“Or,” said Halloway, interrupting Aubrey’s thoughts once more, “I could keep it for myself. Vain and selfish though it may mark me, I think this may become one of my better pieces, and I’d be happy to admire it in my own rooms for many years.”
Yet Halloway wasn’t admiring the painting now. He was looking straight into Aubrey’s eyes, and the casual cast of his expression appeared more forced than before.
Aubrey knew at once Halloway had made the offer only in response to Aubrey’s evident discomfort. Whilst Aubrey appreciated the gesture, as a friend, he could not allow himself to accept such a bargain. Halloway shouldn’t be forced to compromise his career for the sake of Aubrey’s weakness of character. His fears were unfounded, borne of vanity, of assuming anyone could bear to gaze upon such hideous features long enough to recognise them.
Besides, Aubrey thought, with more than a hint of wicked satisfaction, wouldn’t it give his old admirers a shock to see what had become of their Ganymede.
~
Luncheon consisted of sirloin steak with fried tomatoes, lamb chops with spinach, and fresh strawberries with cream. Meat so tender it fell apart under the knife, tomatoes fried to a satisfying crisp, sweet strawberries with cream fresh from the dairy, any one of these far better fare than Aubrey had known before he’d met Lindsey.
“Keep the kitchen maid,” Halloway advised between bites, and Aubrey had to agree.
After luncheon, Lindsey went out riding, while Halloway attempted to teach Aubrey to play billiards. It went better than any attempt made in Aubrey’s youth at the Catullus Club, probably because Halloway actually wanted Aubrey to learn the rules and strategies of the game, and not just stare at his arse as he bent over the table. The billiards room at the Wiltshire house also possessed the advantage of a splendid view outside of its windows, one which just so happened to overlook the stables, and allowed Aubrey to catch sight of Lindsey’s return some hours later.
“He does cut a rather dashing figure,” Halloway mused.
Aubrey, watching Lindsey race across the fields like Dick Turpin on Black Bess, again found himself agreeing with Halloway’s assessment.
“You can go on ahead,” Halloway continued, returning to the business of chalking a cue. “I’ll finish up here.”
Aubrey hadn’t said anything aloud about his desire to go down and meet Lindsey upon his return but supposed something in his expression had told the astute painter all his intentions. Regardless, he took advantage of the offer and went out.
The long and winding path on foot from the billiards room to the courtyard brought Aubrey to the stables just as Lindsey rode into the paddock on horseback.
Lindsey, despite the distraction of riding, locked eyes with Aubrey the moment he arrived. His already-brilliant smile brightened further, and he leapt down from the saddle with the grace of a dancer. Handing the reins off to a groom, he began striding towards Aubrey.
But the coachman—recognisable as such by his age, some twenty years older than the grooms, and by the deference they showed him—stepped into Lindsey’s path.
“If you’ll forgive the interruption, sir,” he said with a brief touch of his hat-brim. “I’ve heard tell of a fine piece of horseflesh for sale.”
This offer appeared to greatly intrigue Lindsey. Before he could continue his discussion with the coachman, however, he turned to address Aubrey.
“Go on ahead to the house,” said Lindsey. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Aubrey, abashed by how easily Lindsey had seen through his efforts to disguise his bewildered boredom, nevertheless felt relieved at his release, and slipped out of the stable as the coachman continued describing the prospective addition to the herd.
The path between the stables and the house split at the paddock, the right-hand path going straight on to meet the gravel of the courtyard and the massive granite steps up into the house, and the left-hand path taking a more circuitous route behind the stable and on through the gardens. Aubrey, assuming Lindsey’s discussion with the coachman would last some minutes, took the left-hand path to while away the time amongst pleasant scenery.
Yet before he ever reached the pleasant scenery, while still approaching the rear of the stables, the sound of conversation drifted to his ears.
“And of course,” a man’s voice drawled in the tone of one who believed himself an under-appreciated wit, “he looked a right beauty when last he came.”
The familiar burning blush crept up the nape of Aubrey’s neck. He paused on the pathway, uncertain. A wise man would turn back. No benefit could derive from idle gossip.
Yet Aubrey knew himself more curious than wise, and so he continued on the path which by purest coincidence brought him nearer to the voice.
“But now,” the voice continued as Aubrey walked, “I shudder to think what’d happen if he should chance to stroll past the dairy. That face would sour milk in the udder.”
If Aubrey had harboured any hopes that he was not the subject of conversation, these hopes sank now. Amongst the uniformly handsome staff, and the dashing good looks of Lindsey, the only man in the house whose face could be said to sour milk belonged to Aubrey himself.
With a knot in his stomach to match the burning in his ears, Aubrey reached the back of the stable and peered around the corner to see who spoke thus.
The stable boy—more man than boy, really, standing just as tall as the grooms and twice as broad—scrubbed down a horse with a handful of dry straw, whilst a footman leaned against a post to watch the proceedings. The footman, whom Aubrey could tell apart from the grooms only by virtue of his livery, appeared far more interested in the stable boy’s rippling muscles than in the horse. Aubrey couldn’t blame him. Yet the stable hand, intent on his work, appeared to take no notice of the footman in turn.
“It’s a wonder Sir Lindsey can bear to look upon it,” said the footman, revealing himself as the disembodied voice. “Though I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”
Aubrey, who’d wondered the same thing often enough in his darker moments, nonetheless felt sick at the confirmation that others thought so.
“Perhaps we ought to put a bell on him,” the footman continued, “so we might know when he’s coming and prepare ourselves for the sight.”
“At least he’s not ugly on the inside, which is more’n I can say for the likes of you.”
The addition of a second voice shocked the footman as much as it did Aubrey. The stable hand spoke low and level, nothing like the lilting performance of the footman.
“What’re you on about?” the footman demanded, all decorum vanished.
“I’m sayin’ your soul turns stomachs,” said the stable hand, never raising his eyes from his task. “Mine included.”
The footman stared in frank disbelief at the stable hand. The stable hand continued working in silence. After a moment, the footman gave a loud scoff, turned on his heel and strode out of the stable yard, taking the path behind it up to the house.
Aubrey, disinclined to immediately follow in the footsteps of one who held him in such disdain, turned back down the path—as he ought to have done when he first stumbled upon a private conversation, he reflected in bitter self-reproach—and came to the front of the stables just as Lindsey re-emerged, ebullient as ever.
“Connor has espied a fine yearling,” Lindsey told him by way of explanation. “Magnificent blue roan coat, a colouring to which Rowena is quite partial. I’m inclined to wait until she returns to have her opinion on the matter, though some other more decisive fellow may have snatched it up by then. What d’you think?”
Aubrey forced a smile and confessed he had no thoughts upon it whatsoever.
Dinner that evening may as well have been so much ash for all Aubrey could taste it. Likewise, he heard little of the conversation between Lindsey and Halloway regarding the potential new horse.
After dinner, Halloway retired early, intending to rise before dawn so he might make himself ready to paint in the morning’s lig
ht. This left Aubrey and Lindsey alone together in the library. Aubrey had assumed they might pass the hours in silent reading of the evening papers and those magazines which had only just been forwarded from the London townhouse. These hopes were dashed as Lindsey set aside the most recent issue of Belgravia and turned to address him directly.
“Have you any opinion on the new cook?” Lindsey asked.
Aubrey, who could barely remember having eaten, could only respond with a blank look.
“You hardly touched the asparagus vinaigrette,” Lindsey noted. “I thought the Welsh rabbit might prove more to your liking, but…”
“I’m afraid I hadn’t much appetite,” Aubrey admitted.
“Not ill, I hope,” said Lindsey, and seemed ready to leave his chair to put a hand upon Aubrey’s forehead.
Aubrey, his guilt compounding, hurried to reply. “I’m fine. Just distracted.”
Lindsey eased back into his seat with an expression of fond relief. “Engineering, I suppose?”
As much as Aubrey wanted to take the easy out Lindsey had offered him, he felt guilty enough as matters stood without lying outright. He shook his head, chewed his tongue, and at length, forced out, “You were saying something about selecting staff for the Manchester house?”
“Indeed!” said Lindsey, obviously delighted to have Aubrey’s opinion on the matter at last. “Have you any preference?”
“Do they have to come from here?”
Lindsey fixed him with a befuddled expression. “No, I don’t suppose they must. Though it would certainly expedite the process. Rowena has already chosen those least inclined to taking offence to our living arrangements.”
Aubrey supposed that was as good a euphemism as any for it. “And least inclined towards blackmail.”
Lindsey sobered. “One must hope so.”
And yet, Aubrey knew, not the least inclined towards gossip. “How does she confirm their character?”
“Through a lengthy interview process before and good wages after. At least, that’s what I’ve always assumed.” A crease appeared between Lindsey’s brows. “What’s troubling you?”
“Nothing,” Aubrey lied.
It evidently did not convince Lindsey, who set aside his magazine, hesitated, then said at last, “If you insist. Though if there is anything amiss, I wish you’d tell me.”
Aubrey weighed his complaint against the gravity of its consequences. He didn’t want anyone to lose their place over it. It wasn’t their fault he looked as he did. Still, if they couldn’t stand the sight of him, he didn’t particularly want to live with them in such close quarters as the Manchester house provided.
Though, as he reflected upon it, he knew some members of the household staff who didn’t think him unforgivably ugly.
“You said we require a housemaid as well as a cook?” Aubrey asked.
Lindsey nodded.
“I think,” Aubrey went on in halting fashion, “I may have someone to nominate for that post.”
Surprise elevated Lindsey’s eyebrows. “Splendid! Who?”
This simple question quite overran Aubrey’s power to answer. “A dark-haired girl. Welsh, I think. I’m afraid I don’t know her name. But she seems well-suited to the work and might do well for us in Manchester.”
“That’s certainly more opinion than I’ve been able to form on the subject.” Lindsey furrowed his brow in thought. “It’s a shame you can’t name her, but I’m sure Mrs Sheffield will know her from description.”
“Good,” said Aubrey.
He’d hoped that would be the end of the matter, yet Lindsey continued gazing upon him with an expression of concern. Aubrey cast his own eyes down to the latest issue of The Engineer, pretending to read a few sentences before glancing up at Lindsey again from under his lashes—only to find Lindsey’s attention had not waned.
“Forgive me for prying,” said Lindsey with the hapless smile of one caught out. “Only I can’t shake the notion there’s something else.”
“It’s my own fault for eavesdropping,” Aubrey muttered.
Lindsey, of course, caught every word. “Eavesdropping on whom? What have you heard?”
Aubrey attempted a casual shrug, as he’d seen Graves and Halloway perform time and again. “Nothing. Just some of the staff talking.”
“What about?” asked Lindsey, undeterred.
Aubrey, out of subterfuge and exhausted with attempting it, gave in. “My face.”
For some moments, the crackling of the fire in the hearth provided the only sound.
“Who,” Lindsey said at last, in a tone Aubrey hadn’t heard from him in quite some time.
“I don’t know!” Aubrey protested. “A footman. I don’t know his name.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing worth sacking him over.”
Lindsey, his mouth already open to retort and his expression hardened in anger, froze. At length he shut his mouth, swallowed hard, and in gentler tones, replied, “If you insist. Though I think a stern correction is due, at the very least.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Aubrey insisted.
“You matter.”
The assertion, simple as it sounded, gave Aubrey more cause for astonishment than he cared to admit. All the more so for the firm tone with which it was said. Lindsey did not often have cause to speak in a commanding fashion. Nor did his face often appear without at least a hint of good humour dancing in his eyes. Yet here Lindsey sat, determination carved into every feature of his handsome visage, as he stared into Aubrey’s face with an intensity as arousing as it was unnerving. Passion burned in his gaze. And to be the subject of such a passion… well. Aubrey could appreciate that much, at least, even if he felt it misplaced.
Unable to manage any coherent reply around the growing lump in his throat, Aubrey instead rose from his own chair and bent to kiss his valiant Lindsey.
The passion which had sparked in Lindsey’s eyes proved just as strong in his lips, and for some moments no conversation could pass between them, for they had not breath to spare.
~
“I’d say you’re about ready to take the reins, sir. If you’d be willin’ to give it a go.”
Aubrey, stunned, blinked down at Fletcher from his perch in the saddle atop Parsival. The groom had offered his comment unprompted, after yet another turn around the paddock identical to every other turn before it. Perhaps the monotony itself had prompted him; Aubrey’s ability to retain his seat turn after turn having proved him reliable enough to take charge of the matter.
“I’m willing,” Aubrey replied.
With an adept flick of his wrist, Fletcher brought the reins up over Parsival’s head and held them out for Aubrey to take.
The leather strap, slender as it was, nevertheless seemed to weigh a great deal in Aubrey’s fingers. He closed both fists tight around it.
“You may find, sir,” said Fletcher, “that a softer touch might serve you better.”
Aubrey, duly chastened, went against every instinct and relaxed his grip on the reins. Parsival flicked his ears to rid himself of a fly and otherwise took no notice.
“See here, sir,” Fletcher explained, patting the gelding’s cheek to induce him to turn his head into Aubrey’s view. “This—” Fletcher pointed to the metal part of the bridle in Parsival’s mouth. “—is the bit. Your touch on the reins presses it against his gums, which tells him to turn to one side or the other, or to halt outright. You needn’t pull very hard; he’s clever enough to know what’s wanted of him.”
Aubrey nodded his understanding.
Fletcher continued, leaving go of Parsival’s head to approach Aubrey in the saddle. He raised his hands to indicate Aubrey’s arm without touching it. “When you do put pressure on the reins, you might feel tempted to pull up. I would encourage you instead to pull back—gentle-like—and keep your forearms level with the ground. In most cases, you needn’t do much more than turn your wrist. Here.” He held up a closed fist, then turned his hand over into a mo
re relaxed position. “Let the reins lay in your palm, and your fingers fold over it.”
Aubrey did as he was told.
“Just so, sir,” said Fletcher. “If you’re ready, then, you c’n try urgin’ him on with your knees. His head and neck move as he walks—he can’t help that—and you’ll just keep the reins steady in your hand until you need him to turn. Don’t let it tighten up when he puts his head out, or slacken when he pulls his neck in. Try to keep a consistent feel of his mouth. You’ll see what I mean in a moment. Keep your arms loose and your hands ready, and you’ll do all right.”
Taking control of such a massive animal felt like rather more responsibility than Aubrey had ever assumed in his life, but he nodded to Fletcher again regardless of the growing knot in his stomach.
Fletcher stepped back. “There you go, sir.”
With great trepidation, Aubrey gently pressed his knees against the gelding’s sides. It seemed foolish to suppose his limbs could make any impression upon the huge beast’s flesh, its muscles shifting under his seat and thighs, each breath like a tide rising and falling beneath him.
And yet, true to Fletcher’s word, Parsival stepped forward.
In an instant, Aubrey realised what Fletcher meant about tightening and slackening the reins. With every step, Parsival’s head bobbed up and down—as it had done every turn ‘round the paddock before now, Aubrey supposed, only with all his attention upon keeping his seat, he’d never taken much notice. Now, he alternately grasped and released the reins to keep a consistent tension.
“Just so, sir,” Fletcher said again, his voice coming from behind Aubrey now that he and Parsival had left the groom behind. “Tight on the left…”
Aubrey pulled his left hand back—not up—until he felt a resistance.
And then that resistance gave way as Parsival’s head turned to the left, and the rest of the gelding followed, bringing them both around the edge of the paddock.
Throw His Heart Over Page 7
