A Gentleman Never Keeps Score

by Cat Sebastian

  “I’m not a warm person. I’m . . . difficult, perhaps.” He thought of how peaceful and predictable Sam’s life must have been before meeting Hartley. All of the risks in their friendship had been taken by Sam; all the work had been done by Sam. Hartley had contributed nothing beyond some brandy, a warm bed, and emotional disarray.

  “Who told you that?” Sadie put the toast on a dish and loaded it with butter.

  “It’s hardly the sort of thing I need explained to me,” Hartley said with as much dignity as he could with a mouthful of toast and an armful of wriggly infant. “Even before my disgrace and all that, I didn’t precisely have friends.” There were hostesses who routinely invited him at the last minute to make up numbers; there were gentlemen who nodded to him in the park. There wasn’t anyone he could talk to beyond the basic civilities. “And now, other than, ah, Mr. Fox, the only people I’m close to are the people whose wages I pay, which I do think says something about the paucity of what I have to offer.” Perhaps that was partly why Sam was reluctant to take his money—delicacy about not wanting Hartley to feel Sam’s affections had been purchased.

  “I’ve seen you with your brothers,” Sadie pointed out.

  Hartley made a dismissive noise. “They’re related to me. They’re required to put up with me.”

  “Really, Hartley. You’re going to say that to me, of all people?”

  “Your family is uniquely terrible.”

  “No, they aren’t. Ask Alf about his parents. Ask Kate about her people. Not everyone starts with a family who likes them, so some of us make our own.” She glanced pointedly at the baby in Hartley’s arms, rolled her eyes, and turned back to the stove. “And since you’re asking, the thing that makes friendship between us a bit awkward isn’t that you pay my wages, but that I don’t have anywhere else to go. So if you died or went to France or took rooms, I wouldn’t have any recourse. Now, that doesn’t bother me much because if I had married the curate, as my father wanted, and he had died, I’d have been left equally badly off. Worse, even, because at least if you left I’d have a reference.”

  “Perhaps we could do better than that,” Hartley mused. He didn’t know how, but he knew there had to be something he could do to make Sadie’s situation less precarious. Alf’s, too, although he supposed that being a man and not having a child, Alf had more options.

  When the sun had fully risen, Hartley bundled the baby into a shawl, then wrapped her in one of his own wool mufflers, and carried her to the church to speak with the vicar about her christening. The plan was for Ben to do the talking. “They’ll always listen to one of their own,” Ben had said, and then proceeded to cheerfully extract a promise from the vicar about never mentioning the blank spot on the baptismal record where the child’s father ought to be named. Afterward, still carrying the baby and with his brother in tow, the three of them went to Philpott’s office where Ben did an admirable job of pretending that the scheme Hartley proposed to the solicitor wasn’t in the least remarkable.

  That night, there was a scratching at the kitchen door. Hartley was once again holding the baby, pacing back and forth from scullery to the coal cellar and back again. Infants were both whimsical and fickle, Hartley was discovering; the cabinet clock upstairs was entirely vieux jeu, and the baby would lay off her nighttime howlings for only as long as she was borne in state along this path. He had been walking long enough to be concerned about the state of his boots when he heard the sound from the mews. Shifting the child to his shoulder, he opened the kitchen door to see Daisy.

  “Come in, you,” Hartley said, stepping back and beckoning the dog inside. But the dog didn’t cross the threshold. Instead he danced in a circle. “No, I will not bring cheese and bread for all your dog friends in the street. If you want supper, it’ll be indoors.” The dog let out a shrill bark, loud enough to make the infant stir against Hartley’s shoulder. “What’s the matter with you?” Hartley demanded. The dog yelped a few more times, and in the interest of not disturbing the rest of the household, Hartley made haste in finding it some crusts of bread to eat. “Greedy is what you are,” Hartley told the dog while slicing him some cold ham.

  “This is . . . quite a scene,” said a sleepy voice from the stairs. Hartley looked up to see Ben. “You’re holding your cook’s baby and feeding a . . . what is that thing? A ferret?”

  Hartley didn’t dignify this nonsense with a response.

  “Mother used to do that, pace back and forth with the baby. It must have been Percy, or maybe Lance. You look like her, you know. I stand by what I said earlier,” Ben said. “You do look tired. But you also look . . . I don’t want to say happy, because you plainly have a lot on your mind. But you look as if you’ve been living. As if you’ve been feeling things. Your heart seems lived in.”

  “That sounds disgusting, Benedict.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Ben at his most vicarly.

  Hartley held the baby closer. He shook his head, but managed a smile.

  “I wish I were staying longer,” Ben said. He meant to spend only a few nights in London before returning north. Ben had little desire ever to go further than shouting distance from his village; for him to have come this far spoke of the seriousness of his concern.

  “Why?”

  “The Hartley Sedgwick I saw this summer would never have been so at home in anyone’s kitchen, in old clothes, with baby spittle on his shoulder. I’d like to see what you do next, because I think it’s going to be wonderful.”

  Hartley turned so his brother wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes. For the first time since he had been a child, he could see his way toward a future that was his own. Not a life his godfather had thrust onto him as revenge or recompense or some combination of the two; not a life he himself had clung to as if doubling down on a bad bet.

  “Do you think you could hold this baby for a while? I have a dog to return.”

  It was hard to believe that this was the same lane Sam had lurked in all those weeks ago. The winter’s first snow was falling, and when the sun rose London would have the temporary veneer of clean uniformity. Later, the snow would melt into greasy gray puddles, soaking through his boots and dirtying the hems of cloaks and gowns. But for a while, the streets would be smooth and white, the higgledy-piggledy array of rooftops merged together in a single expanse.

  During his first hours in the mews that autumn, he had seen servants go in and out of Hartley’s house, before even knowing the house was Hartley’s. There had been maids and lads with their noses in the air, and Sam had decided they were all too far above his touch to ask about a dirty painting. He grinned at the memory. Little had he expected to share common cause with the master of the house. Even less could he have expected that common cause to turn into something else.

  The door to Hartley’s house opened, and he saw a slim figure emerge, a coat in one arm and a dog in the other.

  “You’ll freeze, dressed like that,” Sam said.

  Hartley spun to face him. He was in his shirtsleeves, a pair of dust-stained pantaloons shoved into scuffed boots. One of his braces was sliding off his shoulder, and Sam resisted the urge to put him right. “Don’t tell me you came back for this troublemaker,” Hartley said, indicating the dog.

  “I see two troublemakers here,” Sam said, stepping close.

  “I missed you,” Hartley said.

  It had been less than a week since they had seen one another. “I missed you too. I came to tell you that I’ll take your help. Whatever you’re offering. But I want to do something for you too.”

  “Oh?” Hartley looked up curiously.

  “I want to help you get your painting back.”

  “Really?” Hartley’s eyes were a bit dazed. “You know I meant to burgle a solicitor’s office?”

  “Look, Hart,” Sam went on, “I want to help you lay this to rest. When I met you, you were—”

  “A disaster.”

  “Sad, I was going to say. And hurting. I think the idea of
getting the paintings was the first thing that had made you happy in weeks.”

  “I have other things making me happy now.” Hartley tipped his head back to look up at Sam, and on his jaw Sam could see the faint stubble that meant he hadn’t shaved for a few days. “You’re the best man I know, Sam Fox, and I love you.”

  “I love you too. God, I’ve missed you.” Sam breathed in deep, inhaling the scent of whatever scent or hair soap Hartley used.

  Hartley stepped into the open circle of Sam’s arms. Sam hoped Hartley could feel how heavily his heart thudded, and that he knew it was for him. Sam held still as Hartley settled against him, first tucking his head beneath Sam’s chin as Sam pulled his own coat around them both. Hartley went onto his toes and Sam tilted his head down, and in the split second before their lips met, Hartley’s mouth curved in a smile. Their kiss was slow and patient, the kiss of people who knew they had time. Hartley kissed like he had never done it before, and maybe he hadn’t. That thought touched Sam and tore at his heart at the same moment. Hartley ought to have had years of kisses, a lifetime of kisses; but at the same time Sam was all too happy to be able to claim the entirety of Hartley’s kisses for himself.

  Hartley broke the kiss and buried his face in Sam’s coat, but Sam could tell Hartley was smiling. God, it was a rare gift to have this man in his arms. It made Sam feel like he had been given care of something unspeakably precious and fragile. Before they pulled apart, Hartley cupped Sam’s jaw and gave him a wondering look that told Sam that Hartley felt the same way, and this thing between them was equally precious and dear to both of them.

  “I don’t need your help with the paintings,” Hartley said. “I used them as a bargaining chip to get Philpott to write a letter to your landlord explaining that you need to be released from your lease. There’s apparently a fair bit of precedent.” He produced a sheet of paper from a pocket. “I didn’t post it. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

  Sam’s mind reeled. “A bargaining chip?”

  “I told him that I’d never tell anyone what was in his filthy cupboards as long as he wrote me the letter. He seemed hugely relieved.”

  “Isn’t that blackmail?”

  “I don’t think so.” Hartley wrinkled his brow. “Well, can’t say I care if it is.”

  “Well, then,” Sam said. “I suppose then neither do I.” Hartley drew him inside the house for another kiss.

  They were interrupted by what seemed to Hartley the rather pointed stomping of feet on the stairs. He pulled away from Sam, because even if Will and Ben knew exactly what Hartley was up to, Sam’s privacy meant something. He didn’t try to wipe the smile from his face, though.

  “Sam, these are two of my brothers, Ben and Will. Ben’s visiting from the frozen north. You’ve sort of met Will before. Ben’s about to leave at dawn on the mail coach. You’ll join us for a very early breakfast?” he asked, looking expectantly at Sam.

  Sam nodded.

  They crowded around the table in Sadie’s parlor, passing dishes of ham and toast, Hartley eating with one hand because the baby slept in the crook of his other arm.

  “She’s to be christened next week, Sam,” Sadie said. “I’m calling her Charlotte.”

  “That’s a pretty name, Sadie,” Sam said. “And she’s a bonny girl.”

  This was the first time they had addressed one another by their Christian names, and it made Hartley feel for a moment like everyone in this kitchen belonged to one another.

  “Hartley’s middle name is Charles,” Ben supplied.

  “I know,” Sadie said pointedly.

  “Does that mean Hartley’s going to be the babe’s godfather?” Will asked. The room fell silent.

  Hartley was stunned speechless. Under the table, Sam’s hand found his leg and gave it a comforting squeeze and then stayed there, warm and heavy on his thigh. “I’m hardly fit to be anybody’s godfather.” Sadie and Alf both looked meaningfully at the christening cup that sat on Sadie’s chimneypiece and then at Hartley’s coat. Hartley followed their gaze and saw that the infant had deposited some nasty sort of sputum on him.

  “Are you suggesting than an infant selects its godparents by means of vomiting on them?” he asked, furiously dabbing at his coat with his handkerchief. “But if you want me to, of course I will.” Perhaps after a while godfather would come to mean his relation to the baby, rather than Easterbrook’s relation so him.

  Sam and Sadie didn’t even bother to conceal the satisfied glance they shared. Hartley didn’t need to look in Will and Ben’s direction to know they were sharing similar glances.

  “I hate all of you,” he announced. Hartley finished the meal in a mood of rare merriment, despite it being wretchedly early in the morning and not having had a full night’s sleep in days.

  Later, after Ben had left to catch the mail coach and Will had gone with him, Sam and Hartley had the house to themselves.

  “I’m sorry you had to give up on the paintings,” Sam said from the zinc tub they had placed in the kitchen by the hearth. It was Sadie’s morning out and Alf had made himself scarce, so Hartley felt utterly free to sit back in his chair and admire the proceedings. Sam barely fit in the tub, and his strong muscles were soapy and gleaming in the firelight.

  When Sam had let it slip that he was bedding down in the back room of the Bell, Hartley had insisted that he instead stay with him. To Hartley’s surprise, Sam hadn’t protested. “I’m too old to sleep on the floor,” he had said. “And I suppose your neighbors have been watching me come and go for months now. No harm in my sleeping here. People will just think you’ve gotten another servant.”

  But to hear Sam mention the paintings brought Hartley up short because, after making his deal with Philpott, he had felt strangely free. He was building a life that didn’t depend on being seen as anything other than what he was. There would be danger, and he and Sam would always have to be discreet when they were in public. He would need to find work; with that would go his last claim to gentility, and good riddance to it. But he would be surrounded by people he cared about and who cared for him in return. Hartley had been hurt in a way that couldn’t be undone or avenged: Easterbrook had done wrong and had never paid for it. But Hartley would be happy anyway. In addition to happiness, Hartley had a new feeling that was utterly foreign. It was like a new flavor he couldn’t quite identify. He was looking forward to the future, eager to see what it brought. This was hope, he supposed.

  Sam stood and dried himself off on a length of toweling that Hartley had left in arm’s reach of the bath. “The water’s getting cold. I’ll have to put more on if you’ll be wanting a wash.”

  Reluctantly, Hartley tore his gaze away from Sam long enough to fill the pot at the pump.

  “It’s odd to see you doing work,” Sam said.

  “I can boil water, Sam. I’m not a total incompetent.” With a flourish, he hung the pot over the fire, as if to demonstrate his competence at water boiling. “I didn’t grow up in a house where people poured me baths scented with rosewater or whatever it is you’re imagining.”

  “I know you didn’t. But I’m glad to have met your brothers, or I might not have believed it.”

  “Ha. I’ll tell Will that you’d never take him for a gentleman. He’ll be delighted.”

  “I meant the vicar. Benedict. His hands are rough. And he had some dirt under his nails. It made me think that you might not mind that for yourself. After you leave here, I mean.”

  Hartley had explained that he was selling this house and looking for a set of rooms that would accommodate him, Alf, Sadie, and the baby. Theirs was an odd arrangement, and he hadn’t yet come across anything suitable. After the events of the past few months, he couldn’t stow Alf away in the servants’ quarters or put Sadie and Charlotte in the basement. It would feel, somehow, like a lie. And yet he didn’t know what the alternative was.

  “I wouldn’t mind it,” Hartley said. “If it meant being with you.”

  “I was wondering,” Sam s
aid, “if you’d like to let the rooms above a tavern. There’s a place to let on Shoe Lane. There are four rooms upstairs, two in front and two in back. If you took one pair and I took the other, it wouldn’t look out of the ordinary.”

  “Would you really want that? I don’t think I’m precisely easy to be around, and I doubt my ability to be charming at all hours of the clock.” Do you know what you’re getting yourself into, was what he really wanted to ask.

  “There’s nobody who’s charming at all hours. Come here.” Sam patted his lap.

  Hartley made a show of rolling his eyes but he settled comfortably in Sam’s lap.

  “I love you,” Sam said.

  “How unwise of you.”

  Sam chucked him on the chin. “Maybe you are a prig after all. Offer rescinded. Go find somewhere else to live.”

  “I love you too,” he said, dropping a kiss onto Sam’s forehead. “Is there room for Sadie and Alf?”

  Sam’s expression softened. “I made sure of it. There’s a pair of rooms on the top floor. Hart, I’ll be honest. I can’t imagine you in rooms above a pub.”

  “I see that one day I’m going to have to bring you to blasted Kirkby Barton in the arse end of nowhere so you can see the cottage where I was born. You’ll see that rooms above any pub are a stately pleasure dome by comparison. Let me make this equally clear to you, because I think I’ve failed on this score. I want to be with you, in rooms above a pub or anywhere you happen to be. A cave, a pirate ship, a desert island, doesn’t matter. And while I maintain that it would have been vastly better for you to never have met me, the fact remains that you have. I love you, and I want to be with you, and if I haven’t made that clear then it’s because I’ve made a hash of everything. Frankly, if you actually plan on being such a fool as to keep me in your life, which I dearly hope you are, you’ll just have to get used to my making a hash of lots of things.”

  Sam brought his hand to Hartley’s cheek. “If that makes me a fool, then I’m glad to be a fool.”