Unnatural

by Joanna Chambers

  Later, he wasn’t sure what made him cast his gaze a little further to the right and see the single, half-submerged head that bobbed there. It was a boy, a little distant from his friends. He looked oddly peaceful, bobbing there in a still sort of way, mouth open, eyes glassy. Then he began to slide under.

  Iain had seen a boy who looked just like that once before, and he knew what he was seeing. Knew the boy was drowning.

  He shouted something—not words but a sort of wordless protest. It made the other children fall abruptly silent and turn to stare at him with shocked faces. Stare at the man who was now diving into the river, fully clothed.

  A few swift strokes took him to the spot where the boy had been. He took a deep breath and dived under, blowing out air and opening his eyes to search as he swam further down with powerful strokes.

  It felt like forever till he saw the pale gleam of the child’s body, the white billow of his shirt. Iain grabbed at one thin, trailing arm and yanked hard. He began to swim upwards with one arm and both of his legs propelling him, his own lungs near bursting now.

  The child’s small body was strangely heavy, and Iain’s sodden clothing was even heavier, but, fuelled by desperation, he kept going, kicking hard to drive himself upwards. And then, finally, he burst past the surface of the water, gasping air and surging towards the opposite bank, just a few merciful feet away.

  He almost sobbed with relief when, a few seconds later, he gained his footing, stumbling onto the rocky riverbed on feet that were still kicking against water, tripping over himself as he turned to take a better hold of the boy, lodging his hands under the child’s armpits and hauling his limp body out of the water and onto the grassy bank.

  A man was running towards them. “Christopher!” he shouted hoarsely. “Christopher!”

  It was Potts, his face wrecked with shock and worry. He reached the child just as Iain pulled himself out of the water. Potts threw himself to the ground, turning the child and leaning over him as he chanted the boy’s name like a prayer. Iain could only be grateful, because he was fit for nothing, his heart pounding, blood roaring in his ears. It was all he could do to lie on his back, dragging air greedily into his lungs.

  When the child began to cough, then retch, relief washed through him. The boy—that mischievous child from yesterday who broke china shepherdesses and pretended to put spiders down girls’ dresses—was alive, thank God.

  With his breath back, Iain slowly sat up, and Potts turned to look at him. Tears ran down his blotchy cheeks.

  “God bless you, sir,” he whispered. “I—you saved my son.” A sudden, undignified sob escaped him, and he turned away. Another man arrived—Edward, his arms full of blankets. He handed a few to Potts, who began to bundle up the boy, then tossed one to Iain.

  “Thank God you saw him, Iain,” he said. “But how did you know? The children said he wasn’t splashing around or shouting for help.”

  Iain got to his feet, wrapping the blanket around himself. “I’ve seen it before,” Iain replied shortly. “My brother drowned. That’s exactly how he looked. Quiet and still, like that.” He swallowed hard, surprised by the lump in his throat. It was ridiculous to feel so affected. The worst had not happened, and even if it had, it wouldn’t have been an extraordinary event. It was the sort of thing one saw in the newspaper all the time, not important enough to be granted more than a small column of newsprint, near the bottom of page five, perhaps.

  Boy, 10, drowns in Warton Bank.

  But an everyday event like that could destroy a whole family, could set lives on entirely different courses than had ever been expected.

  What if Tom had not died? Would it have been Tom, rather than himself, who fought at Waterloo? If so, would he have come back? Perhaps, if Tom had not drowned all those years ago, he’d he be dead now anyway, or perhaps Iain would be. Or Christopher Potts.

  There were endless possibilities.

  Life is not safe.

  Well, James was right about that, wasn’t he? But it was life. And the alternative was... Well, there was no alternative.

  Iain looked over the stretch of water to the opposite river bank—James stood there, watching him.

  Iain lifted his hand, giving a brief wave, and after a moment, James did the same, mirroring him.

  Sudden happiness and certainty filled Iain. If he wanted to live—really live, rather than merely exist—then his path was obvious, wasn’t it?

  He needed James by his side.

  Running away to India wouldn’t change anything. It would just stretch that poor abused thread between him and James to its breaking point. And what if that thread broke? Finally broke, once and for all?

  He wouldn’t be free. He’d be lost. Because he’d realised something true and vital today. The thread between them—the love between them—wasn’t a chain, or a tether.

  It was a lifeline.

  Chapter Twenty

  By the time James became aware of what was happening, it was all over.

  One of the children ran up to their table shouting, “Christopher’s drowning!” and suddenly, Mr. Potts was running as though he’d sprouted wings, James on his heels. The plump vicar who’d climbed the hill so slowly this morning fairly flew over the wobbly stepping stones that stretched from one side of the river to the other and was the first to reach his son and the man who had rescued him.

  While Potts fussed over the boy, Iain lay on his back, seeming exhausted. Only when Edward reached the opposite bank did he finally, slowly, stand up, accepting a blanket and wrapping it round himself.

  That was when he caught sight of James watching him. He lifted a hand and James did the same, and their gazes caught and held. Iain was too far away for James to read his expression, but he felt Iain’s attention on him, like sunlight concentrated through a magnifying glass, a single point so fierce and intense it was as if Iain was touching him. When Iain finally turned away, it was to jog the short distance along the bank to the stepping stones. He wobbled his way across, grinning and dripping river water, making the children sitting on the riverbank giggle at his ungainly steps. How Potts had done it so quickly, without even a stumble, James didn’t know. The vicar wasn’t usually the epitome of grace.

  When Iain reached the opposite bank, he made straight for James, smiling at the other guests he passed who tried to speak to him, but not stopping for any of them. For some reason, probably foolishly, James found himself waiting for him, his heart hammering with the oddest sense of anticipation.

  “Jamie,” Iain said in a low, intense voice when he finally stood in front of him. “I have to speak to you. Now. Right now.”

  James’s heart sped up, but he said warily, “Why? What more is there to say we haven’t already said?”

  Iain just shook his head, swift and impatient. “Not here,” he said again. “Please.”

  “All right,” James said, sighing. “Come on, let’s go back to the house. You need dry clothes anyway.”

  As they approached the canopy, James saw that the other guests were all on their feet and milling around, abuzz with the excitement of Christopher Potts’s near drowning. Iain’s mother hurried towards them. She grabbed one of Iain’s hands and chafed it between her own.

  “Oh my dear!” she exclaimed tearfully. “You saved that little boy!”

  James knew she must be thinking of Iain’s drowned brother, and his heart ached for her.

  “You need a hot bath,” Mrs. Sinclair continued bossily, taking refuge in practical things. “Your skin’s like ice.”

  Kate walked towards them as Mrs. Sinclair fussed. “A bath’s being prepared for him just now,” she said, patting the older woman’s shoulder reassuringly. Then she turned to Iain and added, “I don’t know how to thank you. If anything had happened to that child, I’d never have forgiven myself.”

  Iain waved off her thanks. “I don’t need a bath, just some dry clothes,” he said, casting a brief, impatient glance in James’s direction that made a smile tug at James�
�s lips, despite himself.

  “You really should bathe,” James told Iain wryly. “You don’t want to catch a chill.”

  The ladies were voicing their agreement when Iain’s father weaved over to join them. His face was flushed from the wine he’d already consumed, his high colour emphasising the broken veins on his once-handsome face and bloodshot eyes.

  “Well, that was all very heroic, pulling that boy out of the river,” he announced as he swaggered towards them. He clapped Iain on the shoulder and added, “It’s a shame you couldn’t have done as much for your own brother.”

  Iain’s mother gasped at those cruel words, an awful wrenching sound of mingled shock and pain. Kate looked horrified.

  Other than a minute flinch, however, Iain didn’t react at all, just stared coldly at his father.

  “Arthur, how could you—” Mrs. Sinclair began, her weak voice petering out.

  “How could I what?” her husband slurred. “Point out what everyone’s thinking?” He swayed on his feet.

  “No one thinks that,” Mrs. Sinclair whispered. “What could Iain have done? He was ten years old.”

  Iain’s father glared at her. “You were always soft on him,” he accused, his voice rough with some emotion. Anger, perhaps, and a sort of grief too. “You always babied him.” He poked his thumb into his chest. “I was the one who had to discipline him. I was the one who had to teach him how to be a man.”

  Iain laughed at that, a harsh, disbelieving sound that drew Mr. Sinclair’s attention away from his wife. He stared at his son, seeming surprised.

  “You?” Iain exclaimed. “What did you ever teach me? How to drink myself into oblivion?”

  “How dare you,” his father spat. He pointed at James. “You and him. The pair of you are nothing but a—”

  “Nothing but what?” Iain interrupted, eyes narrowing dangerously. He stepped right into his father’s space, crowding the older man and shielding his mother at the same time. When his father took a step back, Iain followed him, not allowing him to escape.

  “You can say what you want, you know,” Iain went on, “but know this: I’m not a boy to be thrashed any longer. If anyone’s getting a thrashing today, it’ll be you—if you’re thinking to insult me or my friend, that is. So, just be sure you’re willing to take the consequences before you speak.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Mr. Sinclair mumbled. “I haven’t insulted anyone.”

  Iain laughed humourlessly. “You’ve spent your whole life insulting me. Nothing I’ve ever done has pleased you. And nothing ever will, because I’m not Tom.”

  “Oh, Iain—” Mrs. Sinclair said helplessly behind him, but Mr. Sinclair said nothing. Just stared unhappily at his son. James wasn’t sure how to interpret his expression. There was anger there, certainly, a dull drink-induced belligerence, but there was grief and regret too. And bewilderment.

  “Mama!” a voice called, interrupting the awkward scene. Isabel rushed towards them, Bertie a few steps behind her.

  “Mama,” she gasped again as she reached them. She walked past her father, ignoring him completely. “Are you all right? What’s Papa done now?”

  While Isabel and Kate fussed over Mrs. Sinclair, Bertie took charge of Mr. Sinclair, speaking to him in a low voice, then leading him, unresisting, towards the path that led back to the main house.

  “Christ, Iain,” James began when everyone was out of earshot. “That was—hell, I don’t know what to say.” He paused. “Are you all right?”

  Iain rubbed wearily at the back of his neck. “I’m fine,” he said. “Better than you might think.”

  “I know how important your father’s good opinion is to you.”

  Iain just shrugged. “It used to be. But just now, when I looked in his eyes, and I saw that I was right—that I can never make him happy—I just felt...relieved.”

  “Relieved how?”

  “That there’s nothing more I can do. Anyway, it’s what you and I want that matters now. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He glanced over at his mother and sighed. “I should just quickly check if Mama’s all right first. Do you mind?”

  James studied Iain. The man was beginning to shiver. “Of course,” he said. “But given how chilled you look, I really do think you ought to have that bath too. We’ll have plenty of time to talk after you get warmed through, if that’s really what you want.”

  “It is,” Iain confirmed through chattering teeth. “Listen, do you suppose we could go back to the c-cottage for our talk?”

  James stared at Iain in surprise. “Why do you want to go there?”

  “I want to us to be away from everyone else. Away from any possible distraction.”

  James found he didn’t have it in him to say no, not when Iain gazed at him pleadingly, soaked to the skin and chilled to bone.

  “All right,” James said at last. “The cottage it is. I’ll go ahead of you. Meet me there when you’re ready.”

  JAMES SOUGHT OUT KATE before he left, to tell her that he and Iain were going out to the cottage.

  “We might be late for dinner,” he added, trying to sound casual. It was already late afternoon, and they were supposed to be dining early this evening, before the local families arrived for the dancing party Kate had arranged.

  Kate gave James a strange look that made his cheeks heat. Then she patted his arm and said, “You don’t need to come back for dinner, Jamie. Or after.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she put her finger over his lips and shook her head. “I’ll make your excuses. Both of you. Just let me arrange some provisions for you before you go. I don’t want you going hungry.”

  It was easier to agree than to argue with Kate, so James waited obediently in the hallway for her return from the kitchens, though he had to raise his eyebrows at the bulging knapsack she brought back.

  “We’re not going for a week, Kate! What on earth have you put in there?”

  “There’s not that much,” Kate said. “Just some bread and cheese. And wine, of course. And some strawberries.”

  “Well, we won’t star—”

  “Oh, and some pigeon pie!” Kate interrupted. Then she coughed, adding more quietly, “And some cold ham.”

  James chuckled. “Is that all?”

  “There might be some fruit cake in there too.”

  James laughed, then hefted the sack over his shoulder, grunting at the weight of it. “Well, I’d better go. It’s going to take me three times as long to get there with this great load on my back.” He grinned at her, and she grinned back a little sheepishly.

  He’d gone only a few steps when she called after him.

  “James?”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  Her fair brows were drawn together in a little pleat of concern.

  “Just—I hope you and Iain can be friends again. He—” She broke off.

  “He what?”

  Kate gave a half smile. “Made you happy. I would like to see you so happy again, Jamie.”

  James didn’t know what to say to that. He hadn’t realised that Kate had noticed how much Iain meant to him, or how much James had missed him these last two years. His other sisters certainly wouldn’t have done.

  He cleared his throat. “I hope so too, Katie.”

  HE REACHED THE COTTAGE an hour ahead of Iain. He used the time to fetch water from the nearby spring and light the fire. Despite the warmth of the day, it was cold and a little damp-smelling in the unoccupied, stone-built cottage. Iain had been chilled to the bone by his soaking in the river, and James didn’t want him catching a cold.

  He was pacing the floor, feeling oddly sick with nerves when Iain finally arrived. The man’s soft knock at the door made James’s heart leap wildly, and he had to take several deep breaths before he finally stepped forwards to open the door.

  Iain stood on the stoop, tall and handsome and uncharacteristically nervous.

  “These are for you,” he said, thrusting out his hand.

  Blueb
ells.

  James stared at the flowers for a long moment, then looked up at Iain’s flushed face. Iain was embarrassed, yet strangely defiant too. For some reason, his expression touched James’s heart. Made him ache for the other man.

  “Thank you,” he said huskily, reaching for the flowers. They managed an awkward transfer of the fragile blooms. “Come in,” he added. “I’ll put these in some water.”

  He heard the door close behind him as he searched for a receptacle for the bluebells. A little clay cup did the job—he slopped some water in from the ewer he’d filled earlier and dropped the flowers inside. They looked oddly charming, humble but lovely. He placed the cup in the middle of the scrubbed oak table, then turned to look at Iain.

  “I spoke to Kate before I came away,” Iain said. He smiled. It was a wobbly smile, James noticed. “I gather we’re excused from this evening’s entertainments.”

  “We are. Though she still insisted on providing dinner.” James jerked his thumb at the knapsack that sat on the table. He cleared his throat. “I think she imagines we’re going to be here longer than we are. I’m not sure what more there is to say between us that hasn’t already been said.”

  Iain swallowed. “I have something new to say,” he said. He looked nervous but determined too and James’s heart skipped a little harder.

  “What’s that?”

  Iain squared his shoulders, meeting James’s gaze unflinchingly.

  “I love you, Jamie.”

  James stared at him, stunned. Stunned even though Iain had said something similar earlier, during the storm.

  I can’t love you.

  You don’t love me.

  But I do...and it’s killing me...

  Somehow, though, this was different. This was unequivocal. Unreserved.

  Unmistakable.

  James watched, dry-mouthed and unmoving, as Iain stepped toward him, closing the distance between them and taking hold of James’s upper arms in his big hands.