by Bonnie Dee
“Yes, sir,” Nigel answered dully.
“You are dismissed. Return to your work and let’s not have another report such as this.” Mr. Turner turned his attention to papers on his desk, ending the conversation.
Report, not incident, Nigel reflected. They only cared about the appearance of propriety.
Nigel rose and walked out. The elation he’d felt less than a half hour earlier had completely vanished. Whistling, for God’s sake! Like a child without a care in the world. He should have known better, should have seen trouble coming.
Of course, he couldn’t have it all. Of course, Jay couldn’t continue to live in his home without the neighbors and servants asking questions, nor could Nigel continue to attend clandestine clubs without insidious rumors eventually reaching the ears of Mr. Turner or one of the other directors. Life wasn’t that simple, and secrets never remained secrets.
But what was he to do? He didn’t want Jay out of his world, couldn’t imagine life without him. There must be some way he could have his cake and eat it too. Perhaps a small apartment for Jay where they could meet on occasion—but certainly no more running around London together. That might be the only way, and surely Jay would agree to it.
Chapter Sixteen
Jay took another drink and sank into a happy haze, sitting and singing with his friends from the Holburn. He lingered after every show, going to the pub or to one of his new friends’ flats to celebrate another show accomplished. Not much to be proud of, nothing like his star turn as Jean Michel, but at least he had some money coming in and something to do while he waited for Nigel to come home at night. Hell, he couldn’t take one of the evening performances even if it were offered, since that time was reserved for Nigel.
And certainly their living arrangement couldn’t last. If he ever tore his blinders off, Nigel must see that. Sharing lodging on staid and respectable Stark Lane was impossible long term. People would talk.
Besides, Jay was reaching the end of his patience at biding his time in London. He’d visited his uncle often, gotten this less than desirable job and filled the rest of his time with drinking and indulging in the elixir that made everything endurable. But he wasn’t happy, and he wanted to go home.
Trouble was, he didn’t want to go by himself. After almost two weeks with Nigel, he’d grown more and more certain that he couldn’t do without this man. He needed Nigel. But he needed him in Paris.
Tonight was the night he was going to talk to Nigel about it. He’d lay out his very good reasons for them both to emigrate. Paris was a more open city, more cosmopolitan, more artistic, more everything. Nigel could get his bank to transfer him there, or find some other financial institution to work in. He could continue to live the life he was accustomed to, more or less, while Jay could resume the persona he craved and command a stage once again. A perfect situation.
The more Jay drank of both liquor and elixir, the more certain he was that Nigel would see the wisdom of his very smart plan. Liquid courage fortified him as he said good-bye to Sally, Angus, Barry and the others and headed back toward the stuffy atmosphere of Stark Lane. Not all stuffy, since Nigel awaited him there with kisses and touches of a most salacious nature, but the house itself and the neighborhood were so respectable, Jay wanted to tear off all his clothes and strut singing down the street to stir up the placid inhabitants.
Jay had a key now and entered the house to find Nigel not yet home. Mrs. Cubbins had set out their dinner, then left. She understood the new routine, and Jay wondered if she also understood the reason for their desire for privacy. The woman wasn’t stupid. But soon it wouldn’t matter what she thought or what she might whisper to other servants about her suspicions. Nigel would leave this house behind—the home he’d grown up in, the home he’d outgrown—and come to Paris with Jay.
Starving, Jay pulled a lid off one of the salvers to taste the beef Wellington that was to be their dinner tonight. Rich and meaty, it filled him nicely. He would certainly miss Nigel’s cook. Perhaps they could drag him and Mrs. Cubbins to France. And Sarah the maid might enjoy France too. The thought made him smile. Nigel would scold him for gossiping with the servants, but he liked the people who worked here.
He grabbed a fork from the table and began to shovel in the meat, all the while still marshaling his arguments for Nigel like a regiment of soldiers. When he heard the front door open, Jay sucked his fork clean and guiltily jammed the cover back on the serving tray with a clang. He hurried from the dining room to greet Nigel in the front hallway.
“How was your day, darling?” Jay affected a feminine falsetto. “Mine was so trying. I had to let go a maid caught stealing our silver, and the Norrises have refused our dinner invitation. Whatever are we to do?”
Nigel smiled but didn’t play along. In fact, a frown shadowed his face like an errant cloud. He accepted Jay’s kiss and kissed him back, but the frown hardly faded.
“What’s the matter?” Jay asked seriously. “Trouble at the office?”
“A bit, actually.” Nigel hung his coat and hat and walked with Jay into the sitting room—ah, that straitlaced room in which they’d crashed together so passionately the first time Jay had come to this house.
“Sit down, please,” Nigel said. “I need to talk with you, and I don’t suppose it will keep until after dinner. I’m too…concerned.”
Worried now, Jay sat on the sofa and faced Nigel. “I wanted to talk about something too, so I’m glad to clear the air sooner rather than later. I’ve been thinking about our living situation.”
“Speak first. My news can wait,” Nigel offered.
Jay folded his hands, palm to palm against his belly the way he used to when he sang solo in the church choir. Then he unfolded them, because really, he refused to be nervous about it. Excited yes, because this was a well thought out plan.
“I think that you and I are happy together.”
Nigel’s smile wasn’t as broad as Jay would have expected and his voice was soft. “Yes.”
“We are happy,” Jay said again, because it was a lovely thought. He hadn’t even known he wanted more than a pleasant few weeks or months playing with his banker. This discovery was a gift. “But I think we can be even happier. I know we can.”
He rose and began to pace. “You are good at your work, and if you get this promotion that you want, yes, that’s fine for you. But I think you can shine anywhere.”
“What are you trying to say?”
Jay gave a single nod. He had been beating about the bush, a little. “I need to go back to France. I want you to come with me.” He began to list his reasons, going on about wings and flight and how cramped this London existence had become for him.
Nigel had a good job and a nice house, but life could offer so much more than that, certainly. And if Nigel grew too melancholy, well, perhaps they could spend some time in London too. Jay finished with, “As for work, I’m sure someone among all my friends would know of a job for you. Your skills are suited for work in any city. How about that man you mentioned, the one at Chauve-Souris? Now I remember—M. Lamont. You seemed to like him, and he might know of something.” He stopped speaking, because, really, no need to keep babbling.
Nigel didn’t move or speak for a long minute. Jay looked at him. Nigel, the man who adored him, worshiped him, would jump at this invitation.
Apprehension crept along Jay’s spine. Nigel wasn’t meeting his eye.
“No.” Nigel’s voice was firm. “And I wanted to speak to you about the future too. I’ve gotten the promotion.”
“Congratulations. I’m so proud!” Jay tried to sound enthusiastic and knew he did a good job of acting. “This is wonderful! See? You’re so clever at your job. Think of how impressed French officials—”
“I can’t live in France. I don’t know the language. I wanted to talk, tonight, because of that promotion. The position is mine, but there are stipulat
ions.”
“Hmm.” Better to grunt at the man than describe his frustration. This longed-for promotion complicated things.
“This evening I came up with another idea and have to discuss it with you. I’d thought that we might find a place for you here.”
Jay didn’t like most of what Nigel had to say but that phrase confused him. “A place? What do you mean? A place at the bank? I’d be terrible at that sort of work.”
Nigel rubbed his face, a habit he had when confronting difficult emotion. How much Jay knew about him…and how little as it turned out.
Nigel didn’t seem to have heard him, so Jay repeated, “What do you mean, a place here?”
“In London. An apartment. A pied-a-terre.” Nigel looked utterly miserable—sadder than Jay could recall.
“Go on, Nigel.”
“I was called in for a talk today, with my supervisor, Mr. Turner.”
“Yes, you got the position. We should be celebrating.”
The man looked gutted. Damn. It must be the thought of losing his new promotion if they moved. The loss would hurt him too much. Jay hadn’t understood how much Nigel wanted the job, but obviously his longing for the position had been stronger than Jay had guessed.
That bleak expression on Nigel’s face told Jay the sacrifice of this job wouldn’t be possible. Jay stifled a sigh and tried to think of an answer that would suit. “Well. All right. Never mind France tonight. You mustn’t be so sad the day you find out such good news. We can find some way to make our lives work. After all, Paris isn’t so far away. Perhaps I could go there for a month every now and again. I’m sure Dulac will come up with a plan—he likes me, after all. Perhaps I might be a guest performer at the club. I suspect my flatmate Merde wouldn’t even notice if I vanished half the year or longer, especially if I paid rent year round.”
He chewed on the inside of his lip to stop himself from protesting his disappointment. He would learn to live in London after all—and for only part of his life. Jay smiled at Nigel, who was worth the compromise. The way seemed clear. Yes, he would spend too much time going back and forth across the channel, but he would be happy. Lost in this new plan, he missed the first few words Nigel had spoken.
“It was about the job, yes, but it was more than that. I don’t think we could flit across to Paris all the time. I can imagine only rare visits. I must live in London and…we’d find a place for you to live.”
Jay began to get the gist. “But not here on Stark Lane?”
“Because of the stipulations.”
Nigel fell silent. Filled with dread, Jay prompted him. “Stipulations?”
“I’ve been told I can’t be seen in the company of a man who doesn’t…who isn’t…” He stopped trying to stammer out the ugly truth, and, incredibly, he smiled. “Or you could also take up my offer and allow me to support you. I appreciate your act a great deal. You could play the part of Jean Michel privately for me, you know. I’m a very appreciative audience.”
Nigel didn’t understand him after all. Not at all.
Jay, fool that he was, tried to explain. “Jean Michel isn’t merely for the money or the adulation. You’re saying I should change me. That person is me, gowns and all. Not merely an act. This is why I miss France. I miss a part of myself. You seem to think Jean Michel is about playing dress-up, but she’s so much more than that.” He shook his head.
He’d tried once before, that day at the fair, to explain not only the enjoyment he took in the clothing or the makeup, but in becoming Jean Michel. Evidently he’d failed in making Nigel understand the depth of his need to put on the gowns and the person he became when he wore them. Jay slumped against the wall, because the world seemed to go gray for a moment and his heart beat far too fast and his belly turned upside down. He’d been a fool. God, he hated feeling like an idiot.
The bitterness came out in his voice. “I understand. You can’t have me here. You can’t be seen with a man who’s obviously queer. Oh yes. Of course it wouldn’t do for a bank manager, would it?”
Nigel interrupted. “If you want to keep working, it’s not so dire, truly. We’d find you an apartment. A little place nearer your work. And I’d go there nearly every day. Nothing need change.”
Jay pushed away from the wall so violently a picture went cock-eyed. “No.”
“Good Lord, Jay, please. Won’t you at least consider compromise?”
How dare the bastard shout at him? Jay didn’t shout back. He lowered his voice to a sharp whisper. “Ha. That’s exactly what I was doing, planning my compromises. I’d live much of the year in a city I don’t think of as home. I’d pretend to be a housewife when I loathe that role. Yes, I will hide to a degree. But what you want, that’s too much.”
He managed to take several long breaths. Already his hot anger was dying back, yet its brilliant burn had made several things clear.
Neither of them could be happy. Nigel must lead a life filled with secrets and lies if he stayed with Jay. And Jay wouldn’t be dragged into a shadowy secondhand life again. He didn’t expect them to embrace in public or for Nigel to wear gowns or rouge or even to exchange long looks with him outside their home. But Nigel wanted Jay to play a part, and his main role, if he stayed in London, would be as a gentleman’s guilty secret. Jay had worked too hard to find himself and then to find a place in the world, and he wasn’t going to hide.
He walked to the door of the sitting room, fighting the urge to scream and enact a scene or strike Nigel or fling some sort of object at him. But he already knew he was on the edge of tears, and that was awful enough.
“Jay!” Nigel called after him.
As he stumbled down the hall to the room where he’d left his things, Jay’s thoughts were clear and strong. This scene only strengthened his resolve. His place was in Paris, and now he must return. Immediately.
He looked around the room that he usually entered only to fetch his clothes—or rumple the bed to look as if he’d slept in it. A clean, uncluttered sort of a bedroom, with a bookshelf and washstand, and a grand wardrobe—all what you’d expect to find in a prosperous gentleman’s spare bedroom. He’d been in the house for weeks, and this room held no flavor of him.
Jay threw his clothes into a bag. He’d have to send a letter to his uncle apologizing for his abrupt departure. That would have to go out soon, because he didn’t want the old duffer to worry. Thank God for the plans ticking through his brain, because otherwise his mind would be filled with howling and sobbing. Any breakdown would have to wait until he got on the boat for France.
Hurry, hurry, he must leave at once. He mustn’t wait until he got past this frozen state, the mechanical shock of it, because if Nigel managed to stop him and kiss him, Jay might weaken.
There’d been times in Jay’s life when he’d panicked because he didn’t have essential requirements. He’d had to find food or go hungry. He’d needed to find shelter or sleep in the snow without a roof over his head. This argument with Nigel created a more muddled sort of panic. The problem wasn’t as clear-cut, because Jay’s basic survival was assured and he’d even be comfortable if he gave in to Nigel’s plan. What he wanted now was less immediate, unless he made the whole thing urgent. So he must.
Melodramatic Jean Michel, he thought at last and began to fold his shirts more carefully. Yes, but he needed to move forward, and acting out a drama would push him out of this cozy house, away from Nigel’s strong, capable embrace, back into the only life he knew fit him.
“Jay.” Nigel rapped lightly at the door. He would never bang on it and shout. Perhaps that was the problem. Nigel would never make a scene.
“There’s nothing more to say.” Jay went to the door and locked it.
“We should talk,” Nigel said. “We’ll work something out. Jay, are you listening?”
“No, I can’t listen.” The worst of the anger had fled, so he might as well explai
n. “I’m sorry, but it turns out I can’t compromise after all. I can adjust other parts of my life, but not who I am.” He buckled his bag and carefully sat next to it on the bed he’d never used. He wished he had a Bradshaw’s so he could plan.
He would take the night service of London and South Western railway, southeast to Dover. Then the steamer from Dover to Calais. Even with the faster ships, the journey wasn’t so easy. He supposed his plan of going back and forth between the countries had been a silly one.
Could he ever manage some way to have more of Nigel? For a moment, he imagined coming back to England on occasion to stay with Nigel for a fortnight here and there. The kisses alone would be worth it, and the rest of what they did in bed—oh, he could sob thinking of giving up that.
The plan for casual occasional encounters might work if Jay’s heart wasn’t feeling smashed to bits. Perhaps they might take up again in a year or two…? He doubted it. But at least he couldn’t imagine despising Nigel the way he did Grenton. That was some consolation.
Nigel spoke outside the door. “Jay?” He sounded strangled, as if fighting tears.
It was easier to talk without those dark eyes staring at him. “Nigel. I care about you, I really do.” Jay swallowed, rubbed a thumb over the buckle of the bag, as he assembled the rest of the statement that would start with but I must…
He started again. “I care about you, and I suspect I always shall, which I would never have guessed, Nigel. Never.”
And the but I must part again failed him. Really, if Nigel didn’t see and understand, would Jay be able to explain?
He might as well try. “I have been beaten for who I am, for what I am. I have sacrificed nearly everything so I could be honest with myself and as honest as possible in the world.”
“I won’t let anyone beat you again.” Yes, he was definitely crying.
Jay felt a surge of impatience—not with Nigel’s tears, which he thought were perfectly appropriate. “No need to protect me if I’m hiding, which is what you want me to do. Anyway, it’s not your job to protect me.”
