Darling Beast

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “He looks like an old man with a toothache!”

  Daffodil yipped and jumped up to nip at her giggling young master, and even Maude broke into a reluctant smile.

  The maid hastily repressed it, though. “I’ll have you know, young Indio, that this here is the finest of nursing work.”

  “Yes, Maude,” Indio said, more soberly. “Will he be all right?”

  “O’ course, lad,” Maude said stoutly. “Best your mother helps him to her bed, though, because he looks like he could do with a nice long sleep.” Her voice softened just a fraction. “Poor man probably hasn’t a decent bed to sleep on, wherever he takes his rest. Come, you an’ I will start the supper.”

  Indio leaped at that, always eager to be allowed to help in grown-up endeavors, and both maid and boy went to the fireplace, trailed by a curious Daffodil.

  Lily looked into Caliban’s face. He had his eyes closed and was listing slightly in his chair. “Can you walk to the bed?”

  He nodded and opened his eyes. They were duller than she was used to now. It reminded her uncomfortably of the time when she’d thought him mentally incompetent. How strange that idea seemed now.

  “Can you stand?” she asked softly.

  He answered by rising like a drunken behemoth and she hastily dipped a shoulder to bring it under his arm. It wasn’t that she could physically hold him up—he was much too big—but she helped guide him as he stumbled unsteadily toward her little bedroom.

  Inside was her bed—a narrow, pathetic thing—and she helped him climb in, drawing the coverlet over his chest. He looked as if he lay in a child’s cot. His feet hung off the end and one arm dangled almost to the ground from the side.

  Caliban seemed comfortable enough—his eyes already shut. Was he asleep? She bent over him, whispering urgently, “Caliban.”

  He opened his eyes, and though the color hadn’t changed from ordinary brown, they were somehow more dear to her now.

  “Who was that man?” she asked. “Why did he attack you?”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes again. If he was feigning sleep, he was better than many actors Lily had known.

  She blew out a frustrated breath and went around to the foot of the bed. His gaiters and shoes were quite muddy and she wrinkled her nose in disgust, but got gamely to work. She unlaced his gaiters and then unbuckled his shoes, marveling at their size before setting them neatly beneath the bed. Then she found another blanket and pulled it over his upper half, for the one on the bed didn’t come close to his shoulders.

  With a last look, Lily shut the bedroom door and went out into the main room.

  Maude and Indio were by the hearth as Maude supervised the boy in stirring something in a bubbling pot.

  She cast a look over her shoulder at Lily’s entrance. “There’s tea on the table, hinney. Take a seat and have a cup, but first you’ll want to scrub your hands. Go on, then.”

  Lily nodded wearily and crossed to the outside door. It was oddly comforting to have Maude instructing her as the older woman had when she was a little girl. As Lily herself did now with Indio.

  Outside, the sky had begun to gray and Lily blinked at the passage of time. She’d been so fearful for Indio, then so concerned about tending to Caliban, that she hadn’t noticed.

  She went to the barrel of water they kept beside the door, removing the wooden cover and dipping out some water with which to scrub the blood and mud from her hands. She watched the pinkish water run into the dirt at her feet, making little runnels, and remembered another time she’d scrubbed blood from her hands. Kitty’s dear face had been so swollen she couldn’t open her eyes, her mouth turned into an obscene, bloodied mass.

  All because of a big, violent man.

  Lily watched the last of the water run off and recalled Maude’s words—Remember Kitty—and wondered if she was making a very foolish—and perhaps fatal—mistake.

  Chapter Seven

  The king sat in his golden castle and brooded. He fathered no more children, and as he aged he grew bitter that others might have lovely offspring but he, the ruler of the island, had sired only a monster. So he made an awful commandment: every year the people must send into the labyrinth the most beautiful youth and the most beautiful maiden on the island as sacrifice to his terrible son…

  —From The Minotaur

  Apollo woke in the dark the next morning to two immediate realizations: one, he was in a bed—a real bed—for the first time since before Bedlam, and two, he hadn’t written and set out the day’s instructions for the gardeners. He groaned silently at the last thought. The fellows Asa had hired were a competent enough lot, but with no instruction they had a tendency to mill around without doing any useful work.

  But the bed—the lovely, lovely bed—made it hard to feel put out by the matter. The bed wasn’t big, but it was soft and clean with a proper mattress—not stuffed with scratchy straw—and it was comfortable. He was tempted to go back to sleep.

  Except the thought hit him of whose bed he must be in: Miss Stump’s.

  He sat up, jostling his head, which promptly began to complain about the matter. The room was dark—it had no windows—but he knew from the internal clock his body had kept since he was a boy that it was morning, probably six or seven of the clock.

  Where was Miss Stump?

  Cautiously he lowered his foot to the floor and only then realized he was missing both shoes and gaiters. His brows shot up. Had elegant Miss Stump removed them? It took a few minutes of feeling about, but he eventually discovered his shoes under the bed and donned them.

  He felt his way to the door and cracked it.

  Immediately he was set upon by Daffodil, who appeared to be the only one of the household awake. She spun at his feet, yipping excitedly.

  Apollo bent and picked up the little dog to keep her from waking everyone.

  When he straightened he saw Indio, sitting up from a nest of blankets on the floor. He and his mother appeared to be bedded down together, while Maude was in the cot. Both women still slept.

  Apollo had only a moment to sneak a glimpse of Miss Stump’s mahogany hair, down and spread like a silken skein over her pillow, before the boy yawned and rose. “Daff says she has to go out an’ so do I.”

  Apollo looked with alarm at the wriggling dog in his arms.

  The boy had worn his shirt to sleep in. He donned a pair of breeches and trotted over.

  Apollo opened the outer door.

  Outside, the morning had dawned sunny and glorious. He set Daffodil on the ground and she immediately squatted.

  Indio was making his way around the back of the theater and Apollo followed him. The boy stopped at one of the few trees still living—a great gnarled oak—and began fumbling with the fall of his breeches.

  He glanced up, grinning, as Apollo halted beside him. “I like to try an’ hit that knot.” He nodded at a knot in the tree, about three feet off the ground.

  Apollo smirked back and unbuttoned his own breeches.

  The two streams of urine hit the knot and steamed impressively against the morning cold of the tree trunk, Apollo’s lasting a bit longer than the boy’s.

  “Cor!” Indio said as he shook off his little prick and began righting himself. “You’re dead good at that. Took me days to hit it the first time.”

  Apollo tried not to let the compliment go to his head. Precision pissing was, after all, a sadly underrated skill among most of society.

  “Indio!”

  Miss Stump’s call echoed through the garden.

  Indio’s eyes widened. “That’s my mama. She’ll be wanting us to come in for breakfast.”

  Apollo followed the boy back around the theater to find Miss Stump standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over a wrap.

  She raised a hand to her unbound hair when she caught sight of him. “Oh, Caliban. I didn’t know you were up yet. Good morning.”

  He nodded, watching as she pushed her hair behind her ears. The sad female creatures of Bedlam h
ad often had their hair down, but theirs had been dirty and tangled, the result of unsound minds no longer caring about their toilet.

  Miss Stump’s unbound hair was an intimate sight—a sight such as a lover or husband might be privy to. It shone, waist-length, heavy, and straight, and he fought the urge to take it between his fingers to test its weight and feel the silky texture.

  Perhaps some of his desire revealed itself on his face because she stepped back into the theater, glancing nervously at him from the corners of her eyes. “Have you washed, Indio?”

  “Nooo.” Indio drew out the reluctant syllable.

  Apollo tapped him on the shoulder and nodded at the water barrel. No doubt he could do with a bath as well.

  Miss Stump disappeared for a moment and then returned with several cloths. The boy stripped off his shirt, shivering in the morning air, his arms wrapped over his skinny chest.

  Apollo smiled and uncovered the water barrel to dip a cloth in. He handed it to the boy before wetting his own washcloth. Normally he’d simply have sluiced himself with the water dipper, but he had a feeling Miss Stump would not appreciate his undoing all her hard work in dressing his wound.

  So instead he washed his face and neck briskly, then poured fresh water over the cloth and wiped his arms, underarms, and chest. He pivoted as he did so and saw that Miss Stump stood in the doorway to the theater, watching him.

  He met her eyes and became conscious for the first time that he was half naked and performing a private act before her. Bedlam had stripped him of modesty. There the cells had never been entirely shut off, never entirely private. The most basic of human activities had, at times, been done before an audience of other inmates or uncaring guards. He might as well have been a horse in a stable—save that most horses were better treated than the patients at Bedlam.

  But Miss Stump didn’t look at him as if he were an animal. She looked at him as a woman does a man she finds attractive.

  Perhaps even arousing.

  Her eyelids were half lowered, her cheeks flushed, and as he watched, her pink tongue ran slowly over her bottom lip.

  He was aware suddenly of his nipples, pulled exquisitely tight on his chest, of his cock, pumping full of hot blood.

  “Am I c-c-clean now, Mama?” Indio’s high voice chattered behind him.

  “What?” Miss Stump blinked. “Oh! Erm, yes, quite clean, Indio. Come inside before you catch your death of cold.”

  The boy darted past Apollo, his shirt clutched in his hand, and Daffodil, who had been milling about, sniffing at dead vegetation, barked and happily raced after.

  Apollo followed more slowly, watching Miss Stump as he did. She was bustling about the room, settling her son at the table, instructing Maude, and then disappearing abruptly into the bedroom he’d taken last night.

  When she reappeared, her hair was dressed—much to his regret—and she bore a thin blanket. “Caliban, would you like this until you can find another shirt?” She held out the blanket and then her brows knit. “You do have another shirt, don’t you?”

  He gave her a sardonic glance that made her blush and then nodded.

  “I hope you like tea, because we don’t run to coffee,” Maude said, and banged a teapot down on the table.

  That apparently was the signal to sit for breakfast, and so Apollo did.

  The table held bread and butter and a plate of cold sliced meat. There wasn’t a lot of anything, and he was reminded of Makepeace’s words. Miss Stump was out of work.

  Apollo was careful to take only one slice of bread and only a little meat. He knew what it was like to be without food. He’d often been weak with hunger in Bedlam, despite Artemis’s heroic attempts to keep him supplied with food. Hunger was an affliction worse than beatings. It made the mind narrow to only that one point: food and when one would next be able to eat. Damnable to reduce a man to the state of a starving dog.

  Once he’d been lower than a starving dog, mindless with want.

  So he was careful now to eat in slow, moderate bites, as a gentleman should, for he was, beneath everything else, a gentleman.

  The tea was weak but hot and he drank two cups of it, watching Miss Stump nibble at her own bread. She caught his eye once and bit her lip, as if hiding a secret smile. All the while Indio chattered about everything from the sparrows he’d seen in the trees the day before to the dead snail Daffodil had attempted to eat the previous week.

  But pleasant as the morning meal was, it wasn’t long before Apollo recollected that he must be at work—and to do that, he’d have to fetch his only other shirt from the musician’s gallery.

  He pulled out his notebook and, turning to a new page, wrote, Thank you—for the meal, the physicking, and the bed—but I must be off to my labors.

  Miss Stump blushed when she read it and gave it back. “We were glad to help.”

  Indio, who had been watching the exchange, slumped in his chair. “Aww! Must Caliban go? I wanted to show him my new boat.”

  “He’s a man grown, dearest, and must be about his job. But perhaps”—she cleared her throat, peeking at him beneath her lashes—“we could take Caliban a picnic luncheon?”

  “Yes!” Indio was so excited he knelt up on his chair as he turned to Apollo. “Say yes, pleeeease?”

  Apollo’s lips twitched as he inclined his head.

  “Huzzah!” Indio cried, making Daffodil leap and twirl in excitement. “Huzzah!”

  “Sit down afore you spill your tea, lad,” Maude said gruffly, but even she had a smile upon her face.

  Apollo walked out into the garden feeling better than he had in months—even with the headache. He could hear chopping coming from somewhere in the garden, so at least some work was being done—whether it was the correct work might be another matter. He hurried to the musician’s gallery.

  It was as he was buttoning his waistcoat—sadly he’d only the one, and that was now stained and slightly damp from lying on the ground all night—that he heard the distinctive sound of Makepeace’s voice raised in ire.

  Hastily he finished his crude toilet and jogged in the direction of the yelling, which became comprehensible as he got nearer.

  “If you think I’ll take on some wet-behind-the-ears, overeducated, dilettante architect to design and rebuild my bloody garden just because you met him at some aristocratic ball in Sweden—”

  “Switzerland,” drawled an obnoxious, familiar voice.

  “Bloody Switzerland,” Makepeace amended without even taking breath, “than you’ve lost your blasted ducal mind. This garden is going to be the most wondrous pleasure garden in all of London, which might as well be the world, and to do that we need an experienced, working architect, not some silly aristocrat who’s decided that he’d play with blocks and see if he could build something that wouldn’t fall down after three damned minutes.”

  By the time Makepeace had come to the end of his loud and foul objections, Apollo had rounded a corner and caught sight of him.

  Makepeace was standing in the middle of the ruined path that led to the dock, hair on end, hands on hips, glowering thunderously at the Duke of Montgomery, who didn’t seem to realize the mortal peril he was in.

  Indeed, as Apollo came to a stop beside the two men, the duke flicked open a jeweled snuffbox and smiled slyly at him. “Why, Mr. Makepeace, I’m surprised you have such objections to the blood of my architect, considering you’re such good friends with Viscount Kilbourne.”

  Apollo froze. They’d never made mention of his real name or rank in front of Montgomery. The man was supposed to have been out of the country for years until last summer. How in hell had he figured out who Apollo was?

  His gaze met Makepeace’s and he saw equal baffled fury there.

  Montgomery sneezed into an enormous lace-edged handkerchief. “Now then, gentlemen,” he said after he’d stowed both the snuffbox and the handkerchief in his pocket. “Let us begin this discussion again on a more congenial note, shall we?”

  “What do you want,
Montgomery?” Makepeace all but growled.

  The duke shrugged delicately. “As I’ve said: to employ an architect of my own selection to design and build the theater and musician’s gallery and various other follies I might like in the garden. I shall, naturally, be paying him from my own pocket. Come now, it’s not as if you have a choice.”

  At that, Makepeace did growl.

  “Fascinating,” Montgomery drawled, cocking his head as he watched Makepeace simmer. Apollo wondered if the man had any sense of self-preservation. “But I shall take that as agreement.”

  He turned and strolled leisurely away.

  “We can’t trust him, ’Pollo,” Makepeace said, abruptly and low. “We couldn’t trust him before, but now he knows your name.”

  And Apollo couldn’t help but agree.

  “HE’S JUST A gardener,” Maude muttered later that day as she watched Lily dither over the picnic luncheon she was packing. “Well, that’s what he told you, anyway.”

  “Do you think he’d like roast chicken or boiled eggs better?” Lily had spent the morning frantically writing so that she might take a few hours’ break in the afternoon, which meant she had only minutes to pack the picnic luncheon. “And he isn’t just a gardener, he’s the head gardener—he’s designing the entire pleasure garden, as far as I can tell.”

  “Hinney, a man as big as that, working hard all day, will eat anything and everything you set in front of him,” Maude opined. “If he’s the head gardener and such an important man as all that, why is he livin’ rough in the garden and wearing such common clothes?”

  “I don’t know, Maude.” Lily put both the eggs and the leftover roast chicken securely in the basket. It was normally used for Maude’s knitting and she’d been none too pleased to have her work dumped out on the table so Lily could commandeer the basket. “Perhaps he’s down on his luck. Or maybe he likes to stay at the garden he’s working on. Or…” But her imagination had run out. There really wasn’t an explanation for Caliban’s many strange habits.