“Who is it from?” Edward asked.
“Frances Holson,” he frowned. “Our family lawyer.”
“Well, read it—I shall turn to face this wall and pretend I have gone to another room, thus giving you some privacy.”
Dear David, March 16
I write with unfortunate news. Mister Griffith has taken ill. He became feverish the night of the museum opening—your grandfather saw that he reached home safely.
I cannot be certain what has transpired between you, but I can tell you that he is devoted to you, and that if you are the man I know you to be and have known since he was a small boy, then you will do him the kindness of calling on him, especially as he believes there is an understanding between you and him. He was to have left for the Cape directly after the party, but has been forced to stay longer. And not only forced, I suspect—he has wanted to, in hopes of seeing you. I hope your conscience and good heart will oblige him.
I see no reason to mention any of this to your grandfather.
Sincerely, F. Holson
Frances must have learned of his whereabouts from Eden, who had no doubt learned it from her driver, that traitor, though he could not but be grateful to their longtime lawyer and family intimate for her discretion—as scolding as her note was, he knew she would not betray him to his grandfather, for she had always indulged him, even when he was a small boy. He crumpled the paper in his hand, hurled it into the fire, and then, in defiance of Frances, slipped back into bed, waving away Edward’s concerns. But later, as they once more lay in each other’s arms, he thought of Charles and was overcome with sorrow and rage: sorrow for Charles, rage at himself.
“You are so serious,” Edward said to him, softly, stroking his cheek. “Will you not tell me?”
And so, finally, he did: of his grandfather’s proposal, of Charles’s offer, of Charles himself, of their encounters together, of how Charles had fallen in love with him. His earlier imaginings, that he and Edward would laugh together about Charles’s bumbling gestures in bed, now made him prickle with shame, and were at any rate not to be. Edward listened quietly and sympathetically, and as he did, David felt himself become more regretful: He had treated Charles abominably.
“The poor man,” said Edward at last, feelingly. “You must tell him, David. Unless—unless you are in fact in love with him?”
“Of course not!” he said, hotly. “I am in love with you!”
“Well, then,” said Edward, pressing close to him, “you truly must tell him. David, you must.”
“I know,” he said. “I know you’re right. My good Edward. Let me just stay with you here one more night, and tomorrow I’ll go to him.”
And then they agreed that they would sleep, for as much as they still wanted to talk, they were both very tired. So they blew out the candles, and though David thought he might be kept awake from worrying about the task he had to endure the next day, he was not—it seemed that he had only to lay his head against Edward’s sole, thin pillow and close his eyes when sleep blanketed him, and his concerns vanished into the murk of his dreams.
XV
“Mister Bingham,” said Walden, dryly. “I’m very sorry to keep you waiting.”
David stiffened—he had never much liked Walden, for he knew his type: A Londoner, hired away by Charles at no doubt enormous expense, he struggled between feeling diminished for being the butler to a man of new money and no name…and feeling proud of himself for having a sense of authority so unimpeachable that a rich man had sought and wooed him from across the sea. Like all seductions, of course, the romance of his had ebbed, and now Walden was trapped in this vulgar territory in the New World, working for someone with means but with gaudy taste. David was a reminder to Walden that he might have done better for himself, might have found himself in the employ of new money that was at least not quite so new.
“That’s quite all right, Walden,” said David, coolly. “My visit is unannounced, after all.”
“Indeed. We have missed seeing you here for some time, Mister Bingham.”
The comment was impertinent, and made to fluster him, and did, but he said nothing, until finally Walden continued, “I’m afraid Mister Griffith is still quite weak. He wonders—but will understand if you’d rather not—if you might come see him in his chambers?”
“Of course—that would be fine, if he’s certain?”
“Oh, yes. He is quite certain. Please: I believe you know the way.”
Walden had spoken mildly, but David bolted to his feet, furious, following Walden up the staircase, blushing as he remembered how Walden had several times witnessed him being steered by an eager Charles into his bedroom, his palm on his lower back, and how David had detected on the butler’s face as he passed him a shadow of a smirk, one both lascivious and mocking.
At the door, he brushed past Walden, his formal, ironic bow—“Mister Bingham”—and then into the room, which was dark, its shades drawn against the late-morning skies, and lit only by a single lamp near Charles’s bedside. Charles himself sat in bed, propped up against tiers of pillows and still clad in his dressing gown. Around him were scatters of papers, and a little table with an inkwell and a quill, which Charles moved from atop his knees.
“David,” he said, quietly. “Come here, so I can see you.” He reached over and lit the lamp on the other side of the bed, and David advanced, drawing close a chair as he did.
He was surprised by how poorly Charles looked, his face and lips gray, the pouches beneath his eyes pleated and sagging, his sparse hair uncombed and floaty, and some of this surprise must have shown in his face, for Charles gave a twitching sort of smile and said, “I ought to have warned you before you entered.”
“Not at all,” he said. “It is always lovely to see you,” a statement both true and not, and Charles, as if understanding this, winced.
He had been fearing—and, he would have to admit to himself later, half hoping—that Charles was lovesick, lovesick for him, and so, when Charles explained that he had been felled with a cough, he experienced a slight, unbidden prick of disappointment, coupled with a larger measure of relief. “It is like nothing I’ve experienced in many years,” Charles said. “But I believe I am beyond the worst of it, though it still tires me to walk up and down the stairs. I’m afraid I’ve been trapped in this room and my study for the most part, examining these”—he indicated the wash of paper—“accounts and ledgers, and writing my correspondence.” David began to murmur his sympathies, but Charles stopped him with a gesture that was not unkind but declarative. “There is no need,” he said. “I thank you, but I shall be fine; I am on the mend already.”
For a long moment, there was a silence, during which Charles looked at him and David looked at the floor, and when he finally spoke, Charles did, too.
“I’m sorry,” they said to each other, and then, at the same time, “Please—you first.”
“Charles,” he began. “You are a wonderful man. I so enjoy speaking to you. You are not only a good person but a wise one as well. I have been, and am, honored by your interest and by your affections. But—I cannot marry you.