Lindsey cleared his throat and added, somewhat bashfully, “The offer to learn still stands.”
An offer Lindsey had made on Aubrey’s first visit to the Wiltshire house, and one Aubrey had almost forgotten. In his defence, there’d been rather a lot going on besides touring the stables. Particularly a different sort of riding.
“An offer I’m still considering,” Aubrey replied with a smile.
Lindsey crossed the room to bend down and kiss him. “How long have you been up?”
“Since five, or thereabouts.” It had actually been quarter-to-five, but Aubrey didn’t want to seem overly particular.
Lindsey’s eyes widened. “Have you breakfasted?”
“Not yet.”
This answer only seemed to alarm Lindsey further, prompting Aubrey to ask for the current time.
“Half-past ten,” Lindsey replied. “You must be starving.”
Aubrey, who knew what true starvation felt like, and that the dull gnawing in his gut was not yet it, acquiesced to Lindsey’s conclusion, regardless.
~
In the breakfast room, Aubrey had supposed the conversation might turn towards Halloway’s impending arrival, or the electrical conversion of Rook Mill, or Lindsey’s own future wedding.
But Lindsey, levelling a considering look at Aubrey, said, “We should get you some riding clothes.”
Aubrey, who had a piece of toast halfway to his mouth, lowered it back to his plate. He hadn’t considered that riding required different clothes than mere pedestrianism. “Is that really necessary?”
Lindsey seemed surprised by the question. “Boots, certainly. And boots require breeches. At that point, you might as well have the whole kit.”
Aubrey wished he knew how much riding boots cost. He knew the price of a decent pair of second- or third-hand ankle-high boots. But riding boots went far further up the leg, requiring much more material, which had to increase manufacturing costs. Furthermore, since only toffs rode horses, only toffs required riding boots, which meant the price of the product rose to meet the expected income of the customer. They wouldn’t come cheap, of that much Aubrey felt certain. And that was just the boots. The whole kit, as Lindsey put it, could only cost more.
“You’ve already given me three new suits,” Aubrey protested weakly. He wore one of those very suits now—the grey one. Lindsey had purchased it, along with a navy and a black, for Aubrey in the wake of the accident at Rook Mill. Aubrey, convalescing in hospital, hadn’t had much say in it. By the time he discovered the gifts at Lindsey’s house in Manchester, he could hardly refuse. For one, they’d all been made to order. For another, his one and only suit jacket had been destroyed by the same boiler explosion that melted his face.
That, and turning down Lindsey’s gifts left him feeling just as guilty as receiving them. It resulted in a particularly heartbreaking expression coming over Lindsey’s brow, dimming his natural smile and leaving him looking perfectly crestfallen. A heart of cold iron couldn’t stand to disappoint Lindsey. Aubrey had no chance whatsoever.
The crestfallen expression had begun to creep into Lindsey’s face now, though he made a game attempt at maintaining his sunny look. “Everyday and evening suits, certainly. But nothing suitable for riding.”
Aubrey, unwilling to commit to the purchase of anything if he could find a more economical alternative, hesitated. He might not even like riding after all, and if so, anything made for him towards that purpose would be a total waste. “Could I not learn in an everyday suit?”
Lindsey looked him over. “I suppose…” His expression brightened. “And it would allow you to start without delay! Take advantage of this splendid weather. Get some exercise in, around Halloway’s painting.”
Aubrey tried not to show his panic at the sudden change in plan. It wasn’t as though Lindsey were asking him to do anything outrageous. Plenty of people rode horses every day. And he had little else to occupy him here in the countryside. “Tomorrow, then?”
He could tell from Lindsey’s bewildered blink that it’d been expected the riding lessons would begin today, but Aubrey needed at least another night’s sleep to brace himself.
Lindsey quickly recovered from his initial bewilderment to beam at Aubrey. “Tomorrow it is.”
~
Chapter Three
Halloway arrived in the early afternoon. Lindsey had sent out the Althorp family carriage, along with a pair of strapping footmen, to retrieve him from the train station. These footmen proved essential, as Halloway arrived with a suitcase in each hand and a steamer trunk besides. Lindsey came to the foyer to greet his guest, but regrettably could not stay to do much more, as he had to dash off to the stables to prepare for Aubrey’s impending riding lessons. Instead, Aubrey led Halloway—and the two footmen carrying the trunk between them—to his intended studio: the ballroom of the Wiltshire house.
Floor-to-ceiling windows formed the south-facing wall, bringing in sunshine from dawn to dusk. Equally tall mirrors covered the north-facing wall, doubling the sunlight in their reflection. Should such light prove insufficient, a chandelier worthy of an opera house glittered overhead. All combined to make the ballroom the brightest room in the whole house. Perfect conditions for painting, just as Lindsey had promised.
And a far cry from Halloway’s rooms in the lodging-house he’d once shared with Aubrey. Though Halloway’s rooms were much more commodious than Aubrey’s garret, they hardly had enough room to turn around in amongst the easels, canvas, and countless papers, with sheets draped over furniture to create neutral backgrounds for models, windows wide open to let in as much air and sunshine as the streets of Manchester would allow—and the streets of Manchester allowed very little of the first and almost nothing of the second. Aubrey had only glimpsed Halloway’s rooms through the doorway as Halloway, leaning against the doorframe with a cigarette balanced between two fingers, casually asked him to model, and offered him damned good money for it. Then, Aubrey had assumed it was a precursor to another sort of proposition, and, newly determined to live a respectable life as a clerk rather than a telegraph boy, politely but firmly declined. Halloway, to Aubrey’s surprise, had taken the refusal in stride, thanked him for his time, and remained as friendly as any other neighbour in the lodging house. A good deal friendlier than the tract-writing Mr Brown, that much was certain.
Then Aubrey had met Lindsey, and through Lindsey met Graves, and through Graves found himself re-introduced to Halloway, and realised he might have been more right in his initial assumptions about the man than he thought. And Halloway still wanted to paint him.
Yet only after the boiler explosion at Rook Mill had burnt off half his face did Aubrey grow more amicable to the idea of modelling for Halloway. Aubrey wondered if Halloway resented him for waiting so long. If Halloway regretted missing the opportunity to capture the whole of Aubrey’s apparently remarkable features. The face which had earned him the name of Ganymede amongst the toffs who hired him to perform less respectable services.
At present, Halloway did not appear in the least bit resentful or regretful. Indeed, he seemed downright chipper.
“Fantastic,” he declared as he stepped into the ballroom, looking over the windows, mirrors, and chandeliers with approval. He set down his case and turned to direct the footmen carrying his trunk.
The trunk, once opened, revealed contents so tightly-packed and meticulously organised that it seemed Halloway had condensed his entire lodging-house studio into a single massive brick. Tarps, pulleys, easels, canvas, alongside several bizarre and unidentifiable bits and bobs—Halloway pulled an apparently-endless stream of objects out of it, and by the time the trunk was empty, it looked like its contents had exploded all across the ballroom.
With Aubrey’s assistance, Halloway regathered the contents into neater piles in the corner of the room where the most concentrated light fell. One pile contained tarps and a great number of cushions Halloway had asked the footmen to commandeer from other rooms. The other held all o
f Halloway’s artistic equipment, which included more mechanical elements than Aubrey had expected. He couldn’t help appreciating the ingenuity of the engineering that allowed Halloway to turn what appeared to be a few scattered sticks, screws, and clamps into a full-fledged easel. Halloway then set a particular sketchbook upon the easel, and, looking between it and the pile of tarps and cushions, adjusted all accordingly until he achieved the desired positioning, distance, and proportions.
“Think you could lie comfortably on that?” Halloway asked, gesturing towards the resulting arrangement of cushions, which, along with the now-empty steamer trunk, lay underneath the draped tarps.
Aubrey agreed that he could, though something concerned him. He was, by his own admission, rather a new scholar to the myth of Icarus. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that if Icarus had fallen upon such a soft pile of cushions and cloth, he’d have stood a very good chance of surviving his injuries. He brought this point up to Halloway, more carefully phrased, as he didn’t wish his confusion to come across as criticism.
Far from appearing offended, Halloway plucked a sketchbook out of the chaos and began flipping through it with rapidity. Aubrey beheld page after page of rocky seascapes painted in watercolours. Halloway stopped at a particular painting of a craggy beach, with cliffs looming in the background, and held it up for Aubrey’s inspection.
“The Amalfi Coast,” he said by way of explanation. “But it should do well enough for the coast of the Icarian Sea.”
“Ah,” said Aubrey.
“As for the wings—” Halloway handed the first sketchbook off to Aubrey and picked up another. Flipping through its pages in turn revealed scores upon scores of birds, done in pencil, charcoal, and watercolour, laid out upon the ground in a wide variety of poses and angles, all quite deceased. “As you can see, we’ve plenty of pairs to choose from.”
“You’ve been planning this for a while,” Aubrey observed, unable to keep the ghost of a wry smile from his lips.
Halloway grinned freely in return. “Had to wait for the right model to become available.”
Aubrey took the compliment in the spirit it was obviously intended. Though he couldn’t help but wonder what Halloway would have done to secure the right model if Aubrey hadn’t conveniently burned off half his own face.
Halloway, meanwhile, had discarded his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and set a sketchbook upon the easel, turned to a new page. As he opened his case to reveal tubes of paint, rows upon rows, along with long-handled brushes of varying widths and textures, he looked to Aubrey again. “Feel free to slip into something more comfortable.”
It was far from the first time Aubrey had disrobed at another man’s behest. It was, however, rather a new context for it. None of his former clientele had ever attempted to capture his appearance, all too wary of the consequences if their connexion should be discovered, and not wanting any possible proof of it, even as a keepsake.
Halloway had already returned to the tools of his trade, busy arranging his camp stool in front of his easel and putting his brushes and palette within easy reach.
Aubrey took advantage of the opportunity to shuck his garments, folding them up neat and quick, and shrugging on the silk dressing-gown Lindsey had given him. A soft breeze ghosted through the room. What, under normal circumstances, would’ve only made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, now affected the hair all over him. He shivered.
“Cold?” Halloway enquired casually, glancing up from his work.
“Not too cold,” Aubrey replied, desperate to save face and unable to account for how vulnerable he felt. He’d done this before. He’d done worse before, even. Though doing so in the broad light of day, and under the eyes of one he considered a friend, and in such a large room with an entire wall of windows…
Halloway looked him over, then put down his sketchbook and approached. “Could you lie down here?”
Aubrey followed where he indicated. He felt beyond awkward as he lowered himself onto the pile.
Mercifully, Halloway continued to speak to him as matter-of-factly as if he’d remained clothed. “Could you put your arm up under your head, and stretch out your hand—yes, just so—and drop your shoulder so your other arm bends over your side—perfect—and if you could turn your hips towards me…”
This last directive brought a hint of crimson to Aubrey’s cheeks. He contorted his body as instructed, regardless.
“Excellent,” declared Halloway. Then, to Aubrey’s infinite relief, he pulled out a bed-sheet and draped it over Aubrey’s body in such a way as to obfuscate that which produced the most embarrassment, though it obscured little else.
“We’ll start with an hour,” Halloway announced. “Then see how you feel. Let me know if any limbs fall asleep in the meantime.”
Aubrey assented, and Halloway returned to his easel to begin sketching in earnest.
An awkward silenced descended upon the ballroom. Only the gentle scuffing of pencil against parchment filled the air. Aubrey’s mind raced, wondering how his naked flesh looked from Halloway’s perspective: the swirling, pink-and-white burns running down the right side of his body, covering his face from temple to jawline; stretching from his half-melted ear to the corner of his mouth; running down the outer edge of his arm from triceps to hand; splashing over the side of his ribcage, marking the ribs he’d broken when the boiler explosion flung him across the mill yard and knocked him unconscious against the cobblestones. He struggled to force his mind down other, less painful avenues, not wanting to spend a full hour dwelling upon his own ugliness.
“How do you like the country?” Halloway asked.
The question jolted Aubrey out of his thoughts, much to his relief. “It’s peaceful. Quiet, I suppose.”
“So they say,” Halloway replied, his pencil dashing over the page all the while. His gaze remained on Aubrey’s body as he spoke, but his expression lacked the lechery Aubrey had experienced from other voyeurs. He looked upon Aubrey as Aubrey himself looked upon machines; contemplative, curious, his eyes tracing form in search of function. It seemed Halloway engineered images in much the same way Aubrey engineered electricity. “Too quiet, sometimes. I find it difficult to fall asleep out here. But the air’s much fresher.”
Aubrey agreed, and added, “Do you come out to the country often?”
“When the London season is done with,” said Halloway. “Graves won’t leave the city before then. And there’s little point going away without him. Though lately he’s preferred the Continent to the country. That’s how I managed to get in those Italian seascapes.”
Aubrey, who’d never been to the Continent, found he had little to say upon the subject. “Do you like it?”
“Italy? Or holidaying with Graves?” Halloway gave wry smile, though his gaze remained upon Aubrey’s legs, which he measured out by holding his pencil up at arm’s length. “I like both. Though there’s nothing quite like the English countryside.”
Aubrey thought of Lindsey riding across that very countryside now.
“Will you be joining Sir Lindsey this afternoon?” Halloway asked, as if he could read Aubrey’s thoughts. “Riding, I mean.”
“I will,” Aubrey admitted. “Lindsey’s determined to teach me how.”
Halloway stopped sketching and looked up into Aubrey’s eyes rather than over his body. “You’ve never ridden before?”
Aubrey coloured. “I have not.”
“Not even in Hyde Park?” Halloway asked.
Aubrey, who’d only ever visited the city parks by night, found himself caught between embarrassment and amusement, and struggled to keep his composure as he replied, “No.”
Aubrey wondered if Halloway would go on to ask about the Horse Guards—they had something in common with telegraph boys, after all—but either Halloway knew better than to confound similar back-alley habits with similar equestrian pursuits, or he didn’t realise the Horse Guards rivalled the Royal Navy in their reputation for sodomy. He returned to his sketchi
ng regardless, as coolly as if he’d never stopped.
“Should be exciting, then,” he observed.
Aubrey tried not to take the offhand comment as a personal dig. “Do you ride?”
“Not often,” Halloway confessed. “Not much opportunity whilst I’m in Manchester.”
“But Lord Graves must,” Aubrey said before he could think better of it.
“Indeed, he must,” Halloway echoed. “His father keeps a renowned stable. Anything his father approves of, however, Graves must make a show of renouncing. So he doesn’t ride as often as I rather think he’d like. When he does ride, though, it must be upon the prettiest steed and at neck-or-nothing speed across the countryside. Nothing stirs him up quite like a fox hunt.”
Aubrey hoped Lindsey didn’t expect him to participate in blood sport. It didn’t seem like Lindsey, soft-hearted as he was, to delight in such pointless slaughter—though he was a fair shot when it came to birding. “Do you ride with Lord Graves, then?”
Halloway laughed. “As if I could keep up!”
~
Lindsey considered himself on good terms with the gamekeeper, the master of hounds, the grooms in the stables, the butler, Mr Hudson—and, of course, with Charles. But he’d not often had reason to consult with the female staff. Rowena had been mistress of the Althorp household since the age of fifteen. And as far as Lindsey could tell, she ran it as tight as any ship in Her Majesty’s navy.
Of course, she didn’t do so alone. She had the assistance of the housekeeper, Mrs Sheffield.
Throw His Heart Over Page 3
