The Gentleman and the Lamplighter (3 page)

“You’re speaking of a friend?”

“Yes.”

They were almost to the next light. John said, almost so quiet he couldn’t be heard, “More than a friend?”

Giles pulled in a long breath and let it out. He wasn’t foolish enough to answer. Banks didn’t ask again, to his relief. Although perhaps that sense of relief loosening his clenched pain was more than avoiding awkwardness. Speaking the words seemed to reduce the burden.

He wondered what Banks would do if Giles admitted the truth, that several times in their long years of friendship, he and Wool had kissed and more. They’d touched each other with pure lust. Recalling those times he blushed and felt a tightening in his body, mortification and hunger mingled as always.

Banks would lose his easy too-informal manner. Perhaps he’d touch his cap and hurry away. Or maybe he’d hurl vile imprecations at Giles, here in the middle of the pavement in the middle of the night, loud and horrible words.

He had enough of a way with words, Banks would probably be good at calling Giles a nancy or a sodomite or … one of the various things he’d called himself over the years.

“Thinking about it is making you sad, isn’t it?” Banks said.

“I’m well, thank you,” Giles said. He should turn around and march right back to his house and his bed.

“For days after Celia died, I had trouble getting out of bed. I couldn’t imagine a time when that would change. Life truly does restart and you can think of other things without the loss interrupting your thoughts every few minutes. Eh, but I suspect a lot of people have told you that.”

They hadn’t, of course, because his sorrow was private. He only said, “Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“But you haven’t had comfort, have you? You said you don’t talk of it. I vow there is something so mean about the way British people cling tight and don’t let so much as a whimper escape.”

“You’re as English as any Londoner.”

“My mother was from Spain. She named me after John Bull.”

That explained the large eyes, the dark hair.

“I worry about the English need to hold tight. You might explode with pent-up emotion.”

Giles was nettled. “One’s reticence is one’s own business.”

“No, you’re right. I beg your pardon.” The apology came easily to Banks, but it sounded sincere. He promptly ruined it. “I just think of you walking all night and no one to talk to. It makes me want to howl.”

Giles scowled at him. “I fail to see why it is your lookout.” He truly was curious, for all the words came out stiff and unpleasant.

“It isn’t. But a man can’t help how he feels.
You
know that.”

In the quiet dark air he spoke in a hushed voice, which gave the words an intimacy. Giles didn’t dare ask how Banks knew about Giles’s unwelcome feelings.

The man might answer.

Giles tried, “Perhaps he can’t eliminate or even control his desires and fears, but he can—he must—govern his words and actions. Or else he is merely an animal.”

“Hmm. Some,” Banks said. “Now you’re making me think about that thing Abrams wants to discuss endlessly and shovel into dialogue. Gad, what’s it called?” They walked along in silence almost to the next lamp. “Free will versus fate.”

“What on earth?” Giles shook his head.

“Animals just blunder along, or so I’ve read. But I think most people do as well—they don’t take charge and choose their paths. Or maybe, as Abrams says, no point in trying to change. Don’t you wonder how much of your fate was determined before you existed?”

“Bah. None of it.”

“So you say. But if you were born into my family, you would not live in that grand house. You’d carry a pole on your shoulder and probably have a dire need to talk too much.”

Giles had to laugh—surprise and amusement—and he covered his mouth with his hand to stifle the sound.

They stopped at a lamp and Banks reached up. He wore that easy smile and the light glinted on his hair, too long and curling, under the cap. Giles tried to memorize the features he’d only seen in dim light, the nearly Roman nose, the full lips and rounded chin. A twist of Banks’s arm and the dark settled over them at once, a blanket dropped, hiding the fascinating face.

Banks was talking now about the Hindus and the Jews and free will and Giles half-listened but mostly marveled at the strange twist of fate or free will that had sent him out into the night again to seek this man.

Less than four hours in Banks’s company, and Giles had been changed forever. Even if he never saw the man again, he knew he could not see life, his life, as the same dull passing of days. Perhaps time and the new growth of spring would have brought this change, but he had been transformed.

But enough about Giles Fullerton, thought Giles. There was that whole world outside himself he’d neglected for years.

“Tell me more about your wife,” he said. “Tell me about your life together.”

John considered how much to say about his Celia. This could be his chance to reveal his own secrets. Perhaps if he spoke the right words, Fullerton would come to him and touch him with those clean lovely hands.

John had developed suspicions about Fullerton when he’d shown up again in the middle of the night seeking his company. Or maybe that was when John had developed hope. The suspicions came when Fullerton delicately stepped around the matter of his dear dead friend. The silences and the hesitation seemed mighty important.

He would keep his ideas about Fullerton’s tastes to himself, however. Once before he’d attempted to seduce a man, a bookstore customer, with words and had gotten in trouble. The gentleman had wanted him, sure enough, but had mistaken John for someone who took money for the deed. Some angry words had been exchanged.

With Fullerton, John would drop his own hints and … and then what might take place? He chewed on his bottom lip as ideas filled his mind. He and the gentleman could hie around some corner, and, starved for touch and heat, have at each other. Oh yes, indeed. Some alley. Disgusting and dark and—God above, John’s body screamed for the wanting of it. He’d drop right down on the hard ground on his knees and get cock, but with no degradation in it because that much need couldn’t be shameful.

He’d enjoy Fullerton and give himself something to dream about for nights and days to come. And if Fullerton offered money, like that other gent? He’d be more polite with the no.

No shame in any of it.

Fullerton had asked about John’s wife. John wouldn’t disgrace his Celia if he told the truth couched in polite phrases. He wouldn’t disgrace himself either.

“Is it too difficult to talk about the late Mrs. Banks?” Fullerton asked. “I apologize if I have overstepped.”

“No such thing. You couldn’t overstep if you tried, sir. And I can talk about her. My wife was my dearest love,” John said truthfully. “She was the one person who knew my heart, and I knew hers, too. We were the best of companions, and she made our small rooms a home I will miss the rest of my life.” His voice, already low, dropped to a near whisper. “For all that, our match was not ideal.” He wondered how to put the matter without insulting his Celia.

“Truly? You make sound as if you had a perfect match.”

“In a way, we were perfectly matched, for neither of us hankered for the parts of marriage that one doesn’t mention.”

He fell silent. Fullerton drew in an audible breath and let it out with a careless “Oh?”

Encouraged, John said, “She and I met and talked and talked. Almost at once I knew the truth of her and that she and I would be good friends. Eventually she spoke of another girl and showed me the notes she’d written but hadn’t sent. Celia was honest with me. I was more of a coward and didn’t say anything to her until later, the night we decided to marry.”

He was still a coward, though. He glanced at Fullerton and decided he wouldn’t go any closer to throwing himself into the soup. Ha! He’d describe the flavor, scent, and ingredients but never use the word,
soup
. Or, in this case,
sodomite
.

At any rate, Fullerton had asked about Celia, not perversions. So John went on. “Her family was not well pleased at her choice, but I think they allowed it because before me she’d claimed she’d never marry. For all our, uh, partialities, we were young and lively, and Lord, we could laugh about anything, including each other’s habits and forms.”

No, he was not going to describe their times in bed, of their laughter, curiosity, and, at last, a kind of tenderness. As Celia had said, if they were to partake of second choice, at least they had a tasty meal of it. He’d pointed out that young animals will eat anything, even if it made them sick, and Celia had mimed vomiting while pointing at him.

His smile at her silliness vanished as he recalled the fast, nightmarish end of their life together.

“She died of a fever and cough. I caught it as well. I barely survived. By the time I’d recovered, her family had come and fetched her body away. They’d never liked me because she was too fine for me. A merchant’s daughter.” Remembering her loss was easier now than it had been even months ago, but speaking of it still hurt—probably because he so rarely mentioned his dead wife.

“My Celia had good taste and knew fine furnishings and fashion and how to speak to anyone in a genteel manner. But for all that, she had the bawdy manners of a docker when we were alone together. With others she ate daintily and had nothing but the most proper conversation you can imagine. Why, I should think she’d fit your world with ease. She could make anyone laugh. Some days I’ve felt I have nothing with her gone. Yes, she left me with all of her clothes and furniture. Such useless pretty things.”

He swung the familiar weight of the slender pole up and across his shoulders and continued down the pavement. That familiar comfort would allow him talk without the crack in his voice, but he reckoned he’d said enough. “So that’s my Celia.”

When he remembered that he wanted to seduce this man, coax him into an alley, John felt a wave of shame. Nothing so great he wouldn’t actually slip into the dark corners with the man, of course, but enough that he’d silently beg his Celia her pardon.

Would she have given her pardon or consent? He did not know. Neither of them had met anyone more to their taste during their five years together. He had tried hard not to look at others and succeeded except for the dreams of anonymous men that he would wake from hard and full of wild yearning.

“Celia was …” He realized he could not continue.

“I am sorry,” Fullerton said. “Here.” He reached out, holding something white.

John readjusted the pole so he could grasp the cloth. A handkerchief. He wiped his eyes with the fine linen and tried to hand it back.

“No, keep it,” Fullerton said.

They came to the next light, only three more to go. John would turn right and walk down the next street.

“I’m grateful for the cloth and the company,” John said, in case it was time to say farewell.

“Thank you,” Fullerton said solemnly “Do you mind … would you care … Might I keep walking with you?”

Oh, God, please.
“Yes, of course.” John reached up and—pop, another light out and the darkness settling. He lowered the pole, turned, and Fullerton stood near him. So near. John’s breath hitched and the desire made his hands tremble.

How odd to experience such intimacy in front of the familiar town houses that loomed over the street so pale and formal. He could simply take the three short steps and wrap his free arm around Fullerton, pull him close, and taste that clean sweet flesh.

John gave a gusty, impatient sigh.

“Would you rather I return home?”

Of course Fullerton would interpret that sigh as one of reluctant acceptance of his company. And a man in John’s position wouldn’t be able to say no to a man like Fullerton.

“No, indeed,” he said. “I enjoy your company. I truly do. No one asks about my Celia, and I hadn’t known speaking of her would be such a … a …” He shrugged and could not come up with anything more brilliant than “Such a good thing.”

He risked a glance at Fullerton and let the thrill of the man’s presence touch him again. Funny to have such a strong response to a stranger—and to not lose that response even when they grew better acquainted. John felt an absurd pleasure realizing the reality of Fullerton wasn’t going to destroy his pleasant daydreams of the man. In fact, he wished to know him even better. “Tell me about your friend.”

“My friend?”

“The person who died suddenly. Perhaps you’ll feel better for it, too. Tell me.”

Fullerton gave a soft laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“I’ve given away my handkerchief, and I might require it.”

John reached into his pocket and almost reluctantly handed it back. He’d already formed plans for that bit of soft cloth that smelled of wealth and Fullerton. “Here,” he said. “Now you have no excuse and the dark will hide any emotion you don’t want me to see.”

They’d come to a lamp and he smiled over at Fullerton, whose face seemed more lovely than any he’d ever seen—whose eyes were suspiciously bright.

“Watch,” he said, and flicked off the light. “Now we are hidden,” he whispered. “And you ought to say whatever you want.”

***

Giles felt a fool. “There is little to tell.”

“Nothing? About a man you loved more than anyone else?”

“I don’t believe I mentioned he was a man.” He clamped his mouth shut.

“Didn’t you? Doesn’t matter to me. Tell me about him or her. I promise no one will hear a word from me.”

As if he was a priest and Giles a sinner. Perhaps Banks was a Catholic. His mother was Spanish, after all.

“Go on, then,” Banks coaxed.

Why not tell the truth? As much as possible. “My friend and I met at school when we were seven. We slept in beds next to each other.”

“Seven and away from home for school? Blimey, sometimes I’m just as glad my family had no more’n the pence to send me to dame school.” Banks sniffed. “Beg your pardon, go on.”

He shook his head. “I cared about my friend, and he took his own life. What more is there to say?”

“Oh, poor thing.”

Giles had heard that sort of thing often enough whispered by Wool’s old friends, and his widow. He grew indignant on Wool’s behalf. “He wasn’t a poor thing. He had an episode of despair and didn’t know how to overcome it.”