Lessons in Discovery (12 page)

much like you to help me now as I trust no one in the world as I trust you, not even Mama, although you mustn’t tell her that or

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she’ll cuff me. I suspect that you’ve been worrying yourself sick these last few days and I don’t blame you. I would have done the same myself if the situation had been reversed. I’ll submit to you bathing me like a newborn infant, only I shan’t cry or be sick.”

“You’d better not be.”

The hot water arrived, Miss Peters departed and the

operation began. Jonty tried hard to avoid Orlando’s gaze, simply enjoying the experience without wishing to discomfort his friend.

Orlando had set to work in a brisk and efficient manner, mopping Jonty’s back and chest, drying as he went, getting not a drop on the bed. Legs, arms, face, neck were also tackled, although he was beginning to slow down once every area bar one was almost done.

With a noticeable sigh, he reached for Jonty’s underwear, but was stopped by a hand. “I’ll do that myself, old chap. Not ready for it yet, are we, either of us? Bit different when I was out for the

count. You go and get yourself spruced up in the little bathroom they keep for well-behaved inmates.”

Orlando went off, with a nod of the head, to soak and

luxuriate. It was the first bath he’d taken for days, not having dared to waste any time away from Jonty while the man was so

unwell. He spent all his time thinking about that first kiss, until Ariadne Peter’s loud rap on the door and booming “If you stay in there any longer you’ll dissolve!” brought him back to the present.

After drying and dressing hastily, he sped back to Jonty’s

room to find the little blighter fast asleep so, once he’d kissed the man’s brow, he went off to check his post. At long last he felt that he could risk taking some time again for his college life.

En route from his pigeonhole to his rooms, he stopped in at

the chapel, found it mercifully empty and said a silent prayer.
I
know I don’t believe so I guess this doesn’t count, but he believes.

Wanted to say I’m grateful.

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Two days later Nurse Hatfield, who had rightly reclaimed

charge of the sick bay, allowed Jonty to be dismissed back to his own set of rooms. Orlando helped him pack his belongings,

getting in the way and fussing far too much as usual, making sure that Jonty wore his coat
and
hat
and
scarf
and
gloves. He found an ally in the redoubtable college nurse, who insisted that Orlando was correct in his assertion that those who were recovering from the flu had to cover up every possible part of their bodies. Not an inch of skin should be exposed to the deadly East Anglian wind.

As they entered the set, the first snow of the winter fluttered

tentatively against the window, the fire was burning bright, there were hothouse carnations giving a splash of colour, and Chelsea

buns sat glistening on a china plate. Orlando had arranged it all, apart from the snow, although Jonty wouldn’t have put it past him to have somehow wangled that. Very determined, Orlando could

be. Jonty was carefully manoeuvred onto a cushion-lined corner

of the sofa and his soul mate scurried off to the kitchen to produce a pot of tea.

“This is truly a foretaste of heaven, Orlando,” Jonty’s voice

carried to the little kitchen. “Where you get what you want and it tastes as wonderful as when you just desired it. This was what

I’ve wanted for what seems an age. My own rooms, my own fire.”

And my own lover falling in love with me again?
Orlando wondered, yet didn’t dare say. He came in with the pot of tea,

smiling affectionately. “You do like making grand speeches, don’t you? You must win plenty of hearts with that silver tongue.”

Jonty laughed. “Not every heart’s been one that I wanted.

Unlike now.”

Orlando reached over and tapped his friend’s hand. “I can’t

give you sweet words, Jonty. My skill’s never lain in honeyed

speech, so I can only tell you plainly that I like you very much and I’m so pleased you recovered. There’s no logic to this, no

rhyme or reason. But it’s true.”

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Charlie Cochrane

“What now?” Jonty’s eyes were bright, sapphires sparkling

in the light of both the fire and of what might be his own

burgeoning desire.

“What now? Drink up your tea like a good boy and then you

might get another kiss.” Orlando blushed. “Safer here than the

sick bay.”

One kiss, a tender, shy effort, extended to a good half hour

of kissing. It was nice to discover—rediscover—the joys of

romantic interaction, finding out for the first time that mouths were not just for talking nor tongues for forming words. The first occasion that Jonty pressed his little cat’s tongue against

Orlando’s lips was enough to make the man start, uncomfortable.

“It’s all right,” Jonty murmured, “it’s allowable to kiss like

this, you know. Quite respectable people do it.”

Orlando had eventually opened his mouth and let Jonty’s

tongue plunder his own. It was the strangest and most wonderful

sensation, like one of Miss Peters’ beloved invertebrates had

grown to enormous size and was exploring the inner reaches of

his mouth. Only no sea slug or sea mouse could have tasted as

sweet as Jonty’s tongue did. It really was a very odd thing that such a potentially disgusting manoeuvre could feel so marvellous.

Jonty broke the kiss, pulled back. “Can you hear that noise?”

Orlando was puzzled, straining his ears, but he was aware of

nothing.

“I guess you can’t as it’s coming from your own bonce.

You’re bloody well thinking about these kisses, aren’t you?

Analysing what’s going on. Stop it now.” Jonty rubbed his

knuckles over his friend’s head. “I’ve done this before when

you’ve been an idiot and I’ll do it again if need be.”

Orlando blushed, sheepish as any Romney Marsh ewe.

“How did you know? Am I that obvious?”

“To me you are, yes. I can read you like a book. And it’s a

book I’m fonder of than
The Moonstone
or
Little Dorrit
, which is 84

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saying something in both cases.” A sly little look crossed his face.

“I also know what drives you mad.” He began to nibble Orlando’s

ear, dabbing at it with his tongue. His friend squirmed and gasped and tried to somehow break free while keeping his ear firmly

within Jonty’s grip. It was no use. Enfeebled as Jonty was after the flu he still had a powerful grasp and Orlando felt it best to just surrender.

They carried on, kisses to lips, ears and necks interspersed

with tender little murmurings, all the time Orlando trying very

hard not to think, until one particularly bold incursion of Jonty’s lips and tongue behind his ear seemed to take away all his power of rational thought. At last he could simply enjoy things.

The chiming of Jonty’s clock put a stop to the fun. “You’ve

got to go, Orlando, look at the time.”

“Hmm?”

“That meeting you went on about for so long, earlier. Your

first time conversing with other mad mathematicians since your

fall, you really don’t want to miss it, do you?”

“I suppose not, but it’s just so nice here. Perhaps one more

kiss?”

“Shall I throw you out bodily? Or call for a porter to come

and remove you because you’re causing a nuisance? Go now, I

need to rest.”

If appeals to his sense of university duty and threats of the

porters had failed, Orlando couldn’t help but respond to the

implication that he was jeopardising his friend’s health in

remaining. He rose obediently, gave Jonty a final little peck on the cheek and departed in a rosy glow.

Upon arriving at the seminar room in which his fellow

doctors of mathematics were already assembled, Orlando realised

that he couldn’t remember one step of his journey there. His mind had been far away, in front of a fire in a little set of cosy rooms at St. Bride’s. As his distraction carried on throughout the meeting, www.lindenbayromance.com 85

Charlie Cochrane

he hoped his fellow dons would forgive him his quietude, simply

assuming his head injury had made his taciturnity of a year and

more ago reappear. With any luck, they’d have no idea that it

wasn’t sullenness or shyness that made him so remote. It was a

pair of blue eyes and a wicked laugh.

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It had been an awful November, and December had started

ill, but once Jonty was out of the college sick bay things began to look much brighter. Those who professed themselves weather-wise were convinced that there would be snow for Christmas. The

air had a fresh and invigorating tingle to it.

They’d decided that as soon as Jonty was recovered

enough—sufficient to face the succession of cabs and trains that would be involved in the journey from Cambridge to deepest

Sussex—then they’d travel to the Stewart home for the festive

season. Mrs. Stewart herself would have liked to be on hand to

escort them, but it was likely to prove impossible so she had to delegate this responsibility to Orlando, for whom she’d written

copious notes about the different stages of the journey, including such vital facts as where best to lunch
or stay overnight if need be
.

Plus the very important message about making sure
you
both wear
your thickest vests
.

In her letters, she promised that the time at the Sussex home

would be one of sheer convalescence for her beloved youngest

son. She would cut all entertaining down to a minimum

(something for which she was pleased to have an excuse), not just for Jonty’s sake but for her beloved Richard, who was also

recuperating from the flu. It was only the fact that her husband had been suffering simultaneously with her favourite child that

had stopped her storming off to Cambridge the minute she’d

received Orlando’s first anxious phone call, a call made on the

Charlie Cochrane

only occasion he’d left the sick bay during the first twenty-four hours of Jonty’s illness. Her distress, obvious down the phone

line, at not being able to tend to both the men she most adored had affected Orlando considerably. He’d reassured her that Jonty was receiving the best possible care, had carefully diminished the true extent of the threat to his life, promised faithfully to keep her updated every day, and been near to crying himself at hearing her fighting back the tears.

It had been with absolute elation that he’d run down to the

porters’ lodge the day of Jonty’s recovery to ring the good news through to London, where the Stewarts were staying until Richard was fit enough to move. Mrs. Stewart had burst into tears yet

again to hear that her boy was out of danger. She’d seen the state that her husband had been in, and had appreciated perfectly well the real risk. Three enormous bunches of flowers had arrived at

St. Bride’s the next day; one for the patient, one for Miss Peters and one for Orlando, each with a little note attached.

Jonty’s message said simply,
Glad you’re better. Don’t

frighten me like that again. Mama XXX.
The one for the lady with the lamp thanked her for her patience and kindness with
what
must have been the worst patient you’ve ever had darken your
doorstep.

Orlando’s had been slipped into his wallet for future

reference, where it might have nestled against the little note that said
Idiot XXX
had Jonty not had the presence of mind to move it to his own wallet the day after Orlando’s fall. This message said,
He’s very lucky to have you. Look after him. Helena X.
Orlando reckoned that, unless more revelations were to come about the last year, it was the only letter he’d ever received from a lady, apart from his grandmother, and certainly the only one to definitely

bear a kiss.

Orlando was beginning to feel pangs of guilt about his

slackness on the Woodville Ward business. Very little had been

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done on the case since Jonty had fallen ill, there being more

important things to deal with, and Orlando was determined that he and Jonty should take the papers down to Sussex and try to

plough through them there.

Jonty had readily agreed—if he was to be forbidden some of

the usual festive amusements, then a little cerebral exercise would be most welcome. As much as he looked forward to being home

again, and for all that he said regarding his mama, he’d missed her enormously while he had been ill. He kept muttering that it didn’t seem like it would be a real Christmas without a proper

Hogmanay ball and, although his mother had promised that the

event would take place, it was to be a modified version with the minimum of dancing and frolicking. When Jonty had said he was

determined to put some sort of spanner in those works, Orlando

dreaded to think what the little toad had in mind.

Jonty sat looking at an essay yet not reading a word of it. A

fortnight had passed since he’d succumbed to the flu and much of that time had been spent in rest and recuperation, sleep being

something he seemed to need in endless quantities. Orlando had

fussed over him, fetched and carried, all to his heart’s content as was plainly shown on the man’s face, and there had been plenty of signs of affection.