The Gentleman and the Lamplighter (5 page)

“I want you, all of you,” he said to Banks, words he couldn’t recall saying aloud to anyone.

***

John loved the intensity of the man, the focused and unexpected fierceness. He’d thought he’d have to coax Fullerton, but they’d fallen on each other like animals. Lordy, he loved animals and animal congress, and he hadn’t even known he had such longings.

He rolled toward Fullerton and grinned with pleasure at such a body right there with his. “You got me, every speck and hair of me.”

He’d been a virgin with his Celia, and their interested but vaguely removed exploration of each other only rarely turned into excitement on those occasional nights when they helped each other reach arousal and then orgasm. Their embraces brought him enormous comfort, but, for obvious reasons, they’d never fallen, panting and trembling, into bed, never had a huge need from the second they hugged, no trembling anticipation before they touched. Even John’s one experience with another man after her death hadn’t prepared him for the clawing mindless creature he’d become with Fullerton.

Probably he’d been charged by the days and weeks of imagining what it would be like—except Fullerton hadn’t indulged in the same dreaming and growing awareness. Oh, Banks couldn’t believe that here was the person, the man, the creature he’d wanted more than he’d wanted to eat or sleep or …

Had he really wanted Fullerton that much? Hard to recall the past because, yes, oh yes, a thousand times yes, he wanted him that much now. Even after slaking the thirst, he longed for more.

And glory be to heaven, Fullerton apparently wanted him as much.

Fullerton kissed soft and then kissed harder, and then John got to fulfill the promise he’d made, taking Fullerton into his mouth. Never had anything tasted as delicious as that glorious, and rather larger than he’d expected, penis. The way the man bucked and moaned and pushed his fingers through John’s hair, urging him on. Oh, indeed that would be a fantasy he planned to visit again and again. John lay on his stomach and pushed his own erection against the bed as he sucked and swirled his tongue over the head and nibbled lightly on the shaft. So perfect.

Thank you for this gift,
he thought. And when Fullerton pushed him over and did the same sort of exploration with his lips and tongue and hot wet mouth, John knew he’d never have a more exciting moment in his life.

John cried out with astonishment as he reached orgasm again—so fast, too fast, he wanted this to last for hours. For a moment he forgot everything, even Fullerton’s eager thrusting. But then he happily returned to his task. The cock under his hands and mouth grew even harder and swelled. He felt powerful, watching Fullerton’s helplessness in the moment of crisis. He licked his lips and then he licked Fullerton again.

Fullerton tugged at his hair and he crawled back up so they were face to face again. This time after they reached their satisfaction, John, a crass and awful host, fell asleep almost at once, his arms and legs tangled with Fullerton’s. The only reassurance he had as he slipped into sleep was that he could feel and hear Fullerton’s own breath coming slow and easy—a sign that he too was falling asleep.

He woke to Fullerton slipping out of the bed and sneaking away to his clothes.

Well, of course that would be the way this sort of thing would end. It would be easiest if he pretended to sleep and let the man disappear into the … he glanced at the one window in the room and gave a silent groan. Into the bright full light of a morning. Letting the man vanish would be easiest.

He got up and, after a moment’s hesitation, found some trousers, pulled them on, and buttoned them up. He snagged a shirt from the hook on the door. Practically presentable.

Fullerton was nearly dressed and looked up at John’s arrival with the haunted face he’d seen on those streets at night, wary and weary.

He looked rumpled, as if he’d been running in a gale.

So that would be the opening of this new sort of conversation, the talk between two men who’d touched intimately and who barely knew each other. “I got a brush you might use,” John said. “You don’t want to go out looking like you’ve been assaulted.” He tried a leer at Fullerton, but the gentleman only looked away, as if embarrassed for John.

Alas, alas, that the time in the bed was the only perfect part of this morning. Still, John wasn’t going to be deterred. “I enjoyed what we did. It was lovely and no one was harmed.” He shouldn’t have sounded so belligerent.

But apparently that was the right thing to do, because the look of discomfort almost vanished. Fullerton came near to smiling even. “Yes.” He didn’t say anything else, but it was enough to relieve John. “I’d best go,” he said almost apologetically.

“You’re all right?”

“Yes.”

“Here, wait.” John went back into the bedroom. He pulled down the blue tie he’d gotten from Celia, one of his favorites. “You can wander around the streets in the middle of the night without a tie, but you need one in the day.”

Fullerton took it and squinted at it doubtfully. “I’m not sure I’m very good at doing this. My valet usually manages.”

“I’ll act as your valet—just this once, mind you. I’m not cut out for the service.” He wasn’t sure why he’d prattled on. Because he always seemed to talk at Fullerton, or possibly he wished to ward off any possible schemes he was hatching in his own head.
If you were this man’s servant, you might be able to climb into his bed any night.
He truly was not a man fit for service, and besides, he had some ambitions.

John stepped forward and watched Fullerton drape the tie around his neck and then wait with his hands at his sides, a man who knew how to allow other people to dress him.

Except then Fullerton craned his neck and looked down. “It’s very nice.” He sounded surprised.

“What? Oh. The tie, yes. I like it too.” John hadn’t done this for anyone else for years—he used to help his father toward the end of the old man’s life.

He had to flip and twist the cloth a couple of times before he remembered how to make a proper knot. As he worked, he mock-scolded. “You think a man who does no more’n light lamps and sell books has no taste at all?”

“You sell books?”

“On occasion.” He stepped back to survey the tie. Not bad at all, and the blue looked attractive on Fullerton. He suspected most colors looked good on the man. “Now you look less dangerous and sneaky, not that you could ever look such a thing. I should walk with you back.”

“Oh, no. No need.” The man didn’t have to sound so horrified.

Fullerton went on, “I know my way, and we’re only about two miles from my house.”

John tried to think of a way to say
Good-bye
and
Please, might we do this again?,
but in the end, he stuck out his hand. “Thank you,” he said as Fullerton took his hand in a surprisingly strong grip and shook it. He managed a real smile for Fullerton.

“Thank you.” Fullerton’s response was a grave echo of his own tone, but with a soft note of
Good-bye forever.

Damn him, John hadn’t meant to sound so final about this farewell.

Fullerton was down the stairs and out the front door before John could think of a way to ask if he wanted to meet again. It was some kind of jumble even in his mind, so it was best he’d kept his mouth shut.

“You have it bad,” he moaned to himself as he closed the door behind him. The smell of hot metal hit his nose and he realized the kettle had boiled dry over the coal fire. All heated up and used up and, no, he wasn’t going to think like that. Although maybe he and Mr. Abrams could use something about passion and a burned teakettle. A comic bit would be best, no doubt, though John didn’t feel funny at the moment

He went into the bedroom, stared at the bed, and eventually remade it, though straightening the rumpled sheets felt sad. Sentimental fool, he told himself as he drew up the discarded cover. He didn’t want the lady who cleaned for him to smell the earthy scent of semen and lust. She’d leave the bed be when he made it. He didn’t want new sheets anyway. Not for a long time.

Then he sat by the coals and gazed at them and the ruined kettle. How long must he wait until the hours with Mr. Fullerton stopped cluttering every bit of his mind?

***

John walked his route past Fullerton’s fine home that evening and slowed, going at a snail’s pace, but he didn’t look at the windows of the house—more than four or five times. Every room seemed to glow gold in the late afternoon. He doubled back and walked past the house a couple of times, first lighting the lamps and then, hours later, returning, walking slowly, reaching to turn them off with even more hesitation.

He lingered by the lamppost and stared into the dark windows of the house. He waited so long he heard the first distant call of a bird that wasn’t a rooster.

As he trudged back to the shed, late again, he considered the fact that they had no future together. Any fool could see they were nothing alike.

Except, turned out, he was a fool. The walking and talking together through several hours had shown him they had much in common. And then when they came together in his rooms … He realized he’d groaned aloud and Mr. Watkins, a fellow lighter, stared at him.

“Are you well, Mr. Banks?”

“Never better,” he lied, and managed to avoid the usual routine of tea with the lads at the café near Covent Gardens around the corner from the impressive Royal Opera House.

John enjoyed his small life and almost resented the interruption of his usual patterns and thoughts. No, what he disliked was realizing how lonely and dry his life had been until Giles Fullerton talked to him. Curse the man for showing him a warm and brilliant light and then reaching up and turning the damn thing off, leaving John in the dark again in his small rooms and small life, alone.

The next night he again saw nothing of Giles Fullerton, and the disappointment hit him so hard that he realized he’d turned into an infatuated, obsessed man, worse than any green youth.

Even if Fullerton had come out into the night to walk with him, John knew it wouldn’t be enough. Longing for one person was no good for a man like him. Not with his tastes. Although now that he considered the matter, he recalled that, when he was a child, the men next door had been a pair of confirmed bachelors. A startling revelation—men who didn’t just meet in the night and then run away.

John quashed the sprig of hope that had begun to grow. That sort of daydreaming of a future with another man did him no good.

It was a good thing he’d witnessed and read about this sort of lust-filled blindness, he supposed, as he dragged himself away from Fullerton’s house. He’d certainly never experienced it himself and it felt as near an illness as a sneeze or cough.

The third eve and morn, with no sign of Giles Fullerton, John knew he must make a change. When he went to the shed that daybreak, he hung about, waiting to talk to another lighter, who was eager to trade his walk for John’s.

John had long ago inherited his streets, and what a fine route it was. He sometimes got a tuppence or two slipped to him near Christmas, or at the very least, kitchen maids gave him small pies or other treats. A lamplighter who made his way through a less savory neighborhood worked quickly—and he had a longer walk.

John traded for the new walk, though, rather than pass Fullerton’s house every day twice. It did him no good to ache for something beyond his touch, and he would rid himself of the yearning as soon as humanly possible.

The next night on the new crowded streets he’d light the lamps earlier and turn them off nearer daybreak and meet new people as he walked, exchanging a brief word with a few, doffing his hat to silent others.

Change was good, he reminded himself as he made his way down the narrower crooked lanes.

***

After he left John Banks’s apartment that spring morning, Giles walked quickly through the streets of London, barely paying attention to his surroundings, a familiar habit. But his mind dwelled on something other than misery. His body ached pleasantly and he felt cleansed rather than filthy, as he had in the past. And that brought the memory of Wool. He let loss and sorrow wash through him, and then his thoughts returned to the Interlude, as he already called it.

Perhaps that handshake and the pleasant smile Banks had given him was enough to keep regrets at bay. Was Giles so easily swayed by the man’s confidence? How odd that he could walk with a light heart because they had ended with a real smile and handshake. And really, it had to be an end.

He’d always considered himself strong except for his one weakness—the one he’d discovered when he was a boy in love with a school friend.

The physical contact was bad enough. He would be a steady person again and not allow the strong emotion to buffet him.

***

After a very late breakfast—he’d been at Banks’s house for hours—he wrote a letter to Mrs. Woolver begging her to forgive him for not attending her gathering and dance. Her year of mourning had finally passed and the widow was more than ready to live again. For the first time, Giles could contemplate her lackluster mourning without anger, and his letter came more easily than most of his communications with her.

Her answer came in the afternoon. She begged him to reconsider and come to her house, which had been Wool’s family home. She was leaving in an hour to go prepare for the party. The country house was only an hour by train and she’d be delighted to give him his old room.

God, no, not that, he thought.

He got up and walked to the window. The day was drawing in already and he felt his heart thump faster as he looked out the study window, down at the street. He didn’t move and stood there long enough to see the man with a pole and an already familiar walk making his way down the street.

Banks looked up at his house. Giles drew back from the window but a second later returned to it.

That slow way Banks was moving was nothing like the lamplighter’s customary walk or habit.

Giles watched and something resembling panic touched him. Not fear that he’d be discovered or that Banks would talk to the wrong sort of people. No, he already trusted the man.