Tom’s death was the permanent shadow that loomed over their family. It hadn’t just driven their father to drink. For a long time, it had leached all the happiness out of his mother too. But his mother had recovered, as much as she could, anyway. She still had two sons and four daughters to think of. She had their schooling to arrange, a household to run, and, given her husband’s abdication of all responsibility, an estate to look after too. And she did it, took it all on, while Iain’s father fell further and further into his cups and looked unlikely ever to crawl out.
In fairness, he had a few good memories of his father: his expression when he’d seen Iain in his brand-new uniform for the first time; the conversations they’d had about each new medal Iain had been decorated with; his rapt interest when Iain described his battle experiences. At these times, it had felt as though, perhaps, the man had been proud of Iain for a little while. But with peacetime had come less adventure. Less glory. Less pride and more criticism.
And for whom had Iain been living this life? For himself or his father?
For Tom?
What was it James had said earlier?
If I didn’t choose to do the things that excited me, took the...comforts that I needed, then I would simply—never have those things. Would die without having lived.”
Had Iain made any choices in his life that were really his?
He was halfway down the hill now, and Holmewell was in sight, but he slowed his pace, not ready to arrive, not ready to shamble on his old mask and join the other guests. Especially not now, as half a lifetime of memories flooded his mind. James moaning into that first, fumbling inexpert kiss. James riding by his side through the Derbyshire hills, then lying beside him at the swimming hole, his pale body kissed by the dappled sunshine. The two of them kissing and touching one another. Loving one another. James asleep as Iain stole out of his townhouse bedchamber. And just last night, James’s mouth on his as they stood, cocooned together behind the curtains in the library.
The memories were as painful as they were sweet, each one proving to him, were proof needed, that James made him feel happy, made him feel alive, in a way that nothing and no one else in his life did. That James saw him, knew him, as no one else did, not even the friends who knew of his secret desires for other men, because James knew all of him, and somehow, remarkably, loved him anyway. Loved him still, Iain realised, thinking back to the man’s devastated expression in the cottage earlier. Knowing that he still had that power over James, despite his many failings, made him feel ashamed and gratified at once.
It went both ways. James had power over him too, though he’d probably scoff at the very idea. All these years, James had been pulling Iain back to him, over and over, his desire to see James always ultimately stronger than the worry that things would get out of hand. As often as Iain had left, he’d returned, pulled back by that invisible thread.
That thread was love. He admitted it now to himself. It was love that had drawn Iain back, over and over. And each time he returned, his defences were further weakened, till this time, finally, he’d had to come into battle with no armour or weapons at all.
Nowhere to hide.
Chapter Nineteen
As Iain passed through the gates of Holmewell, greeting the gateman with a raised hand, he noticed distantly that it had turned out to be a lovely afternoon, warm and bright, not a cloud left in the sky. The storm might never have been.
The picnic would certainly be going ahead. Iain decided to head straight for the river rather than going back to the house. Turning off the main drive, he made for the gardens at the back of the house. He quickly crossed the formal pleasure grounds, neat and geometrical. Beyond that was the abundant utility of the kitchen gardens which provided the house with fruit, vegetables and herbs. Further still lay the ruthlessly maintained “wilderness” garden, complete with wide, flat paths suitable for even the most delicate of ladies’ slippers to traverse. It was at the far end of the wilderness garden that one found the path that led to the broad, shady riverbank where the picnic was being held.
He heard the other guests before he saw them, the squeals and laughter of the children, the more muted sound of grown-up conversation. The tinkling of china and silverware.
By the time he came round the last bend in the path, he’d managed to paste a smile on his face and was ready to greet his fellow guests with the usual sort of small talk.
Kate had outdone herself, setting up a muslin-draped canopy for the adults with proper tables and chairs and a more relaxed arrangement with blankets on the ground for the children—not that any of the children were sitting. They were all running around or swimming or playing what looked to be a brutal game of croquet.
Iain strolled up to the canopy. The first table he spied was a small one at which his parents sat. He noted the telling tension in his mother’s jaw and the belligerent look his father wore as he defiantly lifted a wineglass and drained its contents.
“I’m just asking you to slow down, Arthur,” he heard his mother mutter as he approached them. “This is a family occasion.” The next instant, she caught sight of Iain, and her own mask, a familiar one, descended. She sent him a bright, if somewhat brittle, smile.
“My dear!” she exclaimed. “You’re back. We wondered if you and James had been caught in the storm. Mr. Potts said you’d both insisted on carrying on despite the clouds.”
“Isn’t James here?” Iain asked, frowning. He cast his gaze around, but there was no sign of the man anywhere.
“No. Isn’t he with you?” Iain’s mother asked.
“Usually follows you round like a dog,” his father muttered.
Iain glanced at him sharply, annoyed, disinclined, for once, to greet his behaviour with silence. “I beg your pardon?” he bit out.
His father looked up, surprised. “What?” he asked. His eyes were bleary, his mouth wet and slack. It was the middle of the day, and his father was drunk, shaming his mother. Shaming Iain, and Isabel too, who appeared to be staying as far away from their parents as she could.
For the first time in his life, it occurred to Iain to wonder if his father would have drunk like this even if Tom hadn’t died.
“Did you have something to say about James?” Iain asked crisply.
His father smiled unpleasantly. That was one of the worst things about his drinking. The nastiness it brought out in him. When Iain thought back to the father of his early childhood, his memory was of a man who laughed frequently. But perhaps the truth was his father had always been like this. Perhaps it was just Iain’s imperfect childhood memory that insisted that everything before Tom’s death was perfect.
“He’s always sniffing about you,” the old man muttered nastily.
“Oh, stop it, Arthur!” his mother hissed, eyes flashing with sudden temper. “I don’t know why you didn’t just stay in your bedchamber if you’re only going to drink yourself into another stupor today.” She pressed her lips tightly together and looked away, blinking hard. His father sent her a sullen look, but he fell silent, staring balefully at his empty wineglass as though willing it to magically replenish itself.
“Well,” Iain said at last, into the silence. “I think I’ll go and ask Kate if James made it home all right.”
“You do that, dear,” his mother said, sending him a small, tight, apologetic smile. He found himself wishing that he could comfort her somehow. His answering smile felt horribly inadequate. There were times when he found his mother’s dogged cheerfulness in the face of his father’s ugly behaviour difficult to bear, but right now he’d have given a king’s ransom to see it. For once, her deep unhappiness, though still veiled, was visible to him, and a wave of unexpected love flooded him for this brave, slightly distant woman who had raised him and his siblings. In that moment, it occurred to him that he had spent his whole life trying to please his father, a man who couldn’t be pleased. And in all those years, not one word of criticism had ever passed his mother’s lips.
Heart heav
y, he wove through the tables under the canopy. Kate and Edward were sitting with Isabel and Bertie, who had little Margaret on his lap, playing with his pocket watch.
“Iain, there you are,” Kate said, smiling up at him. “You look rather better than my brother did when he arrived home. He was soaked.”
“Good, he made it back then.” Iain cleared his throat. “I sheltered till the storm passed.”
Kate nodded. “Yes, at the cottage. He told me.”
“Why on earth didn’t James stay with you?” Edward asked, frowning, and Iain felt warmth enter his cheeks. Kate looked amused, Isabel and Bertie curious.
“You can ask him yourself,” Kate told her husband. “Here he comes.”
Iain turned, and sure enough, there was James, walking towards the canopy, looking as fine as fivepence in a bottle-green coat and fawn trousers, his old-gold hair gleaming in the dappled sunshine.
But before he reached their table, he was hailed by one of the other guests.
“Mr. Hart,” Mr. Potts called to him. “Do join us and tell us about your little expedition. I gather you got soaked, just as I said you would.”
James smiled a little stiffly and made his way over to Potts’s table, taking an empty seat next to one of the young unmarried ladies, a Miss Lloyd, Iain recalled.
Kate elbowed him. “Go and sit with James,” she urged him. “You can’t leave him to deal with Potts on his own. It’s too cruel.”
Edward chuckled. “You really ought,” he agreed. “If you call yourself any sort of a friend. My brother-in-law could talk till the cows come home.”
“All right,” Iain said, though his stomach was already in knots at the very thought of approaching James again.
He began to walk towards Potts’s table, wondering if James would stand up and walk off at his approach or if politeness would keep him rooted there. His nerves writhed like snakes in his gut as though he were going into battle rather than sitting down to tea and cake. It was absurd to feel so eaten up just to be approaching his oldest friend in the world.
“May I join you?” he asked when he reached the table, secretly astonished to hear his voice emerging just the way it always did, calm and clear.
There were four of them at the table already: Mr. and Mrs. Potts, Miss Lloyd and James. Everyone but James looked up when Iain spoke. When Iain saw Mr. Potts open his mouth, he just knew he was going to point out that there were no chairs. He forestalled the vicar’s objection by turning away to ask the occupants of the neighbouring table if he might borrow one of their empty chairs. He took their easy assent as his permission to join Potts’s table, ignoring the vicar’s glare.
Once they’d all shuffled around to make room for Iain and he’d settled himself, Mr. Potts said, “So, Mr. Hart. Did you find your brimstone today?”
“Yes,” James replied. Iain stared at him, willing him to look Iain’s way, but he kept his gaze firmly on the vicar. “We were able to watch a number of them feed,” he continued. “We also found some buckthorn bushes nearby which had eggs and some early pupae.”
“Did you bring back any specimens, Mr. Hart?” This was Mrs. Potts, her expression polite.
“No, I wasn’t looking for any. I have plenty of specimens already and am well acquainted with the minutiae of the anatomy of this species. Today, I wanted to observe the behaviour. I am interested in the way they feed and roost.”
Potts laughed. “I’m not sure what you expect to discover,” he said. “In my experience, all butterflies flit around in exactly the same way.”
“Well, you see, that’s where you’re wrong,” Iain put in. “Most butterflies settle with their wings open, but brimstones settle with their wings closed.”
James turned to look at him, an almost comical expression of surprise on his face. “You noticed that?”
Iain’s lips twitched at his obvious astonishment. “You weren’t the only one watching, you know.”
James’s mouth hitched by the smallest degree on one side. The half smile transformed his slightly remote expression, making his grey eyes glint with sudden warmth. Potts soon intruded on the moment, though.
“You will forgive me, Mr. Sinclair,” he said, his tone patronising, “if I venture a view, since I, unlike yourself, am a student of nature. The fact of the butterfly’s wings being open or closed is neither here nor there—”
James interrupted him. “You’re quite wrong, Mr. Potts. The whole point of the brimstone’s appearance is to enable it to pass as a leaf. When it settles to feed or roosts at night, it is able to hide from predators, provided it closes its wings. By behaving as it does, it makes a place for itself in its world that is safe, right out in the open.”
Potts frowned. “Careful, Mr. Hart,” he replied, “one must not overlook the divine hand here. You speak as though this insect made its own place in the world, when the truth is, it was the good Lord who placed it there.”
Iain waited to see how James would respond to this. The man’s expression showed no reaction to Potts’s statement, but Iain knew it would have irritated him.
After a brief silence, James said, “Do you know what the difference is between you and me, Mr. Potts?” His countenance was as pleasant as ever, but his grey gaze was hard.
“Pray, enlighten me, Mr. Hart,” the vicar invited tightly.
“It is this. You are content with the lessons you’ve already learned, whereas I am endeavouring to learn more. That is why I am so passionate about nature, you see. Because if I look long enough and hard enough, I might just discover something new.”
Potts’s mouth twisted up, as if he’d just taken a swig of vinegar. “Like what?” he asked. “Heretical ideas about transmutation of species?”
James shrugged. “What are yesterday’s heresies but tomorrow’s orthodoxies? The history of science is of discovery upon discovery, each step leading to the next. It doesn’t matter whether a theory is proved right in the long term, only that it takes us another step down the path of knowledge.”
Mrs. Potts jumped in at that. “But doesn’t the Bible warn us to beware the tree of knowledge, Mr. Hart?”
James turned his attention to the lady. “Let me tell you something, ma’am,” he began. “Around one hundred and fifty years ago, a scientist called Francesco Redi carried out a series of experiments that proved that maggots did not spontaneously appear in rotting meat, but in fact emerged from eggs laid by flies.”
Mrs. Potts pulled out her handkerchief and lifted it to her mouth. “Please, Mr. Hart. I hardly think this is suitable conversation for a picnic.”
Iain bit his lip against a smile.
“My apologies,” James continued gravely, “but the point is an important one. Until Redi discovered this, the belief was that maggots simply appeared out of nowhere, and this belief had been unquestioned since Aristotle’s time. Redi proved it was wrong by scientific observation, and so an idea that would once have been rejected as heretical became an accepted orthodoxy.” Smiling politely, he added, “It seems to me, ma’am, that a questioning mind, a desire to discover new things, can never be a bad thing. There is nothing to fear from more knowledge.”
“I must disagree, Mr. Hart,” Potts interjected. “Where would mankind end up if any idea could be entertained? Where would one draw the line? Would you tolerate a debate over the very existence of God?”
“Of course,” James replied mildly. “Why not?”
“Why not?” Potts snapped. “Because it is blasphemous, sir! Utterly offensive to any good Christian.”
The vicar’s raised voice attracted the attention of a few other guests, who glanced at their table, curious. Iain decided it might be time to change the subject, but before he could say anything, rescue came from the unlikeliest of places.
“Well, I’ve learned something today!” Miss Lloyd said. She had a high, breathy voice and a pronounced lisp, and Iain could’ve sworn that these were the first words she’d ever spoken in his hearing. “I had no idea maggots came from flies!”
/>
Her expression was so astonished that Iain couldn’t help himself—he laughed out loud, startling an offended look from the young lady and causing all of his table companions to turn to look at him.
“Forgive me, Miss Lloyd,” he begged immediately. “I’m not laughing at you. It is merely that I am relieved to find there is another person at this table who knows as little about science as I do.”
That was a lie, of course, but Miss Lloyd was mollified and sent him a grateful smile. In the past, he might have cocked an eyebrow at her and let his own smile linger, playing the part of the ladies’ man, all part of his old disguise, but he found he didn’t want to do anything that might make James feel unhappy. Instead, he glanced at the man who was prompting these thoughts to find that James was already watching him, his expression difficult to read. Watchful.
Iain held James’s gaze briefly, trying somehow to communicate without words that he wanted to talk with him. Then he said to the table at large, “Excuse me, I think I’ll take a stroll along the river.”
He rose, returned his chair to its rightful place and ambled away, hoping James would take the hint and follow him.
He wandered down to the river’s edge, enjoying the warmth of the sun. A pack of boys was swimming. They yelled and splashed loudly, clambering out in their wet shirts to run across a row of flat, broad stones on the opposite bank before jumping back in, every one of them apparently aiming to make the biggest splash possible.
There must be at least a half-dozen boys swimming. A similar number of girls—Iain’s nieces among them—played some complicated game with ribbons on the opposite bank, complaining loudly every time one of the boys ran past and interrupted them. It was loud and noisy and joyful, and Iain smiled, remembering similar scenes from his own childhood.
Unnatural Page 20
