Rite of Summer: Treading the Boards, Book 1 (26 page)

Chapter Twenty

Giving his notice didn’t go nearly as poorly as Joshua had been dreading.

Lady Horlock took it worse, of the two of them, which he should have expected, all things considered. “But to leave so soon,” she said. Her expression showed “taken aback”, but gears turned behind her eyes as though she were already four steps ahead in figuring out how to rearrange her calendar. “I wish you had said something earlier.” The mask slipped, then, and she clasped his hand with a sort of apologetic look. “Dear cousin, has our house not been satisfactory?”

“Nonsense,” Horlock grumped from his chair before the fire, brandy snifter still in his hand. “You speak as though he’s gone forever. A year abroad to study on the Continent hardly counts as abandonment, my dear. Pull yourself together.”

“I am contracted for a year,” Joshua cautioned him, two fingers brushing against the pocket where his letter rested. The time frame was the truth. He had not been entirely honest about how the vicomte had come to know of him or why he had accepted, but the less they knew, the better. “What happens after that, I cannot say. But the opportunity to expand my skills is something I cannot pass up.”

“Of course you cannot,” Horlock agreed, nodding sagely.

“I have been very comfortable here, cousin,” Joshua promised Lady Horlock, squeezing her hands gently. “But I cannot live off your generosity forever.”

Especially not after this summer’s interlude.

It had not been spoken of since, Sophie taking more care not to be caught in his presence, but tensions hung over them now that could not be entirely ignored or forgotten.

“Also very true.” Horlock put in his verbal shilling, and Lady Horlock glared darkly at him over her pince-nez. “I thought something like this might be coming, you know,” Horlock continued on blithely, his thick mustache bristling as he spoke. “You’ve been off your feed since this summer.”

Joshua froze, Lady Horlock’s hand very still in his. He remembered how to breathe, barely, waiting for Horlock’s next pronouncement.

“Aha!” Horlock crowed, and Joshua let go the lady’s hand. “I’ve hit on something indeed. An unreturned
tendre
for one of the young ladies at Coventry’s house, hmm? I knew it!” He chortled. “That Chalcroft girl is quite the beauty.”

Oh, thank the Lord.
He had the sum of it, but not the parts.

Lady Horlock sucked lemons, her lips tightly pursed.

“Time away will resolve that, no doubt, no doubt,” Horlock continued.

“Indeed.” Lady Horlock looked him in the eye, radiating disapproval.

“It was nothing,” he said, and that was a lie. Though it had
come
to nothing, hadn’t it? “I am all but mended now.” Except that every figure he sketched had deep, dark eyes and hair that curled about his shoulders. “Enough so, that I cannot turn down opportunity when it comes. I promise I will write.”

“Well and often,” Lady Horlock instructed him, her words friendlier than her eyes. “Stay out of danger, and none of your ‘all is well, nothing is exciting’ two-line letters, either. I had quite enough of those from
him
while we were courting.”

“German girls are lovely,” Horlock added, a twinkle in his eye. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“I will write, I promise.” Joshua itched between his shoulder blades and restlessness pooled in his feet. He had to end this, to go before he started to second-guess everything and nothing, all at the same time. “Though not about the girls,” he dared to joke, and to his vast surprise, Horlock chuckled and Lady Horlock gave him a small, tight smile which vanished as soon as it had begun. “But if you will both excuse me, I must go and further my arrangements.”

A hint of melancholy settled over him as he closed the door behind himself and walked away, but it was utterly eclipsed by his certainty that he was making the correct decision. Let him get away from this damned island, this winter, the letters that never came and the face he would never see again.

Come two weeks from now, he would be putting the entire Channel between himself and Stephen Ashbrook, and be all the better for it.

A candle was burning on his windowsill when he returned to his room, one he had not left there himself. Odd, that. Perhaps the maid? It was unwise just to leave it, though perhaps she had been interrupted? No matter. There was no singeing of the curtain edge, and no harm done.

Joshua untied his cravat, the flicker of the flame holding his eye. He unwound the strip of linen and tugged it free from his collar. The jacket buttons next, popping easily with the pressure of his thumbs. He stopped dead at the discreet coughing sound from the far corner, whirled on his heel, his hands still at his waist.

“Sophie!”

She sat in the chair in the corner, her feet curled up under her and hidden in her skirts, her arms folded in front of her. It was too dark in the room, the shadows too heavy to see her face, but the hunch of her shoulders suggested unhappiness. Because of him or for him? Or for some other reason entirely?

“When do you leave?” Her voice had no ragged edges, so at least she had not been crying.

He left off with his buttons and crossed the room to join her. Dropping to the floor on his knees put him slightly below the level of her shoulders, but she folded in and hugged him fiercely. His arms went about her, and the two of them clung together. Her hair smelled faintly of perfume, and the bit of lace on her cap tickled his nose.

“In a fortnight.” He let go and sat back on his heels, clasping her hands in his. “We still have time, sweetheart. I’m not dead to you yet.”

Sophie—
Sarah
—smiled tightly and brushed her thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. “I shall miss you, Mr. Beaufort.”

“Wish me well, dearest,” he begged impulsively.

“I do, I only wish…” She trailed off, her desires unspoken.

“Name it,” he said instantly. She was the closest thing he had to a sister, the one who knew him better than anyone. She had instigated this trip and would never seek to hold him back from it, but none of that negated the simple fact that he was leaving her behind.

Her answer surprised him more than anything else that night. “That you were leaving for the right reasons,” she said simply, and squeezed his hands.

“I thought you were the one telling me to go,” he chided her gently, and she smiled.

“I was, but to add some excitement and risk to your life, you boring old man. Not to go nurse a broken heart.”

“I
am
leaving for the right reasons,” he promised, and knew she didn’t believe him. “I shall be glad to put this island behind me. There is only one thing I shall miss.” He curled his fingers more tightly about hers when he said that and flashed her a grin as cheeky as he could make it in the flickering half-light.

She scoffed at him, but squeezed back. “Liar.”

“Perhaps. I shall write you often.”

Sophie unwound herself from the chair, rising to her feet and poking him once in the gut as she passed him by. She picked up her candle, and lit one from it to leave behind.

“Be well, Mr. Beaufort,” she said softly. “Travel safely.”

“And you must stay well too,” he answered her. “It shall be à la prochaine, sweetheart, and never
adieu
. Not between us.”

He kissed her on the cheek. She flung her arms around his neck and embraced him again, and he held on to her for as long as she allowed it.

Sophie left, closing the door gently behind her, and he was truly alone.

Chapter Twenty-One

The door of the concert hall clanged firmly shut behind them, leaving the players standing in the chill of the November night. Their final performance, one last round of applause, and now there was nothing left of this series but to keep an eye on the papers for write-ups after the fact. Nothing left to look forward to but Phillips’s Bath proposal, somewhat further along in the planning than when Wren had first spoken of it a month ago.

“Ashbrook!” Wren slung his arm about Stephen’s shoulders and tugged him toward the other two waiting by a streetlamp. “You’re doing an excellent imitation of an icicle. Come along with us—we’re taking Pembrey out to dinner.”

“I’m not in the mood,” Stephen objected weakly, the coin in his pocket from the performance not giving him the usual opportunity to plead poverty. It was not that he disliked going to
dinner
, particularly, but what would inevitably come after made it more awkward than he cared to handle.

“It’s his birthday, Ashbrook! You owe it to him to celebrate.”

Stephen made a face at Wren as they drew abreast of Phillips and Pembrey, the former as pale in the lamplight as the latter was dark. “You’re a cruel taskmaster.” Stephen made light of his complaint, giving in to the inevitable.

“We’ll need you to chip in your coin.” Phillips fell in step with them, his square shoulders hunched under the heft of his cloak and his collar turned up against the cold. “We’re buying him a proper girl.”

Pembrey laughed at that, a rich and hearty sound, and elbowed Wren with affection. “I can find my own woman. You should spend that coin on Ashbrook—he could benefit more than the rest of us from a plump miss to dandle on his knee.” Pembrey pushed open the door to the King’s Oak, the warmth and light of the tavern spilling out onto the street.

“Among other things!” Wren joked back, following Pembrey inside.

The rush of noise and smoke overwhelmed Stephen for a moment, taking his breath more than the cold had done. Serving girls moved through the crowd, trays on their shoulders, the landlord busy filling glasses at the bar.

“Leave off him.” Phillips’s voice cut through the joking before Stephen had a chance to defend himself. “He’s said before he’s not interested.”

Pembrey put up his hands in mock surrender, but Phillips and Wren shared a look that Stephen did not dare consider too closely. The subject dropped, at least for the moment. It was simpler by far to let the heat of the wine pool in his belly and argue good-naturedly about what, precisely,
rascaglione
meant when Moretti had bellowed it at Pembrey and whether it had anything to do with his parents’ status as freedmen.

In a perfect world, he would have Joshua beside him now, laughing at their jests, mocking their impassioned proclamations and making wry asides for Stephen’s ears alone. His hand might brush against Stephen’s on the table, the barest contact of skin on skin as a reminder and a pledge.

How many months had gone by since he had last seen Joshua, that last, brutal conversation where his heart had been ripped out of his chest and displayed before him?

Three and a half, that was the total now, with no word sent or received. He would be lucky if Joshua even remembered his name.

For Stephen, time had alternately crawled along, minute to minute, and sped by when he was not paying attention. In every waking moment, he yearned for something indefinable, an itch like a phantom limb. He could push the sensation aside on occasion, ignore it when he played, at rehearsals when surrounded by his comrades, when the everyday business of life threatened to overwhelm and bury him. At night, though, the world and his bed cold and empty, the void waited.

How much of it, Stephen argued with himself, ignoring Phillips as he stole the last sausage link from Stephen’s plate, was because he missed someone in particular, and how much because he simply was not used to existing alone?

Joshua would want to know the answer, and he was running out of time to untangle the Gordian knot of his own emotions. A fortnight, that was all, before they left for Bath and Stephen could divert himself to Berkshire and the Horlock estate in Bracknell.

It would not be enough time.

And if he had to spend one more night in his bed alone—the sheets colder than winter, the ghostly fingers of memory tracing teasing circles on his skin—he would go utterly and completely mad.

“Why do you not indulge, Ashbrook?” The question was too timely, coming hard on the heels of his memories of Joshua’s hands, his mouth, his prick. Wren leaned on his elbow on the table and grinned at the heat Stephen could feel rising in the tips of his ears and across the tops of his cheeks. He could not be referring to
that
. None of them knew Stephen’s private inclinations, of that he was sure.

“A vow of celibacy?” Pembrey guessed, gesturing with the wineglass in his hand. The wine splashed over the edge, dotting his cuff with spots of red. He cursed and dabbed at them with a napkin before giving up.

“He thinks himself above it,” Wren replied, grinning. “Master of your urges, channeling it all into your art? I should try such a thing.”

“It still would not improve your playing,” Stephen shot back, placing himself on the offensive.

Pembrey hooted in appreciation.

But no matter how he maintained his privacy, they would stay curious if he gave them nothing at all. Curious friends poked their noses where they did not belong, and that way led ruination for everyone.

Wren pretended to sulk, and Phillips shook his head at all of them. “Enough, both of you. Leave him be.”

“No.” Stephen frowned into the dregs of his wine, his head spinning from the spirits, the late hour and the heat. “They are fair questions, I suppose—we share rooms, do we not, and style ourselves friends. I…” he drew out the moment of suspense until Wren was leaning forward, almost toppling over into his stew, and Pembrey was laughing at him for it, “…have a sweetheart.”

“Balderdash,” snorted Pembrey.

Phillips looked sour, as though he had bitten into something foul. “Will you two not hold your tongues, for once in your lives?”

“No, no, this is brilliant,” Wren exulted. “Is this new? Getting yourself bedded will soothe those jagged nerves of yours, my anxious friend.” He gave Stephen a mockery of a toast, then turned to Pembrey, sitting on his other side. “Do you think his mistress is a blonde, or dark? Don’t you think he’d look well with a blonde?”

Phillips shifted in his seat and Pembrey jumped, rubbed his leg with a dark glare at his friend, then shrugged. “It’s not redheads, I can guarantee you that, or he’d have taken Johanna up on that offer she made him last month.” He looked off into the distance, a nostalgic smile playing across his lips. “I have never
seen
a girl with a bosom more spectacular.”

“He turned her
down
?” Wren gasped, and Stephen sank his head into his hands.

“Aye, that he did.”

“There’s something funny in your head, Ashbrook,” Wren saw fit to inform him, and the irony was so bitter and so real that Stephen felt his own mouth twist into a parody of Phillips’s glower.

Since they seemed unlikely to exhaust themselves any time soon, he had best answer as well he could and attempt to fight his way out of the hole he had dug.

“There is not, I promise.”
Such lies.
“Since this summer I have been…”
How to even begin to phrase this well?
“…out of her favor,” he compromised with a half-truth. “I am trying to be a better man and make amends.”

They exploded, as much as any two loud men could explode, with “oohs” and “ahhs” and various tidbits of sage advice, including a sermon about his foolishness and earnest declarations that his sweetheart had likely taken up with someone else already, so why worry? Phillips brooded thoughtfully over his ale and said little.

Stephen parried as best he could, drank more than he should and left the rest in God’s uncaring hands. The bitter taste in his mouth that came from lying to the men whom he called friends—well, it was his own and most familiar kind of gall and wormwood, and something he should be well accustomed to by now.

They left in a hubbub, Wren and Pembrey already planning their next stop and Stephen calculating the time until he could make a polite escape. He had his coat buttoned and was most of the way to the door when Phillips stopped him, his hand flat against the wall and his thick arm barring Stephen’s path. He was a head taller than Stephen and had muscle mass that stopped Stephen from even contemplating ducking under his arm or around his other side.

“What can I do for you?” Stephen asked, his chin up. They reeked of brandy and wine between them, the air almost fetid.

Phillips looked at him seriously, looked
through
him, as though trying to divine something that Stephen kept shut behind his eyes.

If he meant to accuse or threaten, turn Stephen out of doors for being a sinner and a pervert, back to Meredeth’s he would go. He was not helpless, nor hopeless—not yet!

Phillips drew a breath.

“Cade is not worth your heartbreak” was all he said.

Stephen’s mouth worked but he could not speak, his mouth dry and his throat closed with a lump that appeared out of nowhere. Phillips was no stranger to Evander, none of them were. But Evander had isolated himself since the summer, spent his days doing God knows what, and Stephen had apparently inherited their mutual friends without huff or complaint. He had thought most of them oblivious. Wren might suspect, perhaps, given his usual train of thought, but he had never said anything. How long had Phillips known? Did he mean to turn Stephen over to the law?

No. If he did, he would have done so by now and not confronted him here, in this public place.

Trust. He had to trust his own instincts. Evander would call him a fool for it.

Leap of faith.

“It is not Cade I love,” Stephen managed to croak, not knowing what he was going to say until the words were out and said and done. It hit him like a thunderbolt and burned through his blood. He hadn’t ever dared to admit it, even to himself, hiding behind words like “desire”, “loneliness” and “need”.

I love him. I love Joshua. I may once have thought I loved Evander, but it was never, never once like this.

“Good,” Phillips said. He dropped his arm. “Then you need to stop allowing him to shape you.”

With that most cryptic comment, he turned to catch up with the others, clapping Pembrey on the shoulder and leaning in to speak as he drew close.

“Ashbrook?” Pembrey called, but Stephen shook his head and flipped a coin to Wren.

“I’m not entirely well; I’ll see you at home. Enjoy your birthday, Pembrey.”

“I shall!”

And with that they headed off, heads bent together in cheerful conversation.

Stephen watched them go, hands in his pockets, and then he turned towards home. His feet dragged at the idea. He had no particular desire to go back to his little room and his tiny fire, and sit and think about all the things lost to him. Nor had he been at all interested in accompanying the boys on their whoring. Where did that leave him? Not part of their world, and no longer a part of his own. He had not been to any of the molly houses since the spring, since the raids on the Swan and the trials.

He had not been with anyone in over three months, the longest span he could remember since he and Evander had shared the sweet, stolen kiss that began it all. More than three months since he had lain with Joshua, traded breaths in their kisses, given himself over utterly to their mutual pleasures.

Would he ever know it again?

If Joshua wished to see him, he was not difficult to find. He had moved, true, and if any letters had come for him after he left, then it was most likely that Evander had destroyed them rather than pass them on. And yet.

Sometimes, like now, the wind whipping cold around his legs, the streets he kept to mostly empty but for a few others about their own secret business, it all felt futile. He had nothing new to offer.

“It would calm your jagged nerves.”

The words rang in his head. Wren might have a point. There was peace to be found in someone else’s arms, even if just for an hour or a night. He wasn’t far from a tavern he’d once frequented, another place of vaguely ill repute, but for a rather different sort of clientele than those his friends attended.

A few minutes’ walk put him directly outside, the sign for the Apollo’s Arms rattling on its hooks in the stiff breeze. Muffled sounds of music and laughter came to him from inside, light spilling out from the cracks around the window shutters to cast beams of yellow on the road. Someone played the piano, another sang. Everything in there would be pleasant and warm, the revitalizing and enthralling company of pretty men, eager for new partners and new experiences.

And then what? Stephen paused, half in shadow.

The door opened and a pair stumbled out, arms flying away from each other as they made it, mostly upright, into the public street. They wandered off together, silhouettes in the darkness. Before they turned the corner, one reached out and grabbed the other’s hand to squeeze it. Only for a moment. Just a single squeeze. But it ripped through Stephen like a saw blade, grating his flesh from his ribs.

Joshua, smiling up at him from their bed, inviting him to kiss and touch and taste anywhere he pleased, any way he liked.

Meredeth and his wife staring at each other as though the world around them ceased to exist when they caught one another’s eyes.

Joshua’s head bent over his sketchbook at the riverside, the sun gleaming off his copper-golden hair and kissing his face. His fingers pressing between Stephen’s as Stephen sucked him down, twining their hands together as they gave and took pleasure from each other in equal measure.

He could not do it. There would be no way to take some other man to bed and not imagine him, not remember
him
, not cheapen everything that they had tried to steal. There was so much more that it could have been, and they had come so close to having it.