A Private Gentleman

by Heidi Cullinan

  It was the most impressive bath he’d ever seen: grand copper tub, elegant black tile. More beautiful was the display of plants that filled the place. They stood on shelves, in corners, hung from the ceiling. Some were right in the window and some were pulled back. Apparatus dangled from the ceiling, pipes and tubes and valves that seemed to have nothing to do with the usual features of a bath. Small spouts hung from the ends of some of the tubes. Whole pots of nothing but soil stood on one side of the room.

  A series of glass jars lined a long wooden shelf, with green twiglike plants buried within rock inside clear, condensation-riddled containers. Michael was inspecting one as Albert came into the room. When he saw what Michael was looking at, he brightened.

  “Th-these are my orchids.”

  “Oh?” Michael turned back to the plants, more than a little disappointed. These were Albert’s prizes? They didn’t look terribly interesting. Nothing like the ones at the Regent’s Park garden.

  Albert stroked the side of one of the jars in the same way most men would stroke their lover. “None of these are b-blooming yet, but they all w-will before I’m through with them.” He nodded at the jar he was touching. “Th-This is c-cattleya. They f-form in clumps—you can s-see this sp-specimen starting to do so here, if you p-peer around the side.”

  He lifted his hand to gesture to another on a higher shelf. “Here is a ph-phalaenopsis. I h-have a blooming plant of this species, though not here. Th-These two are the most p-prevalent species in England just now, though there is also the d-dendrobium.”

  Michael nodded in what he hoped was a sage gesture, though largely he saw odd little green stems stuck in moss and rock. Albert smiled at him knowingly and pulled a binder down from the shelf above.

  “L-Let me show you what these orchids will become.”

  He opened the binder and laid it on the counter, and Michael couldn’t stop an intake of breath.

  The colors of the illustrations themselves were half the beauty. Bright pinks fading into white, deep purples, all outlined in charcoal and perched atop bright green stems. The illustrations were works of art, done in expert hand. Beneath each was a carefully inked title: DENDROBRIUM and CATTLEYA.

  Michael looked up at him. “Did you paint these?”

  Albert nodded. “I h-have trouble still with scale, but otherwise I b-believe I’m quite p-passable as a b-botanical illustrator.” He turned one of the heavy vellum pages, giving Michael more minutiae of orchids than he could ever possibly retain. Still, he loved hearing the passion in Albert’s voice. The more he spoke of flowers the less and less of his stammer was present.

  Turning one last page, Albert sighed. “This is the p-plant I want most of all. It is l-leafless, you see. The f-flower hangs in the m-middle of the air. I’ve s-seen a few in London—one at L-Lady G-Gordon’s p-party the night we met. N-None of them are blooming, however. This illustration is a c-copy of a c-copy.” He stroked the page sadly.

  Michael leaned against the side of the shelf behind him, feeling a tickle of a bud against the back of his head. “Is that why you love orchids so? Because they’re rare?”

  “N-N-Not at all.” Albert stroked the page of the folio. “Orchids have no p-purpose other than b-beauty. They provide n-no medicine, n-no food. They are d-delicate flowers, difficult to g-g-grow. And y-yet they grow everywhere in the world.” He traced a gloved fingertip over the curve of a drawn petal, his soft gray eyes trailing the motion. “B-Beauty for b-b-beauty’s sake. G-G-God asks n-n-nothing of them b-beyond that they b-be themselves. Th-That’s why they are m-my f-f-favorite.”

  Was it the yearning in Albert’s voice? Was it the way he stroked the image with such love and longing? Was it the gentleness with which his lover spoke? Was it Michael’s own pent-up fear simply choosing this moment to burst free? Michael didn’t know. All he knew was that his mouth was opening and he was whispering, “Albert—Albert, I have something to tell you.”

  Albert’s expression changed to concern. “W-We should g-go sit d-down.”

  “No.” Michael grabbed at Albert’s hands and held them fast before him. His chest hurt. He tried to make himself breathe. “No, if I don’t do it right now, I’ll frighten myself out of it again.” His exhale was a shudder, but he looked Albert in the eye. “I have to tell you. I have to tell you who it was who first bought me when I was a boy.”

  Tenderness turned to surprise and then to a hard sort of pleasure that vanished quickly beneath steadiness. “Of c-course,” Albert said, his voice soothing and strong even with the small hiccough. “I am listening.”

  “You won’t—” Michael had to stop. His throat was so thick he couldn’t go on. When he swallowed, his vision swam. “You won’t like it,” he whispered, a tear sliding down his cheek.

  Albert caught the tear and cupped the side of Michael’s face tenderly. “Shh. It’s all r-right. T-Tell me, and I will help you.”

  Michael shut his eyes tight. He could barely breathe. “I don’t w-want to tell you.”

  “Then don’t.” Albert’s touches were so strong, so sure. Michael wanted to crawl into that strong, sure hand. He nearly died when it pulled away, only to die all over again when the hand came back bare to press warm skin against his damp cheek. “Don’t tell me if it b-brings you pain.”

  “I have to.” Michael turned into his palm, nuzzling it. “Or Rodger will.” Anger rippled through Albert’s body, making him taut. Michael sighed, the sound half-sob, and kissed the palm that cradled him. “No. He’s right. I need to tell you. You’ll see why, when I do. I just—” This time the sob caught him at the throat and in his gut at the same time. “I don’t want you to hate me,” he whispered.

  Now he was enfolded in strong arms, pressed against Albert’s chest. He smelled of starch and sweat and wind and earth. Albert kissed the top of Michael’s head, the gesture hard and desperate. “I would n-never hate you.” When this made another sob escape Michael, Albert only drew him closer, rocking him back and forth like a babe. “T-Tell me, love, so I m-may put your m-mind at ease.” He stroked Michael’s back, his halting words and sure touches a soothing litany. “Just t-tell me. G-Give me his n-name. I w-will still l-love you. N-No m-matter the name.”

  Over and over he caressed and crooned, lulling Michael. It made him feel soft. Though he knew it could not be so, not truly, it made him feel safe. Eventually it made him feel safe enough to speak.

  “You kn-know him,” he whispered at last.

  “It’s all r-r-ight,” Albert promised. “Whoever he is, he is n-nothing to me compared to you.”

  I hope so. Oh, I hope so, darling Albert. He swallowed another sob and plunged on. “He is very close to you.”

  “It’s all r-right.” Albert kept stroking.

  It was as if Michael were back at the train station, the steam whistles all blowing at once inside his head. He let the sound and Albert’s touch drown out the world. “He— His name—” He choked on bile and had to start again. “He— He— He—” He shut his eyes tight. Oh, he couldn’t do it.

  “Just tell me,” Albert whispered.

  The truth sat on his tongue, and Michael willed it out. “He is—”

  The firm rapping on the door to Albert’s apartments stopped Michael’s words and breath. Around him, Albert startled as well. The sound came once more, loud and hard and angry.

  “George Albert, this is your father. I demand you open this door at once, or I shall break it down.”

  “—your father.”

  The words tumbled out, both an echo and a damnation. As soon as they were out, the full reality of it hit Michael squarely in the center of his chest. He went very, very still.

  Albert sighed heavily. “It’s all r-right. It’s just my father.” He let go of Michael reluctantly, kissing the side of his face. “I’ll be back.”

  As Albert left, the room went cold. Colder than it could be with all the heaters, and yet cold it was to him. Michael felt as if he had been thrown headfirst into the Thames in January.


  He was here.

  Daventry was here.

  With a soft, terrified cry, Michael fell back against the shelves and inched away until he met the wall—the outside wall, damp and cold. He slid down it until he hit the floor, where he curled tight against himself as the terror took him over.

  He’s here. He’s found you at last. He told you he’d have you again, didn’t he? He’s haunted your dreams, and now he’s here. He’ll tell Albert about you, and then he’ll take you away, and he’ll have you. He told you, he told you, he told you—

  “No!” he cried, burying his face into the wall. He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. “No—no, no, no, no, no!”

  But it didn’t matter. Even through the terror Michael could hear the voice. His voice, low and smooth and elegant and terrible, triggering all the memories Michael had put so carefully away, making him forget himself and remember things he had never wanted to know again, of how those hands had held him down, of how they had invaded him, of how they had coaxed and teased him as that voice droned on, until his own body betrayed him, and the voice laughed, echoing on and on and on—

  “No, no, no!” he cried in a broken whisper, but he knew it was pointless, that it was already over, and he only waited, shivering and sobbing quietly, for the hell to begin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Something dark and terrible stalked the back of Wes’s mind.

  His father stood in the middle of his sitting room, lip curled in disgust as he berated Wes for not reading his note, saying he’d convinced his merchant friend to meet Wes again and wanted to set up a new meeting, but Wes hardly heard a word he said. Something was wrong. He felt sick and strange inside, and the worst part of it was that he knew part of him knew why. But whatever it was, it was so nasty that this part of him had gone to hide inside the deepest garden of his soul.

  As his father droned on, the darkness hunted, unearthing every corner, determined that the truth would come out. Darkness always slithered inside him when he took opium, especially the drops straight like that, especially so many, but this was different. Normally opium was like a great blanket. It didn’t separate him from the fear, not exactly, but he felt…more aware, as it were, of his parts. He could sense the frightened part of him—and most importantly of all, he could calm it. This was key. When he was lucid, he couldn’t help this part of himself, for it was far, far too loud, far too strong. The opium let it gentle, and he could talk to it, tell it that nothing bad would happen, and it would listen.

  He could see other parts too. He could see the intelligent part of himself, always working in the background, like a clerk sorting papers. He could hear it so much more clearly with the opium, but he’d learned long ago that the amount it took to calm the nervous one turned the intelligent one’s language into mush. So he could see his clever self, but it churned out reams of nonsense and nothing more.

  Tonight was different. Everything about this moment was wrong. It wasn’t a comforting dark inside him, clawing at him as he listened to his father, as Michael hid in his lavatory. It was a yawing, hollow darkness that no opiate could touch, not without killing him first. It was a terrible truth. Instead of comforting him, all the opiate did was make him more aware that just as one part of him was determined to lift the veil, another part was desperate to keep its eyes firmly closed.

  I don’t want to tell you, Michael’s voice whispered, remembered in Wes’s mind.

  “I needed you there,” his father all but snarled. “One simple thing. You had hardly to speak. You only needed to be there. Your only use, and you could not give me even this.”

  You won’t like it.

  “I heard you were on the train. With a man. Good God, but I hope he was only a fellow plant idiot and not what I fear him to be.”

  I don’t want you to hate me.

  “Is that what you have sunk to now? Flaunting your perversity in public? It’s bad enough you won’t marry, not even the desperate souls who would have someone as damaged as you. But to carry on an affair? Are you this stupid, boy, that you don’t even know to conduct such things in private? Must I arrange even this for you—your perverted pleasure?”

  You know him. You are very close to him.

  A thought closed its circle in Wes’s mind. Horrible. Terrible. Impossible.

  “No,” he whispered, but the darkness kept coming.

  “Thank God for that.” Daventry regarded him with open disgust. “I have rued the day you might fancy yourself in love with one of your perverted bedmates. That would be your way. I promise you, there will be pain if it comes to that. You may be a bugger, but you are a Daventry. Use who you must, but no love. They’ll only blackmail you, and by extension me. And then things will get messy, which you won’t care for either.”

  I need to tell you. You’ll see why, when I do.

  I don’t want you to hate me.

  Sick. Wes was going to be sick. No, this was just his fancy—no, no, he was wrong. But God in heaven help him, as he stared at his father, as he thought of Michael’s fear, he could think of nothing else to inspire it.

  He is—

  He is—

  He is—

  “No,” Wes burst out, stopping his own inner whispers. “No. You w-w-would never d-d-do that. You would n-n-n-never h-hurt someone l-l-like that.”

  His father laughed in his face. “You fool. You simpering nancy boy. I w-w-w-would, and I have, and I will again.”

  Wes nearly vomited. He doesn’t know what you’re thinking. He thinks you’re speaking of his disposing of your paramours. The reminder did nothing to push back the terror. “But n-n-not a ch-child. You w-would n-n-never h-h-hurt a child.”

  Too late he realized this was even worse—now his father would think he favored boys. He tried to correct himself, but his stammer swallowed him whole, and he stood paralyzed.

  Which was why as his father’s face went blank—oh-so-carefully blank—and he stilled, Wes saw it all. And he saw, too, the hint of surprise and—just a shade, but it was there—approval.

  “Well,” Daventry said at last. “If that’s the way of it, you must take great, great care.”

  No! Wes wanted to shout. No, no, no, no, no! But he had never been more mute than he was now. Mute and frozen, and this time when the whispers began, he could not stop them, could not turn away.

  He is your father.

  Daventry was watching him with new eyes. Not admiration, not exactly, but it was sickeningly close. “You surprise me, son. You have more depth than I thought.”

  Wes wished he could vomit on him. He couldn’t even manage a single sound, but inside he was screaming. Not like that. I don’t have depth like that.

  His father retrieved his hat from a side table. “On that note, I shall leave you. But come by the house soon, and we will…discuss things. Including how you will make it up to me for missing this party.”

  The Marquess of Daventry placed his hat upon his head and smiled at Wes. He let himself out the door, leaving his son to stand there swimming in horror as his footsteps disappeared down the hall.

  He wasn’t sure when, exactly, he began to move. All he knew was that he found himself in the doorway of the lavatory, clutching tight to something in his hand. On the other side of the room, Michael was curled into a ball between two pots of empty soil, a small, trembling splash of blue and pale yellow. When Wes went to him, Michael cried out and shrank into the shadows.

  Wes’s heart cleaved in two. “M-M-Michael,” he whispered.

  Michael tucked tighter into himself, but as he shifted, Wes could see his face. It was pale and streaked with tears. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

  He murmured the words like a litany. He was lost in panic, in fear—a place Wes knew too well. And it was then Wes realized what he had in his hand, recognizing it by feel but confirming it with a glance: the bottle of laudanum drops.

  Swallowing the sea inside himself, he uncapped the bottle and smeared a drop on his finger. Gently, c
arefully, he rubbed the droplet onto Michael’s trembling lips. Michael drew back, startled, but it didn’t matter. As he tucked his lip into his mouth, the opiate went too. He stilled somewhat almost immediately, though most of that was from surprise.

  “Sweet,” he murmured. “And…tart.” But he was still shaking.

  “Let me g-give you a bit m-more in w-water.”

  Michael did not respond, but neither did he cringe as Wes rose to fetch a glass from the top of a cabinet. He startled slightly when Wes turned on a tap, but when Wes returned to his side, bringing the glass to his lips, Michael only stared down at it in a daze.

  “Opium.” He looked uneasy.

  “It w-w-will help you,” Wes promised.

  Michael blinked at the glass. His eyes shifted to Wes, then filled with tears.

  “You know.” There was no question.

  Wes affirmed the statement with a curt nod.

  Michael reached for the glass and tossed the liquid down. He did not look at Wes again, and Wes waited patiently for the drug to take effect—both the drug he had given Michael and the extra nip he had taken himself before returning to Michael’s side.

  Eventually Michael lifted a hand in front of himself, watching it oddly. “Feel so strange. Everything…floats.”

  “L-Let it calm you,” Wes urged. “L-let it take your fear.”

  Michael looked up at him blearily. “Daventry.”

  My father. Wes swallowed and replied, with some effort, “Y-Yes.”

  Tears leaked from the corners of Michael’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Wes made a strange, strangled sound. He’d apologized? He? The opium tried to carry him away, but this was too terrible. Michael. Michael.

  My father raped Michael.

  While I was hiding at home, too terrified to go to school.

  Gentle hands touched his face. “Albert—Albert, please don’t cry.”

  Wes opened his mouth to deny this, but stopped as he found with no small amount of surprise that he was indeed weeping. Tears were streaming down his face, and he couldn’t stop them. But still he couldn’t speak.