The Gentleman and the Lamplighter (7 page)

“Yes, we’re expecting a theater manager, but really, I shouldn’t be talking about such things, not before the contract is signed.”

He said, “No, of course not.” He reached for a guide to Egypt. “Er, have Mr. Banks and Mr. Abrams written more than one play?” Of course Banks hadn’t been talking about plays that he performed only in his mind. Giles felt like a fool.

“Heavens, yes.” Her mouth twisted and her large eyes narrowed. He couldn’t help smiling.

She said, as if talking to herself, “It wouldn’t hurt to talk about the others. That’s not inviting bad luck.”

“No,” he agreed.

“And you say you’re a friend of Mr. Banks?” She finally appeared to focus on him—and then her eyes widened for a second, then narrowed even more. Her face was as mobile as a music hall actor’s. “He has an interesting variety of friends, does our Mr. Banks, but I cannot recall him describing such an obvious—” She hesitated, and he wondered what she would say. “Such an obviously well-to-do sort of a person. Although you do resemble his ghost.”

“Oh? Does he know real ghosts?”

She shook her head and a pencil slid from her hair onto the floor. He picked it up and handed it to her.

Pushing the pencil back into the bun at the back of her head, she said, “No, the ghost is one of the memorable people he meets. Five miles every night and five miles every morning, he meets a great many interesting sorts. He’s used quite a few in the plays.”

“What did he say about the ghost?”

She frowned, her dark brows nearly meeting in the middle. “I suppose I really shouldn’t speak of their work. Mr. Abrams dislikes it especially. Mr. Banks and Mr. Abrams have gone to take their midday meal—the ordinary over at the pub.” She pulled a man’s watch from a pocket and flipped it open. “If you have questions, they should be back in a few minutes.” She tucked away the watch with an air of finality and then ran a finger over a large red volume on the shelf. “This is a book about central Africa. Quite an interesting one, too. You might wish to take a look?”

He took the hint to drop the subject of plays and pulled the book from the shelf. “Yes.” He flipped it open and pretended to examine the engravings. “This will do. I will take it and the one about Egypt.”

He was suddenly sure he didn’t want to be in the shop when Banks returned. His heart seemed to thump too hard and fast and he had trouble pulling in a breath deep enough to bring him oxygen—that had to be the reason his head swam.

He carried the books to the small counter, where Mrs. Abrams accepted his coins with a solemn air. She carefully wrapped the books in brown paper and then twisted twine around the package with deft fingers.

The sun managed to shine over the houses across the cluttered narrow street, sending several beams of light through the bow window at the front of the shop. The rays shone on a cat that lay asleep on top of a pile of books. This was probably a spot the cat sought on other sunny days. A comfortable chair sat nearby so a human might also enjoy the spot of sunlight.

“This is a pleasant place,” he said.

Mrs. Abrams gave him another flash of her remarkable smile. “This establishment is my pride and joy. Mr. Abrams is so deep into his writing nowadays, I get to do just about whatever I like out front here. Mr. Banks is a help, of course, when he has the time.” She frowned at him again. “An interesting man, Mr. Banks. He came in at first with his wife. Did you know her?”

He shook his head. “Alas, no.”

“Mrs. Banks was genteel—near as fashionable as you, I’d say. She spoke and acted like a lady who’d been raised in Mayfair. When she brought him to the shop, I had to wonder what she saw in him other than, well … He has a nice form, does Mr. Banks. But then I came to know him and stopped wondering if they belonged together. They did, indeed. Other than Mr. Abrams and myself, I doubt there has ever been a happier couple.”

She gazed at him as if expecting an answer.

Giles said, “Mr. Banks has spoken of her and I know he loved her dearly.” He took the package she handed over to him and put his hat on his head. Mrs. Abrams’s cozy, gossiping manner with a stranger should have put him off, but perhaps the sun, the books, the cat, and her smile had made him less annoyed than he might have been.

What would Wool have done if she’d prattled at him in such a familiar manner? No doubt given her an icy look and retreated to the natural history section of the bookstore. God, he missed Wool. The thought came automatically. It fled when a bell rang and the door crashed opened.

“Here they are now,” she said. “Unless that’s the manager at last.”

Perhaps there was a way he might escape out the back. … Giles looked around the rabbit warren of bookshelves but saw no sign of another exit.

A booming voice came from the other side of the stacks. “Miriam! Miriam! Did Mr. Marshall show?”

“Not yet. I thought this customer was he because he’s looking for Mr. Banks.”

A man with a broad red face came around the corner. “He’s not Mr. Marshall.”

And then there was Banks, who stared at Giles as if he were some amazing conjurer who’d just defied the laws of time and reality. “No. This is Mr. Fullerton.” He cleared his throat. “How do you do, sir?”

“I am well, thank you. And yourself?” This was the first conversation they’d had in public. It was awkward and strange and he was filled with a fierce joy. Banks had gotten a haircut lately and Giles regretted the loss of those dark brown curls.

“I hear you have written a play?” Giles said.

“Miriam, no! What have you been gabbling about?” Mr. Abrams bellowed.

“She told me nothing about the play, sir.” Appalled, Giles turned his attention from Banks to the shop owner, whose face was now even more scarlet.

Mrs. Abrams met Abrams’s anger with a scoffing snort. “Oh, go on with you, Mr. Abrams. You’re too superstitious. Besides, I told you, I thought this gentleman might be Mr. Marshall. And I didn’t say a thing about plot or—”

“You have no right to talk about plays that aren’t—”

“Why ever not? You bring up the topic every—”

“That’s not the same. It’s my—”

“The rules don’t apply to you, you’re saying? You set them down in a grand style and then ignore—”

“Damnation, woman. These aren’t rules, they’re—”

“Don’t you raise your voice at—”

“I shall, if you insist on talking to every—”

“Do you never listen? I told you I believed—”

Their voices rose with each interruption and they’d apparently forgotten they weren’t alone.

Horrified, Giles glanced at Banks, who watched him, grinning. “Come on,” he mouthed, and jerked his head at the back of the store. Giles followed him through the stacks, and the arguing couple’s voices followed.

“That should last another few minutes. The lovebirds do enjoy their dramas. I think it keeps them young. And usually the lines of dialogue show up in a fancier form in the plays.”

Banks still smiled. How could he be amused by such a vulgar display?

But why not?
The voice that Giles had recently encountered inside himself was at work again.

And then the voice was silenced. He forgot about the peculiar Mr. and Mrs. Abrams.

The pure pleasure on Banks’s face was brighter than the sun and warmed Giles. Of course he had been right to seek out Banks. He’d be a fool to avoid the sight of the man.

When they ducked behind the curtain to a small back room, he wondered what they would do in the future, but he knew, without a doubt, that the future held the two of them, together in some form, even if it was simply taking long walks in the middle of the night. The small internal voice piped up again.
See? Life is too short to cling to misery. Find pleasure.

The fine gentleman, Giles Fullerton, had come looking for him, John Banks. He’d obviously remembered John’s words about Abrams’s shop and sought him out, come on his own, with no prompting or pleading from John.

The happiness bubbled up inside John and made him want to laugh aloud and run out into the street and tell everyone. But the only person he could safely gloat to stood right in front of him.

“You came looking for me, Giles. You
did
.” He used Fullerton’s first name and liked the way it felt in his mouth.

Giles’s smile was tucked at the corners, as if he were embarrassed. “I, ah, well. Yes.”

John opened his arms wide. “We have one second, or two. Please allow me to embrace you. I’m that glad to see you.” And thank God and Aphrodite—their current play was all about Greek gods—Giles Fullerton stepped close, and his body against John’s felt better than any embrace John had ever known.

He buried his nose between Giles’s neck and collar and breathed him in, a wealthy man’s scent.

Giles squirmed and his arms tightened. He gave a breathy little moan. John’s relief and joy slid toward arousal as sure as day slides into night. He stepped away. “Not here. Will you come to my house at eight tonight?”

For a moment the silence was only broken by Mr. Abrams. “That’s all well and good, my lady, but let me tell you—”

And Mrs. Abrams interrupting with: “Ho, no. This again? You always say—”

“Yes. I would like that.” Giles whispered.

“You won’t run away again? After?” John asked.

“I didn’t run away. I had obligations.”

“Ah. My mistake.”

“I won’t run away again.” Giles pulled on his gray gloves, adjusted his hat, and tucked his paper-wrapped bundle under his arm. “You will tell me all about Mr. Marshall and the play, and we will have a cup of tea.”

“All right.” John said. “But that’ll be
after
.”

He learned that Giles blushed deep red, a wonderful fact he planned to abuse as often as possible. John walked his friend to the door through a suddenly silent shop. Mr. and Mrs. Abrams had probably retired to their apartment upstairs to make up after their battle. Soon, very different sorts of muffled cries would echo through the bookshop.

“Eight,” he reminded Giles.

“Yes, I shall be there.” Giles sounded grave, as if he were making an oath. He strolled out and John watched him tip his hat to an old lady across the lane and then walk away, around the corner.

John’s ghost, a solemn young squire, had turned out to be far more interesting than any kind of spy or cutthroat pirate. An ordinary gentleman who made him want to sing with joy.

***

Mr. Marshall showed up about an hour after Mr. and Mrs. Abrams had returned from their apartment.

The busy theater manager had a contract that Mrs. Abrams read carefully—she was the daughter of a lawyer. Even if this Banks and Abrams show—an elaborate production that would feature orphans and a singing bandit and several pretend centaurs—was only a moderate success, John would make more money than he saw in a year of lamplighting. That didn’t seem right, somehow, but he didn’t say so.

“Banks and Abrams will be as big as those blokes who do the operettas,” Mr. Marshall promised. “Your little song about stealing from the rich and the richer will go over well with our audience, Mr. Banks.”

John helped the Abramses drink a celebratory glass of wine, then grabbed a hansom rather than an omnibus to go to the Gasworks on Horseferry Street for his weekly visit to his place of employment. After all, someday soon he would be made of money.

That evening he lit lamps faster than he ever had in his life and then raced home with the pole rather than take the time to return it to the shed.

By the time Giles appeared at his door, John had managed to bathe, clean an already tidy apartment, and work himself into a nervous state that would suit one of their play’s die-away virginal heroines better than a stolid lamplighter, which was how John thought of himself.

Giles held a blue tie in his hand and it took several seconds for a muddled John to recognize it as his own.

“Come in,” he said.

He felt unusually uncomfortable and supposed his discomfort would transfer to the sensitive Giles, who seemed to fall into awkwardness the way other men fell into step when walking together. But no, Giles strolled in, taking off his hat and coat as if he belonged there. He even ignored John’s offer to hang them up and went to the mahogany coat rack himself. Giles did a slow circle, examining everything in the room.

John said, “Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all, though I recall the last time I said I liked your rooms, you grew short with me.”

Oh, right. He’d been touchy then as well. “It’s you,” he burst out. “I’m not used to having someone be so … so important.”

“Really?” Instead of looking appalled, Giles grinned at him. “Come now, you think I’m important? That’s precisely how I see you.”

“What?”

“I don’t know you as well as I’d like to, but what I know of you is entirely new to me and–and important. It’s as if you’re a captain on a ship heading for new lands and I’m your passenger. The difference between today and the last time we met is that now I understand I can—that I should—take this journey. I’m eager to find out where we will go. I am here with an open heart and a free will.”

“Good glory, you sound like Abrams,” John said, impressed. “Or me,” he added, because he too could reach heights of drama.

“Yes, and I don’t sound anything like myself. I like the change. I like it a great deal.” Giles laughed as if he’d said something hilarious. “I love it.”

“Well. Good.” John, who enjoyed words, couldn’t find any good ones at the moment. So he picked another language and pulled Giles into a warm embrace.

This time when their arms about each other turned from an affectionate touch to passion, he went right along with the change. The kisses with hungry mouths, the scrambling at clothes—such a glorious exchange of bodies he had never known.

Afterwards, as they lay naked in his bed, Giles’s head pillowed on John’s arm, his crooked leg thrown over John’s hip, John told him about the play and all the money he would get.

Giles frowned. “That’s less than my father pays our steward annually.”

John gave a dismayed bark of laughter. “I forget how different you and I are, Giles. Our worlds are worlds apart.”