by KJ Charles
“How did I know what?”
Clem tugged at his hands. Rowley came off his knees with a wince and, after a slightly confusing moment with too many legs and not enough space, squirmed into a comfortable position on Clem’s lap. He was no weight at all. Clem put a hand on his thin, bare chest, ran it over his pectoral muscles. “That sitting down would help. About…me needing spectacles.”
“Oh, that. I had a friend as a boy who was rather like you.”
“Like me? You mean clumsy?”
“Not entirely,” Rowley said. “When I first went to school, I was put with him in the dunces’ section—”
“You?”
“I couldn’t see. I had no idea what the teacher was talking about half the time, holding up this and pointing at that, so of course I couldn’t answer questions.” Rowley propped his elbows on Clem’s shoulders, watching his face. “Jack and I found ourselves in the same boat, both entirely convinced we weren’t nearly as stupid as the world would have us believe. He was the one who pointed out that I couldn’t see very well. Which may seem obvious now, but it had never occurred to me that everyone else was seeing something I wasn’t. I still remember when I got my first spectacles, you know. The local preserver, Mr. Morris, paid for them. That was…Well. Anyway, Jack wasn’t so easily helped. People called him stupid and careless instead of seeing how hard he had to work and how intelligent he was, and…oh, it made me angry. Him far more so. He was endlessly frustrated because the world was not right for him as it was for others. He hated people talking over one another, and he really could not take a hint to save his life. So your way of not quite being easy in the world is very familiar.” He frowned a little. “Possibly misleadingly familiar. He loathed being touched, even in a friendly way. He’d jump if you so much as tapped him on the arm. I’m glad you don’t.”
“I like being touched, but I don’t like being…” Clem waved his hands. “Pushed. Surprised. Were you lovers?”
“Jack and I? Lord, no, he wasn’t that way, or to my taste if he had been. He was very angry, and he lashed out a lot.” Rowley grinned reminiscently. “I recall him punching some schoolroom braggart in the mouth, knocking him down. It was a perfectly timed punch, and he stormed off and tripped over his victim’s leg.”
Clem snorted. “I’d do that, except for the punching.”
“For which I’m grateful. I don’t like angry men.” Rowley tapped a finger gently on Clem’s shoulder. “Anyway, that’s a long-winded answer for you. But you are really not very like Jack at all in many ways, so if I’m getting something wrong, I hope you’ll tell me.”
Clem pulled him close, hugging him tight, feeling Rowley’s warmth against him and rather wishing he’d got his own shirt off, to be skin to skin. “I…wish you weren’t thinking that.”
“What?”
“That you have to do something special, for me. Nobody’s ever done that, and that was the best gamahuching I think I’ve ever had in my life, but I wish you didn’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t have to. I choose to.”
“I didn’t mean that. I wish I, it, I wish it was right.”
Rowley sighed into Clem’s hair. “You know, I’ve skinned a lot of creatures, and one thing I’ve learned is that a scientific diagram of a bird is all very well, but it isn’t the reality of a bird, not at all. The plumage, the musculature, the development, it all comes out different every time. Nature doesn’t create according to a rule book, no matter what the authorities tell us. Honestly, I’ve seen a two-headed cat that could drink milk and mew with both mouths. We are as we are.”
“I bet you’d have perfect eyes if you were given the choice,” Clem pointed out.
“Yes, I would.” Rowley kissed his ear. “And I’d like you to have fewer troubles too. But since nobody’s asked our opinion on the matter, at least we can try to make each other’s path smoother, can’t we?”
“True.”
“I would also observe,” Rowley added, “that I may not have perfect eyes, but you very much do. And I’m looking into them right at this moment, so I don’t propose to complain about my lot. Come here. I have things to do with you.”
Chapter 4
Rowley whistled as he tweaked the feathers of the drying pigeon, ensuring the plumes lay correctly. He’d spent an energetic morning paring the wolf skin, and gone over all the drying birds as well, and he was still bursting with energy. He rather wished something large would come in for the pleasure of a big job to do.
Clem, Clem, Clem.
They’d fucked again last night, squirming against each other on Clem’s armchair, once he’d got the man’s clothes off. He could have kicked himself for being so stupid about that. He’d assumed that Clem’s…whatever it was, his way of being, was like Jack’s because of those oddly familiar traits, his manner of doing things or of hiding them. It hadn’t escaped Rowley’s notice that Clem tied his neckcloth as simply as the most casual coster and wore elastic-sided boots rather than ones with laces or buckles. Jack hadn’t been nimble with fastenings either.
Intriguing similarities, but misleading. He’d assumed that all Clem’s reactions would be similar to Jack’s, and been proved entirely wrong, just as he’d assumed that Clem would be inexperienced and in need of guidance. Well, he’d been taught a memorable lesson there.
He’d been absurd. Clem was startlingly lovely with his thick hair, strong features, those eyes. Why would he not have all the experience he could want? If he’d had the confidence to match his looks, every man’s man in London would have been set on him and Rowley wouldn’t have stood a chance of catching his attention.
That was a somewhat lowering thought, because Rowley liked him so much. It was one thing to fuck a fellow who was better-looking than oneself, and indeed Rowley, by simple mathematics, had almost always done so, although rarely twice and nobody who looked like Clem. It was quite another thing if one wanted to repeat the experience as often as possible, and had to face the fact that one was entirely unremarkable in height and looks and person and that, if there was any justice in the world, one’s delightful, funny, warmhearted, and extraordinarily handsome lover would be off with someone who deserved him.
Which was a foolish way to think. For one thing, there wasn’t any justice in the world; for another, Clem had seemed as happy as Rowley with the previous night; for a third, what did Rowley expect from this anyway? A night was as much as a man could ask, and they’d had a lovely night. A whole evening kissing and fucking and talking, so that Rowley had finally and reluctantly dragged himself upstairs at nearly eleven for the sake of appearances, and had his best sleep in months.
In part that was because the ghastly Lugtrout hadn’t come home. His room was divided from Rowley’s by a thin wall, and he mumbled aloud to himself and snored like a bone saw at work, and that plus the faint, pervading scent of gin always made Rowley think of his father, the drink and the rage. Lugtrout’s absence had been extremely welcome. With any luck he’d fallen into the Thames.
Clem wasn’t so sanguine about that prospect when Rowley returned to the house around six o’clock that evening to find him and Polly debating in the kitchen.
“I’m a bit worried, really.” Clem rocked from toe to heel, frowning. “He went out on Friday morning, so it’s a day and a half. I don’t think he’s done that before.”
“Probably drunk in a ditch,” Polly said. “Or dead in one.”
“Yes, but what do I do about that if he is?” Clem demanded.
“At that point there’s not a lot of remedy,” Rowley put in. “Why should you have to do anything? You’re to give him accommodation, not be his keeper, isn’t that right?”
There was a flicker of fellow feeling in Polly’s eye. “Quite right, Mr. Green. Mr. Lugtrout has had all the consideration he deserves and more, if you ask me.”
“Yes, but my brother will be asking me,” Clem said.
“For what?” Rowley asked. “Lugtrout’s probably drunk the clock round last night and i
s sleeping it round now. Are you obliged to keep an eye on him?”
“My brother’s concerned for his well-being. He was angry about the argument and if he thinks I’m not doing as he wishes…” Clem tailed off, sounding wretched.
“He might have gone for a reason,” Rowley suggested. “Would he tell you if he was going to be away for…” He groped for something Lugtrout might do. “For business?”
“He doesn’t have any business.”
“He must do something. How does he afford the rent, and the gin?”
“He doesn’t pay rent. And I’ve no idea where his money comes from, but he doesn’t work, or receive letters, or anything that I know of.”
“Family?”
“I don’t know about any family. I don’t suppose he’d mention it if he was going to go away, he’s not at all considerate, but it’s never arisen because he never has, in eight years.”
“I see. But what are you to do? Tell the police that an idle drunkard didn’t come home last night?”
“Do you think I should?” Clem made a face. “He’s not a young man and the nights are cold.”
“Police, on a Saturday night?” Rowley asked. “I think they’ll pack you off with a flea in your ear. Look, if he hasn’t turned up tomorrow, I’ll come to the police station with you and ask what to do.” He saw Clem’s expression and added, regretting the words as he spoke them, “Or if you know where he usually drinks, I’ll come with you to ask now. If you like.”
The brightening of Clem’s eyes was almost reward enough. “Would you?”
Rowley would not have said he enjoyed the next hour, as such. Between them Clem, Polly, and Elsie came up with six public houses they knew Mr. Lugtrout to frequent. Rowley reordered the list into a logical sequence and they went out into the cold dark air, which stank of fires and gas lamps, horses and sweepings and soot, to go between drinking dens.
Rowley did not like public houses. He enjoyed a pint of beer now and again, but not the press of sweaty bodies and the company of belligerent sots and the memories they brought back. Clem was stiff with tension, obviously intensely uncomfortable with the noise and the crowding. Rowley saw no reason at all why either of them should waste his evening in this pointless pursuit for a man neither liked who was probably sleeping it off in some back room, but Clem’s unhappiness at the prospect of his brother’s displeasure had been very clear, and he could spare an hour or two to make him feel better.
So he asked every landlord, landlady, and potboy he came across if they’d seen Mr. Lugtrout, who turned out to be known by the soubriquet “Parson Gin.” None of them had.
“I’m surprised, to be honest, now you mention it,” the landlady of the Blue Posts remarked. “He’s usually to be found in here or the White Lion at some point in the day.”
“We’ve tried there, and the Bird in Hand, and a few more.”
“Hmph. Try the Horse and Carriage, and if he’s not been there, who can say what he’s up to? Evening, gents.”
They did try the Horse and Carriage, with no more luck. Rowley leaned against the damp wall when they emerged, fruitlessly batting the reek of tobacco from his greatcoat. “Well. Mr. Lugtrout does seem to have disappeared from his usual haunts.”
“It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Clem said. “What now?”
“To be quite honest, I think we should find some food. You’ve done more than a lodging keeper in a thousand would for a lodger nobody else would bear. The police won’t do anything at this hour, and now you’ll have something to tell them if we go to report him missing tomorrow. And if he fell into the Thames last night there’s no good to be done for him at all, so your brother will have no grounds of complaint. Shall we have something to eat?”
“That’s very logical,” Clem said. “I wish we’d found him, though.”
“Yes, but then we’d have to drag him home swearing and shouting,” Rowley pointed out. “Whereas this way we could have a quiet dinner and perhaps get some use of the evening.”
“If you like.” It didn’t sound terribly enthusiastic, but Rowley was hungry, and Clem looked tired.
They picked a place on St. John Street run by Italians. Rowley had eaten there a couple of times and liked the way they had of doing veal. The proprietor had a thick accent and spoke to his dark-eyed waiters in their own language, which set Rowley’s train of thought off to Clem, with his English name and voice, and his entirely un-English looks.
“Do your parents live here?” he asked idly.
“What, Clerkenwell?”
“Well, England.”
Clem contemplated the tablecloth. “My mother was from Calcutta. She went back.”
“Just your mother? Is your father still here?”
“I don’t want to talk about my family.”
That was startlingly blunt, and Rowley, somewhat taken aback, had to remind himself that Clem was not a man for hints. “Of course. I beg your pardon.”
Clem turned slightly to look around the restaurant, obviously feeling awkward. Rowley searched for another topic and, for the first time in months, couldn’t think of anything to talk about, but was discomfited by the silence. At home—in the lodging house, rather—silence was a chance to stroke the cat and watch the fire. Here the clattering and voices around them merely emphasised the empty air between them. How was it that acts of intimacy could make them strangers again?
Maybe that was it. Maybe Clem’s fretting and discomfort were because he’d realised the mistake he’d made in fucking a lodger, a man from whom he couldn’t simply walk away, and Rowley was forcing unwanted company on him.
He made himself say, “Look, Clem, we don’t have to stay. Or, you don’t have to. If you’d rather not.”
Clem was tracing patterns on the tablecloth with a finger, looking as ill at ease as Rowley felt. “I, uh. I’d rather be at home. I mean, I’m hungry, and this smells delicious. But I’d rather be at home.”
Rowley nodded, for lack of any words. Don’t make a fuss. Be decent. Just accept it.
“I’m sorry,” Clem went on. “If I’d thought, I wouldn’t have dragged you out around a whole lot of gin palaces because I’m afraid of my brother. It wasn’t very enjoyable, was it?”
“I offered to come with you,” Rowley said. “What would you rather do now?”
Clem was still drawing circles with his finger. “About that. I think we need to talk.”
Damnation, hell, and buggery. Rowley nodded into the inevitability. “Go on.”
“I don’t know if—last night—changed anything.” He kept his voice low. Rowley glanced around anyway. There was nobody at the table on either side, but enough customers here that their conversation would not be easily heard. “I don’t want it to change our friendship. Because I’m a little bit afraid we might end up not friends any more, and I’d miss that more than anything. I’d miss you coming for tea with me, and putting up with Cat, and telling me about peculiar-shaped animals.”
“Do I do that? Very much?” Rowley added, with a twinge of guilt.
“Now and then. The thing is, if anything else is going to make it hard to be friends, I’d honestly rather put our friendship first.”
“Would you prefer to do that?” Rowley asked, feeling airless. “To go back to how we were?”
“Well, no, not really.” Clem was apparently concentrating on his finger drawing. “It’s just that I don’t want to stop being friends, but what I’d really prefer is if we could be friends as well.”
“Oh,” Rowley said. “Oh. Really?”
“That would be rather perfect,” Clem said in a rush. “Because the, er, the as well part was wonderful, and I’ve been kicking myself all evening for dragging you out when it would have been much more pleasant to be in. And if you’re not too cold and tired, I’d like it if you came back for a cup of tea after dinner. Um, that was a hint. In case you were wondering.”
“It was a good hint,” Rowley said, feeling the grin spreading over his face. “I’m glad you mentio
ned it was one, but yes, an excellent hint. Consider it taken.”
They ate veal that seemed, for some reason, to be superlatively delicious, and strolled down St. John Street toward Wilderness Row arm in arm. That was quite unexceptional and nobody would notice or care, but Rowley was absurdly aware of Clem’s elbow crooked around his own biceps, and the prospect of an hour together heated his blood against the icy chill. Just kissing, he thought, unless Clem very much wanted more, just an intimate hour together, just letting the tentative, glorious new reality settle into its right place like feathers on a skin.
They turned left into Wilderness Row. The solitary gas lamp shed its yellow light, catching on the curls of wisping mist, illuminating the plain brickwork of the Baptist chapel, glinting off the curved windows of Rowley’s shop front—
The devil it was, not from this angle. Rowley stopped dead, tugging Clem with him.
“What—?”
“Sssh.”
The door of his shop was shut, but was there slightly too much shadow around the edge? And the glint of light inside was moving, even though Rowley was standing still.
“There’s someone in there,” he said under his breath. “I’m being robbed. Hoi!” He yelled that last, disentangling his arm from Clem’s, and ran to the shop, jerking the door open with sheer fury. “Oi! Get out of there, you bugger!”
The light—evidently a dark lantern—was abruptly extinguished. It was very dark inside the shop, the gaslight from down the street barely penetrating past the window, and Rowley’s eyes weren’t adapted as the burglar’s were. He had just time to realise that before feet scuffed and a bulky form came rearing out of the shop’s gloom, shouldering him brutally out of the way. Rowley went stumbling, slapping a panicky hand to his face as his spectacles slipped. He recovered himself, and turned to see Clem struggling with a thickset man. He charged into the fellow’s back, leading with an elbow to the kidney. The thief grunted but wasn’t stopped. He swung an arm backward that sent Rowley lurching away; Clem gave a harsh gasp of pain, and then the thief was running, fast for such a big man.
