“Yes, perfectly. Yes, thank you so much for your help, sir.” Rebecca knew she didn’t sound convincing. She took her bicycle from him and tried to wheel it away, but he caught hold of the saddle.
“No, wait, don’t run off like that.” His voice was gentle and concerned. “You should know that at Somerton we never wish to see one of our people unhappy. Is there something I can do?”
Rebecca sniffed, and wiped her eyes and nose with her hanky. She finally felt under control, and could meet Michael’s eyes with a brave smile. “I—I was just thinking of my father, sir. He died recently, and I miss him very much.”
It was true, although it wasn’t why she had been crying.
“I am so sorry.” Michael’s voice was soft. “I lost my own father when I was a little boy. It’s a scar that takes years to heal.”
Rebecca felt new tears coming to her eyes. She looked down, and nodded.
“He would be very proud of you, I am sure, if he could see you today,” Michael said.
“Thank you, sir,” murmured Rebecca. She took her bicycle again. She knew it was unfair to keep him here; he must feel awkward at speaking to a servant like this in the middle of the public highway. “You have been very kind. I must go back now; Mr. Wright will be needing me to help with the silver.”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “Good-bye, and—good luck, Rebecca.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rebecca smiled, then walked away with the bicycle. Luckily, the sugar had not spilled at all. She glanced back, just in case he was watching. He was not, he was walking on toward the recruiting office, but she still looked back again, once or twice. Master Michael, she thought, was as gentlemanly as he was handsome—and that was saying a lot.
Somerton
“Excuse me, my lord,” said Thomas the next day, appearing at the door of the breakfast room with a troubled expression on his face. “But will Master Templeton be absent for long? It is only that we would like to know how many will be at dinner—”
Georgiana looked up. She caught Charlotte’s eye and saw a reflection of her own surprise there. Michael had not mentioned that he was going away.
“Absent?” The earl spoke for all of them. “He is not absent, Wright. Not to my knowledge.”
“Er—very good, my lord,” said Thomas. Georgiana could see he was not convinced.
“He has perhaps gone for an early ride,” Lord Westlake said, noticing Thomas’s discomfort.
“He appears to have taken his shaving materials—in fact, everything indicates that he has gone away for at least a weekend, my lord. Roderick only discovered his absence when he went upstairs to dress him.”
Lord Westlake looked at the countess. “Did he mention anything, my dear? It’s most inconsiderate of him if he has simply gone off on a jaunt.”
“No, he said nothing to me. How typical of the boy,” the countess sighed. “I shall give him a stern lecture when he comes in.”
But the morning passed, and Michael did not arrive. Georgiana spent an anxious day. She told herself that there was no need to worry, that Michael had certainly just gone to visit a friend, and in his usual rebellious way had decided not to tell anyone—but when they went in for dinner, he was still not there.
“I am really concerned now,” said the earl, frowning. “My dear, don’t you think we had better have Wright speak to the servants discreetly and find out if anyone has seen him?”
“I suppose so. What a nuisance!” the countess replied.
The earl turned to Thomas. “Will you speak to the servants, Wright? Find out if anyone has seen Master Michael?”
The parlormaid, Rebecca, looked up with a startled expression. Georgiana had forgotten until that moment that she was serving the dinner. She was so inconspicuous and quiet—even James could not have done it better. Now, though, she crossed to Thomas and whispered in his ear.
Thomas listened, nodded, and turned back to the table.
“Excuse me, but Rebecca would like to say that she saw Master Michael yesterday in Palesbury.”
“You did? Whereabouts?” the countess demanded directly.
“Just by the recruiting office, my lady,” Rebecca replied.
Georgiana drew in her breath sharply. The countess put down her glass.
“You saw him by the recruiting office and you said nothing to us?” she demanded in the iciest, and most terrifying tones.
Rebecca trembled.
“I—I didn’t think, my lady, that there was any harm in him being there.”
“You did not think!” The countess looked around the table with an expression of fury. “Well! Of all the stupidity!”
“Do you have any idea of what he may have been doing in the town?” the earl demanded.
“N-no, sir. I fell from my bicycle and he was kind enough to help me collect my parcels. That’s all I know.”
“Just because he was seen near the recruiting office doesn’t mean…” Georgiana was reluctant to say in front of the servants what she knew they were all thinking. But Rebecca seemed to understand.
“I do remember,” she faltered, “that he did wish me luck. I thought that was a little surprising, almost as if, as if—”
“As if he were going away for a long time!” the countess finished. “Oh, you idiot girl, how could you not have said anything to us?”
“Thank you, Wright, Rebecca, that will be all,” the earl said hastily. The servants left the room and the family was alone. Georgiana looked around at her father and the countess. The look of concern on her father’s face and of fury on the countess’s did not reassure her.
“The insolence, the disobedience! He has simply flouted my wishes!” The countess got up and paced the room, her silk dress swishing around her ankles like an angry whip.
“You think he has enlisted, then?” Charlotte spoke sharply, betraying her anxiety.
For the first time, Georgiana thought, she and Charlotte Templeton shared an emotion—fear for Michael.
“But he is underage,” she said. “Surely they won’t take him.”
“If they believe him to be nineteen—and he does look old for his age—they will,” the earl responded. “Well, I am sorry. I think he should have waited. But he wanted to enlist, and at least it shows he has courage and a manly spirit.”
“You surely don’t mean there is nothing to be done!” Georgiana exclaimed.
“Nothing to be done? Not at all,” the countess responded. “I am going to write immediately to the War Office and demand his discharge. He is not of majority, and I am his sole surviving parent. He is under my command, not Lord Kitchener’s! I forbade him to go, and I will not have him disobeying me like this. I will demand a discharge.”
“Oh, but, Mother—” Charlotte exclaimed, and at almost the same moment the earl said, very seriously, “My dear, I understand your concern for your son, but think what you are doing. He isn’t a child. He’s a young man. He has made this choice, to fight for his country, knowing the risks. How will he feel to be dragged back from doing what he feels is his duty—will he ever forgive you?”
“He is just a child!”
“He is a young man.”
“Oh, this is terrible!” Georgiana exclaimed. “We can’t allow him to go to war.”
“We can allow him to go to war,” Charlotte said.
“How can you say that?” Georgiana exclaimed. “He may be killed!”
“You don’t understand. I am frightened for him, but think how he must feel!” Georgiana was startled by the passion in Charlotte’s voice. “You know he was color sergeant in his Officer Training Corps. You know he was top marksman at his school. You know he hates discipline that he does not understand the reason for, but he will dare anything if he only knows the purpose. What greater purpose than this can there be? I cannot imagine a better soldier than Michael, and, well, is it not selfish of us to ask for his discharge just because it would hurt us so much if…if he were not to come back?”
Georgiana looked at Charlotte wi
th new respect. She had never heard her speak with such feeling or such intelligence. This season, or perhaps it was the outbreak of war, seemed to have changed her deeply.
“How dare you call your own mother selfish,” the countess said. “May I inform you that my mind is entirely made up. I will write for his discharge at once.”
She swept toward the writing desk, opened it, and began to write, fiercely. She looked up to say, “I knew this parlormaid nonsense would come to no good. That wretched girl will have as good as killed Michael if anything happens to him.”
“Oh, but how could she have known what he was planning?” Georgiana said.
“I really don’t know, but she was the last person to see him, and she did not raise the alarm. That is inexcusable. Oh, to have Cooper back, and everything as it was before the war!”
London
The Eagle and Child was thick with smoke; the clink of glasses and the hum of conversation, broken by occasional laughter, filled the air. Sebastian sat nursing his pint, frowning at the scarred table. He disliked being here. It was too obvious; it wasn’t the kind of place he liked to bring Oliver to. There were women with mannish haircuts, collars, and ties, some men openly wearing lipstick, flirting with each other. He didn’t blame them, but it wasn’t where he and Oliver should be. Not that Oliver seemed to mind.
He glanced up as the piano struck up a popular tune, and saw Oliver laughing with the pianist. “Darling,” he heard him say. He knocked back his pint and got up, scowling even more. He strode over to Oliver and put a hand on his shoulder.
“I thought you were the police, then,” Oliver laughed, but the laugh faded when he saw Sebastian’s expression. “What is the matter?”
“You’re drawing attention to us.”
“‘Attention,’ the man says. We’re in the queerest pub in Fitzrovia and he’s afraid we’ll stand out.” He reached out and plucked a primrose from the vase on the piano, tucked it into Sebastian’s buttonhole, and straightened his collar. “Relax, my dear. Enjoy yourself.”
The others laughed. Sebastian only scowled more. He pulled Oliver away, noting that he was drunk.
“I was having fun,” Oliver protested.
“Come on, these are scarcely our class of people.”
“Sebastian, they are exactly our class of people,” Oliver said, rolling his eyes.
“That’s not what I mean. We may be similar in our proclivities, but—”
“Proclivities! I’m a proclivity now, am I?”
“Don’t laugh at me. You know what I mean. We should be in Claridge’s or one of the clubs, not in some low dive with these people.…”
“You know we don’t have that choice.” Oliver sounded sullen. “This is what we are; we may as well accept it.”
“But I don’t! I don’t want to be like this. I want us to be…to be like Rose and Alexander.”
Oliver looked at him and shook his head. “You don’t understand, do you? We’ll never be allowed to be like that, and…well, perhaps I don’t want to be. Perhaps I would rather be with people who understand me, who accept me for what I am and don’t try to turn me into something I am not and never can be.”
Sebastian found it hard to get the words out. “You mean that I don’t understand you.”
“To be perfectly frank, I’m not sure you do.”
“Very well, then,” said Sebastian, his voice thick with anger and pain. “If you feel that way, of course there’s no more to be said.”
He looked at Oliver for a response, but Oliver looked away. Sebastian turned and strode to the door. Halfway there he turned, and raced back to Oliver. He caught him by the arm and pulled him into a rough, passionate kiss. He felt Oliver’s lips soft against his own, the delicious smell of him, the pulse that beat in his throat. Then the others started whistling and cheering. Sebastian dropped Oliver’s arm as if it were hot, and blundered back to the door. He heard Oliver behind him, saying “Sebastian—” but he didn’t wait to hear what it was. He opened the door and plunged out into the night.
He walked for a long time without knowing or seeing where he was going. It’s just an argument, he kept telling himself. A little argument. You can turn back now, patch it up. You love him. He loves you. That’s enough.
But he knew it wasn’t enough.
He stopped, seeing that he had reached Knightsbridge. The streets were dark because of the blackout blinds that were the law now, to guard against zeppelin raids. Standing unseen in the shadows, he saw women in jewels stepping from their carriages and motorcars in front of the theaters and restaurants. The men were in dress uniform and white gloves. In his current mood, one thing struck him with savage force. These couples were men and women. Women and men. Never men and men.
Feeling curiously like a spy, an outsider observing from behind glass, he watched their smiles, their flirtations. What an ordinary scene he was seeing, and yet it was one that was completely impossible for him.
If I go back to Oliver, he thought, what then? What kind of life can I offer him?
He had always pretended that he didn’t want what the world offered—reputation, respectability, security, acceptance, the grand old pat on the back—but that was before he met Oliver. Now it was all he wanted. All that he could not, would never be able to, have. A home. A life. A society wedding, damn it. It wasn’t just that he wanted these things; it was that he wanted to give them to Oliver. Oliver deserved them.
Some officers had paused on the steps of the Ritz, smoking cigars and conversing in low voices. He heard their soft laughter and took a step forward, as if hypnotized. There were three of them; their uniforms still carried the sheen of new leather and stiff cloth. Volunteers, men who’d rushed to sign up. He’d laughed at these wide-eyed, stiff-upper-lip heroes, but here they were, able to walk into the Ritz, and he was on the outside. Did he need further proof of how far he had fallen?
One of the officers caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed how close to them he was. He realized, flushing with embarrassment, that he must look like some kind of beggar, lurking in the shadows.
The officer narrowed his eyes at Sebastian, a faint frown showing his puzzlement. With a sudden shock, Sebastian recognized him. It was an old friend of his from Oxford, Vernon Tollemache. Without thinking, he gave a nod of acknowledgement. At the same second he saw recognition in Vernon’s eyes. And then they froze.
Sebastian could not find a better way to describe it. Vernon’s eyes simply glazed over, cold and hard, as if Sebastian did not exist. He looked away, threw the end of his cigar down. He said something in a low voice to one of the other officers. They all laughed. Then they turned away, Vernon among them, and went up the steps to the Ritz. The door opened, let them in, and shut behind them.
Sebastian stood where he was. He could not bring himself to move. Vernon had cut him—blanked him completely, as if he did not exist. There was no more terrible social judgment. The upper classes had surgically precise ways of dealing with things they found distasteful, monstrous, vile. They simply pretended they did not exist. Sebastian had done it himself, back when he had been one of them. Except he had never been one of them, not really. He had always been living a lie.
He licked his lips and took a soft step back into the shadows. The first rush of shame and rage had vanished, and he was left with the flat gray landscape of despair.
Of course, this was all he could offer Oliver. Excision, being cut out like rotting flesh from society’s healthy body. No. He could not do it.
He turned away. Throughout history there had been one sure path for a man who had nothing left to lose. And tonight, in London, in 1914, Sebastian knew that it would be the easiest thing in the world to find that path.
Sergeant Gilbertson, the medical officer at Central London Recruiting Office, was thirsting for a cup of tea. The day had started before dawn, with a long queue of potential recruits snaking down the road and out of the door.
“Take your clothes off,” he barked without looking up, as the
door opened to let the next young man in. He finished filling out his forms, looked up at the naked man in front of him, and looked again. Most of the young’uns he was seeing here were underdeveloped, underfed, scrawny little things—how could they not be, fed on East End diets. But this man was at least six feet tall, well built, and straight-backed. He already looked like a soldier. He also looked as if he had not slept, or shaved, and as if he had drunk most of a barrel of whiskey. A wilted primrose hung in the buttonhole of the coat he had draped over the back of the chair.
“Age?” he enquired.
“Twenty, sir.”
“Name?”
The man hesitated.
“Se—Rupert, sir. Rupert…Moore.”
The sergeant raised his eyebrow. He could tell a false name a mile off. Probably a middle name. But what business was it of his? The man looked like an excellent recruit for the ranks. Well spoken, too. He wouldn’t be the first to join up to escape some scandal or other. Well, if all he did was stop a bullet, that would be quite enough for England.
“Get on the scales” was all he said. He glanced at the weight and made a note of it in the book. “Well, put your clothes on.”
He took out the forms as the man dressed again. When the recruit was ready, he cleared his throat. “I’m ready to sign you up. You realize you’ll be going overseas?”
“I want to, sir.”
“Keen to fight, eh?”
“Not keen to stay.” There was a heaviness in the man’s voice.
Gilbertson hesitated before continuing with the routine questions. That note in the voice wasn’t good. Men who sounded like that didn’t last long. They didn’t want to.
But there he probably wouldn’t last long anyway. Will to survive didn’t count for much against a howitzer shell.
Gilbertson filled in the answers—place of birth, British citizen, and so on—and passed the form back to sign. “There you go. Three years or the duration. Are you ready to take the oath of allegiance?”
The man scanned the form, nodded, and signed. He drew himself up to his full height, raised his hand and repeated after the sergeant the words that would change his life:
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