking glass was the stuff of accidents and punishments.
Messes to be scolded for. There was no scolding now. In fact, he’d been
told
to break it. And encouraged to break more.
He decided that, in fact, he’d be happy to.
The second piece of glass hit much harder, delivered with greater intent, and
as such it wasn’t just relief but release that coursed through Wes. Good God,
yes.
He’d like to buy out a shop full of the stuff and spend an hour at this.
Crash.
Shatter.
One after another, glasses, decanters, bowls and shards of heaven knew what went sailing against the brick and came down onto the heap.
And he did shout. He swore as well. As he released each bit of glass, Wes
insulted its honor, called it names, told it where to fuck itself, and ultimately
simply roared at it. All the rage and frustration and confusion he’d felt in the
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parlor came out of him now, and he suspected some of it came from the boy
who’d been tricked by a whoreson thief into giving away not just his family’s
treasures but his own dignity. His happiness too—that boy had possessed so
little true happiness, for all his advantages of birth. The thief had stolen that from Wes as well. He realized that now. It infuriated him. It made him want to scream.
And sob. And break every piece of glass in London.
He didn’t, though. He didn’t even break every piece in the box. After several
minutes of destruction and shouting and a bit of frustrated weeping, he
surprised himself yet again by reaching the end of that well. The rage was done.
He felt tired. He felt lonely and empty. But he felt…better. Less angry. Less
anxious. Now he was simply sad, sad for what he had lost, for what he could not
get back.
A glimmer of hope flared deep inside him, a tiny flame in the darkness.
Is
that the magic? Is my stammer gone now too, shattered within that pile of glass?
He took a deep breath, let it out and tried to speak.
“H-H-H—”
He pressed his lips back together quickly, embarrassed and disgusted.
A gentle hand rested on his shoulder. “No, I don’t think it works like that.
Not for you. Not for me either. I spent years practicing those exercises, and even
then I still don’t know what really allowed me to relax.” Miss Barrington sighed
and let her hand fall away from his arm. “Hopefully, though, this has let go some
of what remembering stirred up. I’ll see you to your carriage—but if you please,
wait a moment. I must see to something of my own first.”
To Wes’s great surprise, she walked over to the box of glass and selected a
piece of her own.
She threw with viciousness and speed, and it didn’t take but two throws to
wipe away her careful, kind mask. Her eyes were hard with anger, her nose
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wrinkled and her lips flat as she swore and spat and then, abruptly, sobbed. Her
throws slowed a bit as she paused on occasion to wipe her eyes with the back of
her glove, then screamed an obscenity and threw again. It was unsettling and yet
engaging to watch her.
Then she was done. She drew a few breaths, wiped her eyes again and
turned to Wes. Her mask was still down, and as she smiled tentatively at him,
the wise mentor Miss Barrington was gone, replaced by a weary, damp-eyed
young woman.
“Penny,” she said to him. “It would please me if you would call me Penny
from now on.”
Wes frowned at her, uncertain as to how to respond.
She turned her gaze back to the wall. “I’ve been doing this for a while.
Rescuing, some have called it, and usually with a bit of a sneer. And yes, I’m
aware it’s all because I couldn’t save my own family. It seems a fair trade,
though. Without them I had nothing else to live for, but instead of ending myself
messily, I’ve chosen to help others. It makes their deaths—and my loss—mean
something. It gives me a sort of peace.” She sighed. “The only trouble, of course,
is that it isn’t that I have any sort of training for such things. I’m not even sure it exists. I simply do my best and hope it’s enough. When I meet people who need
help, I try to give them what it seems they need.”
She glanced at him with a crooked smile. “I’ve been trying to give you a
strong anchor. It seemed to be what you needed, so proper and formal and with
your high rank. I thought I could give you a space you could be at ease. Even if
that is what would help you, though, I don’t think I can play that any longer.”
She had to wipe away another tear. “Perhaps you don’t see it, but your story felt
so much like mine. You were a bit older, but not much. It felt the same, hearing
about you sitting in that library, the same as me lying under that wagon. Except
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you had to walk about with your monster. Odd, how I’d always thought it
would have been better to have been hurt. But when I listened to you, I thought
of myself and all my what-ifs, and I realized no, it would just be different pain.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t see you as just another soul I’m
helping. And I know most British people find it offensive to be overly familiar,
but I can’t be your mentor or guide in this any longer. But I would like very
much to be your friend. Your friend who listens and helps—and, I’m afraid,
bleeds with you.” She paused, then flattened her lips briefly before adding, “And
I’m not laying bait for you or any such nonsense. I’m not marrying anyone, but if
I were, I certainly wouldn’t marry the son of a marquess. God in heaven, I don’t
need that kind of headache.”
Wes laughed. The sound simply burst out of him, surprising him as much as
it did her. When it faded his smile lingered. “W-Wes.” It was her turn to frown at
that, so he explained. “W-What my f-friends call me is W-Wes.”
He saw the delight and happiness reach her eyes, but she lifted her eyebrow
and gave him a mock-stern look. “I thought you had no friends.”
He shrugged, but he was still smiling. “P-Perhaps I was f-f-feeling a bit s-s-
sorry for myself and exag-g-gerated. I have s-some. Not g-g-good ones, but s-
some. And they c-c-call me W-Wes.”
She nodded, giving in to her own smile at last. “I shall endeavor to fill that
void, then, and be a good one.” She enveloped him in a gentle, sisterly hug and
bussed a dry kiss against his cheek. “Until tomorrow, Wes.”
“G-G-Good day, P-Penny,” he replied.
He left her in a much better mood than he had anticipated—a much better
mood than he’d felt in some time, in fact. He felt light and easy as he lingered in
her doorway, waiting for his carriage, for once not even slightly upset by the
noise from the tavern beside him.
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He wasn’t due to meet Michael for another hour, and so he went home and
freshened up, catching himself humming every now and again, which made him
laugh. Heavens, but it felt good to feel good. His buoyant mood continued as he
left the house to meet Michael. Michael, his
very
good friend. His blood
quickened, and he let his mind wander over all the things they might do together
today. Perhaps he would be brave and try something daring. Perhaps one of the
coffeehouses Michael kept mentioning.
Wes was so lost in his own reverie that he didn’t notice the urchin until he’d
tugged twice on Wes’s arm. The boy made a clumsy bow, handed Wes a note,
and once Wes had given him a guinea, hurried off. The note was from Legs,
written in rough scrawl.
Hav flowr. Bring Tusdy at dark. L.
First all that with Penny, and now a promising day with Michael, and then
his flower at last. The day, it seemed, would only get better and better.
He felt full. Full and happy and almost…wild. It was as if he’d ingested too
much opium, but instead of putting him to sleep as it buzzed his nerves, it made
him want to climb buildings. He wanted to do something rash.
Something…something with Michael. Perhaps a longer outing. Perhaps…oh, did
he dare consider the opera? Would this euphoria keep his fears at bay?
An idea hit him, and the perfection of it made him stop still in his tracks.
Yes.
It wasn’t perfect, no, and not as flashy as the opera, but if he could call in a few
favors…well, most men wouldn’t find it exciting, but if Michael had been
impressed by the Athenaeum, surely…
The plan solidified in his mind, and Wes quickened his steps.
When he got back to his apartments, the butler came out to greet him,
holding a letter on a tray.
“From your father, my lord. He said it is most urgent.”
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Wes took the letter, for all its single sheet feeling like lead. He nodded thanks
to the butler and carried it down the hall to his room. He stood staring at it for
several moments before going inside.
He didn’t open it right away, setting it on the side table as he gathered what
he would need. He started toward it twice, only to walk away and water a few of
his plants and pen instructions for the maids.
In the end he left it lying there, unread. Urgent or not, he wouldn’t let his
father ruin his good mood. Not this day. Not this time.
Feeling reckless and wicked and quite good, he left his rooms, straightened
his hat and went to find the butler to hand him the notes and order his carriage.
Michael sat at the window in the front parlor, waiting for Albert to arrive,
when Rodger sent a message asking him to his office. The summons irritated
him, but since Albert’s carriage wasn’t in sight, he went.
Rodger stood at the window, staring into the courtyard where Cook raised
her vegetables and herbs, his right foot resting on the wide ledge where Michael
frequently made a nest to read, though Michael always drew the screen taut
before it to cloak himself. Rodger kept it folded back now, and when he saw
Michael enter, he pushed off the window and nodded to the space, indicating