“He still has to share space with Darren Gough. Fancy you remembering that, my cricket idols.” George laughed. “But I’ve outgrown my single bed, so I’ve moved into the master. Darren and David get to hang out in my old digs.”
“Your mum’s room?” Henry hesitated as they reached the landing. “Is that— I mean, will it feel a bit weird?”
“Oh, she hasn’t slept in here for years,” George assured him. “She turned the third bedroom into a meditation, yoga temple thing. She sleeps in there, surrounded by crystals and singing bowls. The master became the guest room, and now it’s mine.”
He pushed open the bedroom door and said, “After you, Mr. Fitz!”
Henry had been in this room a very long time ago. He and George had dared each other to go in and steal something—a lipstick, or a comb, or, as Henry had, a single leather sandal. And once they had performed their raid, they’d felt guilty and confessed their transgression to George’s mum, who’d hugged them and forgiven them and made them eat carob biscuits.
Which was a punishment, even if George’s mum hadn’t thought so.
The room was still dominated by a huge old four-poster bed with red and gold brocaded curtains. The bed must’ve been as old as the house—generations of Brookeses had slept in it, so it was said. Slept in it and done other things too. George had flicked on the lamp and its soft glow made the room cozy and inviting.
“It’s a beautiful room for a beautiful man,” Henry decided.
“Look.” George pointed proudly to the table beside the bed. There, just as it was in Henry’s house, was that photo of the two of them at Sandhurst, celebrating the passing out parade. “The first thing I unpacked.”
Henry crossed his arms over his bare chest and nudged his head against George’s shoulder. Why had he let his muddled feelings nearly destroy their friendship, their love?
“It’s next to my bed as well. You looked so handsome that day, Captain George.”
“I had this silly idea that you’d see me in my uniform and forget that daft, lanky lad who’d been your friend in favor of his manly chap I thought I’d become, which I hadn’t, of course.” He laughed, looping his arms around Henry’s waist. “I was still that silly boy in the cricket jumper who fell out of the tree in your eyes, and I hope I always will be.”
Smiling at George, Henry brushed his lips over George’s face, and settled on his mouth. They kissed tenderly, dropping away the last of their clothes until, naked, George dragged back the corner of the covers and they slid under. There, beneath the canopy that had sheltered his family for generations, George drew Henry into his embrace and held him in contented silence.
Chapter Seventeen
Had the sun been peering in for long around the curtains? Not that its beams would’ve settled upon anything untoward, besides two men, curled up asleep around each other. Henry yawned. They had fallen asleep almost as soon as they had got into bed, and Henry hadn’t slept so well in ages. And now he was rested and loved, and it was Saturday morning. So he wasn’t even late for work.
Henry pulled on his clothes, buttoning his shirt as he padded barefoot down the stairs.
“George? Good morning!”
Where was his host? Henry followed the music coming from the lounge.
George was sat—no, sprawled—among a pile of cushions in a large armchair before the window, one leg flung over the arm. He wore a cricket jersey trimmed in the colors of his regiment and casually creased chinos, and spread across his lap was the red regimental mess jacket of his officer’s uniform. He held a cloth and was vigorously polishing the bright brass buttons while Tabitha perched on the sofa, holding a steaming mug of tea.
“Fitz, darling, grab a cuppa and join us!” George beamed and waved the cloth. “We’re talking inspiration!”
Inspiration?
That was certainly one word for it. Henry stared dumbly at the sight before him. George, impossibly handsome, the louche bastard—and that jacket, that damn jacket! Wind seemed to rush past his ears as he sped through a time-tunnel that spat him out at the military uniform shop. All that time ago, when George had swished back the changing room curtain and stepped out in that jacket. The gold buttons. The tantalizing gold buttons that Henry had longed to feel pressed against him, that he had longed to unfasten.
Henry returned to the now.
“Golly, that jacket…”
No other words were possible.
“Polishing my buttons ready for the 1940s evening. You are coming, Fitz?” George beckoned him over and lifted out of the chair just enough to kiss Henry’s cheek before he returned to his lounging position.
Henry remembered to nod a good morning to Tabitha.
“I’m supposed to be going, but I don’t have a 1940s costume. I don’t know what to wear.”
“Tweed, darling, and you’re laughing!”
“Is it that simple?” Henry grinned, but then wondered why Tabitha was laughing. “It’s a classic look. Especially for a vet.”
“And I’ve told Tab that it’s a no to anything that might make LP look like a sideshow, haven’t I, Tab?” George looked to his immaculate producer. “So we’re focusing on cricket and, I don’t know, jam or something.”
“Jam—oh, you can’t possibly object to jam, Henry?” Tabitha put her cup down on the table. George had apparently cleared away all the documents that had filled the lounge only a few hours before. “Jam is uncontroversial.”
“Well—” Bloody Steph and Bloody Ed and the bloody greengage jam. But at the sight of George and his gentle smile, Henry didn’t care. Let the Belchers turn the jam contest into a drama if they chose—they were the ones who looked petty, not Henry. “Quite. Not controversial in the least.”
“Tab.” George looked suddenly inspired. “The Women’s Institute?”
“Yes!” Tabitha clapped her hands. “The WI is very hot at the moment. Have your lot posed naked for a charity calendar?”
Henry thought his eyes would burst out of his skull.
“No, they bloody haven’t! Longley Parva isn’t some sort of weird hub of wild sex, you know!”
Tabitha giggled. “That’s not the impression I got when I arrived here yesterday morning, Henry, but I’ll take your word for it.”
Henry was certain he was blushing.
“I could talk to Mrs. Dalrymple about a calendar,” George offered. “It’d make a brilliant Christmas show, wouldn’t it? And I could keep my clothes on for once!”
“Why not focus on her baking? Those are the sort of WI baps we should see, not—erm…”
“Baking, you say?” Tabitha swished her pashmina over her shoulder, brow furrowed in thought. “Baking is very hot.”
“Certainly is.” Here was a subject Henry knew something about. “You have to get the oven to just the right temperature, and if you spend all day in the kitchen, it gets very hot indeed.”
“Mrs. Dalrymple might be an older woman, but she’s still a woman,” George pressed on, intent on defending his new best pal. “If she wants to pose in nothing but an apron and a smile, I say why not?”
He blinked up at Henry. “Do you bake, Fitz? This is a side of you I haven’t seen. Will you make me a chocolate cake?”
Henry looked over at Tabitha. He could see her brain working. A vet who can bake.
“I dabble.” He shrugged. “There’s cake stalls at every event that happens in this village. Aside from eating the cake, I see it as a nice way to serve the community. Rock buns are my speciality. Sponge cakes with buttercream and homemade raspberry jam. That’s a popular one, actually. The very occasional coffee square, from my gran’s 1970s cookbook. I’ve tried bread, now and again. Not so good at that, though.”
Tabitha clasped her hands around her knees, beaming. “How very English you are, Henry, if you don’t mind me saying so. Are you certain you don’t want to do television? A rural vet, clad in tweed, who bakes classic cakes?”
“But I—” It was hardly a lifestyle option. It was just how
Henry was. “I don’t think anyone needs to see me sweating in my kitchen, covered in butter and flour!”
“You forgot to mention that Henry is also gorgeous, Tab, which would do his prospects no harm.” George laughed, then he gave Tabitha a stern look. “I can see it now, handsome vet saves puppy from tree, then unwinds by baking jam tarts over the closing credits.”
Wafting her hand as if she’d forgotten there was no cigarette between her fingers, Tabitha nodded in agreement. “They’d love Henry on the weekend cookery chat shows, lovey. There’s a chunk of promo right away!”
“The main thing is, Tabs, I want to concentrate a bit of time on old Lady G.’s bio and think about projects related to that for next year.” This was news to Henry, though George was looking determined. “So for the Christmas show, I’d rather feature, as opposed to being the whole show. What do you think? GSB’s cricketing, WI-ing summer sort of thing?”
“Anything that features bunting is hot, lovey, of course. But obscure, dusty aristos? Darling, what about the Amazon?” Tabitha’s face looked rather pinched. She glanced at Henry, then turned to George. “The Brazilian government are lining up to accommodate us for the shoot. What about those endangered monkeys you were going to visit?”
“She had a clutch of husbands, an even bigger clutch of girlfriends, and her son kept a pet goat,” he told her hopefully. “Does that not tempt you in?”
“An eccentric was he, her son?”
Good lord. Was he going to do it? Admit to his not-very-straight ancestors? George earned himself a wide grin from Henry.
But would he or George ever admit to the public that they were very far from straight themselves?
“He had his moments, but I think the focus would be on Georgina. After all, she was a trailblazer for her gender. Politics, business and all of it better than any man.” George laughed and offered, “If it helps, I’ll drag up and float about LP myself!”
“Brava!” Tabitha leaped to her feet. “My god, that would be amazing! And everyone would bang on about how brave it is of you, to go about in drag. Manly man in a corset, that sort of thing. But we must make sure you can pass, darling. We don’t want panto dame, do we?”
Henry was aware of the fact that, once again, his jaw was hanging open. George, in drag? George, in a corset? His legs had turned to jelly.
“Sorry, I need to get that cup of tea, I think.”
“And she dressed as a chap and went into London to scandalize the fellows in the city when they scoffed at a woman doing business,” George told her, full of enthusiasm. “She squired Mrs. Armistead to the theater in full gentleman’s dress so for me to do the odd scene reversing the drag— I’m sick of taking my top off, so let me put a corset on and see if we can make it fly?”
Henry didn’t hear or see anything else. Until he blinked open his eyes and realized that he was lying on the floor, staring up at George and Tabitha.
“You all right, Fitz?” George went down on one knee and fanned him with the sleeve of his regimental jacket. “Horrified at the thought of me in a frock, eh?”
Henry grasped George’s hand. “No, not at all—quite the contrary, in fact!”
Tabitha snorted loudly. “That idea passes muster with the gay community at least!”
“I wouldn’t say I’m representative.” But Henry wasn’t looking at Tabitha as he addressed her. The sight of the regimental jacket was making him lightheaded again. “Must get a cuppa, eh?”
“What do you think, Fitz?” George stood beside the portrait and approximated Georgina’s pose and expression. “Could I be Georgie with a cincher and some slap?”
“Mmmm… Yes. I mean, I’m not an expert on ladies, but—yes. You have her eyes.” Henry looked toward George. “And so did her son.”
George met his gaze and smiled, his expression one of undisguised adoration. Still looking to Henry, he told Tabitha, “I’m aiming for the super feminine woman dresses as a chap angle by playing the opposite ex-soldier dresses as a girl version? I’m not thinking of a whole six-parter in drag, just the odd scene here and there. I might even get into the full naval rig again too, I love the brocade.”
“I don’t think anyone would mind.” Tabitha’s voice became extra fruity, like a head girl who has spotted the nearby boys’ school out on the field in their rugger gear again. “Ex-soldier does drag is hardly front-page news, darling—my cousin’s a brigadier, I know all about what you chaps get up to!”
George, however, looked at her rather darkly and said, “What, apart from fighting wars, Tab?”
“Oh, darling…!” Tabitha pouted and crossed the room to George in a waft of strong-smelling perfume.
Henry darted aside to avoid her outstretched arms as she sallied forth. He could still remember the feel of the pitted skin across George’s back as they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. George, however, maintained that very professional look he had assumed and asked, “And this year, are we on for the cricketing, WI, English villages are lovely special? I’ll throw in a sunset dip in Fitz’s lake to sweeten the deal if he says I can. Complete with lingering close-ups of me mid-dive?”
“Definitely!” Tabitha was already tapping at her phone. She looked up at George—and sparingly at Henry—with a somewhat equine, toothy grin.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Tabby, I must get my hard-working, handsome boyfriend a cup of tea and check Jez is happy with his breakfast.” He kissed her cheek and laid his mess jacket down over the chair. “I’ll be two minutes.”
Henry followed George into the kitchen.
“Sorry about fainting, old bean.”
“You had me worried!” George pulled Henry into his arms. “I didn’t want to wake you, you were sleeping so deeply.”
“It’s a very comfortable bed! And you were very nice to hug all night.” How lovely George smelled. Clean and yet spicy, warm, familiar and exciting. But there was a question Henry needed to ask. “I thought you wanted to go to the Amazon?”
“I’ve been to the Amazon a couple of times already.” He shrugged as though it were just a trip to Sainsbury’s. “Being with you, raising little Jez… That’s my next adventure.”
“Do you—do you really mean that?” Henry circled his thumb against George’s jaw. “You’re going to stay in the village?”
He nodded. “In a little cottage of my own. Ma’ll be back by Christmas and much as I adore Andie, I wouldn’t want to live with her and her panpipes.”
“They are a bit of a chore. Depending on which way the wind’s blowing in summer, I sometimes have to shut my windows. The noise drifts over the meadow, you see.”
If only Henry could offer him something. But he might not even have a home of his own soon. Maybe Henry would be the next inhabitant of Andie Standish-Brookes’ shed. George was looking at him again, that same close look that made Henry feel as though he would never be able to keep a secret from him.
“Since it’s your day off, shall we take Jez and Tabs down to the pub and let her have a look at the village? We could try another of those highly controversial platters if you like?” George pulled a scandalized face and added, “Or is that too London for you rural folk?”
“Well, I enjoyed it. Do you think we should get her a jacket potato with baked beans and cheese? She might not want to film here if she finds out we have such outré things as tapas sharing platters in Longley Parva. Saveloy rather than chorizo?”
“We’ll get her a steak and Spitfire pie,” George decided. “But I won’t dress as an airman while she eats it.”
Henry’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “Pity…”
“Wait until the 1940s bash. I hope you’ll approve of my choice of togs.”
“Dressing up as an airman for that? Will the fake mustache tickle when we have a big snog in the car park and you give me a pair of nylons?”
“I’ll take you for a spin in the Jag.” George, always plummy, was now the epitome of the upper officer class. “And we’ll enjoy a victory roll in the hay if y
ou’re lucky.”
“Up, up and away!” Henry rushed his mouth to George’s, forgetting that they were standing by the window, forgetting that George had a guest. Forgetting everything, because he was in love.
The gentle nuzzling of Jez’s nose against Henry’s back brought him to his senses and out of their kiss.
“Someone’s ready to go and meet his fans.” George put his arm around Jez’s neck. “Tabs, grab your handbag, we’re going into the village!”
Chapter Eighteen
It wasn’t unusual for Henry to be drafted in as village tour guide. As lord of the manor, he was a splendid historical artifact, a coelacanth in tweeds.
Although this morning he was in corduroy.
Tabitha cooed with each fact that Henry related, snapping photos on her phone.
“…and in 1623, one poor chap died when the bell fell out of the tower in a storm and crushed him.” The clock on the church steeple chose that moment to chime somewhat sarcastically as they passed by the churchyard’s low stone wall. “Over here, we have the grave of Nehemiah Belcher, killed in a duel over Lady Georgina—at least, so they say. He was probably just cleaning his gun and it went off by accident. Now, the large stone cross on our right—”
“Our family always said that it was Lady G. who fired the fatal shot whilst dressed in her best suit but…” George shrugged. “We’ve always liked a tall tale, we Standy-Bees, but nobody else came forward to claim it!”
Tabitha pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head.
“I’m liking this idea more and more! What a scene to re-enact—who would we get to play that Belcher chap? Does he have descendants in the village?”
“Enjoy the history for now, Tabs, we’ll talk names later.”
Henry pointed across the lane and continued with the tour.
“Just on the other side of the High Street, you can see what looks like a hill, covered in trees. That is nothing less than our castle! The hill is in fact the motte, where a wooden fortification would have stood—it’s where the first Fitzwalters lived when they arrived in Longley Parva.”
The Captain and the Cricketer Page 17
