“If you had been a callous man, or a selfish one, my behavior toward you would be unacceptable. But considering the sort of man you are, it is reprehensible. I have no explanations for myself, no justifications, no defense. I was and am completely in the wrong, and my sorrow for any pain I might have caused you will haunt me for the rest of my life. You deserve much better than me, that is for certain. I hope someday you might forgive me, though I do not expect it. But I will always wish well for you—that I know.”
He had not quite known what he was to say, even as he mounted the stairs to Charles’s room. It had been a season of apologies, he now saw: Charles to him, for not writing; Edward to him, again for not writing; he to Charles. There was only one other apology to make, and that was to his grandfather, but he could not contemplate that, not now.
Charles was quiet, and for a time they sat in the echo of David’s words, and when Charles finally did speak, his eyes were closed, and his voice was broken and hoarse. “I knew this,” he said. “I knew this was to be your answer. I knew it, and I had days—weeks, if I am to be honest—to prepare myself. But hearing it from you—” He fell silent.
“Charles,” he said, gently.
“Tell me—no, don’t. But—David, I know I am older than you, and not even a quarter as handsome. But—I have given this a great deal of thought as I anticipated this conversation—and wondered if there might be a way for us to be together in which—in which you might also find satisfaction with others.”
He did not immediately comprehend what Charles meant, but once he did, he sighed, deeply moved. “Oh, Charles, you are very handsome,” he lied, to which Charles made a sad little smile but said nothing. “And you are very kind. But you would not want to be in a marriage like that.”
“No,” Charles admitted, “I would not. But if it might be a way of being with you—”
“Charles—I cannot.”
Charles sighed, and turned his head on the pillow. For a while he did not speak. Then: “Are you in love with another?”
“Yes,” he said, and his answer startled them both. It was as if he had shouted a horrible word, a terrible slur, and neither of them knew how to respond.
“How long?” asked Charles at last, in a low, dull voice. And then, when David did not respond, “Before we were intimate?” And then, again, “Who is he?”
“Not long,” he mumbled. “No. No one. A man I met.” It was a betrayal to reduce Edward to a nobody, a nameless figure, but he knew as well that he had to spare Charles’s feelings, that it was enough to simply recognize Edward’s existence aloud without specifying his particulars.
A third silence, and then Charles, who had been slumping against his pillows, his face turned from David, sat up with a rustling of his sheets. “David, I have something I must say to you, or I shall always regret it,” he began, speaking slowly. “I must take your declaration of love for another seriously, as much as it pains me—and it does. But for some time now I have wondered if you might be—frightened. If not of matrimony, then about having to keep your secrets from me, and if this is what has made you reluctant, what has made you stay distant from me.
“I know about your illnesses, David. Do not ask me from whom, but I have known for some time, and I wish to tell you now—perhaps, almost certainly, I should have said this earlier—that this knowledge has never deterred me from wanting to make you my husband, from wanting to spend my life with you.”
He was glad to be sitting, for he felt he might faint, and worse, as if his clothes had been ripped from him and he was standing in the middle of Union Square, surrounded by crowds, all jeering and pointing at his nakedness, throwing slimy leaves of rotting cabbage at his head, dray horses prancing about him. Charles was correct: There was no point in trying to discover who had revealed his secret. He knew it was not his family, however cool his relationship with his siblings might be; such information was almost invariably spread by servants, and although the Binghams’ were loyal, and some had been in their employ for decades, there were always a few who left, seeking other, better work, and even those who did not talked among their own kind. All it would take was one chambermaid telling her sister, a scullery maid at another house, who would then tell her beau, a coachman at another house, who would then tell the second valet, who would then tell his beau, the cook’s assistant, who, in order to curry favor with his master, would tell the cook himself, who would then tell his sometimes-friend and always-nemesis, the butler, the figure who, even more than the master of the house, dictated the rhythms and therefore petty comforts of his life, who then, after his master’s young friend had left for the night, back to his manse on Washington Square, would tap on his master’s bedroom door and be bidden to enter and, clearing his throat, would begin, “Forgive me, sir—I have deliberated whether I might say something, but I feel that it is my moral obligation to do so,” and his master, irritated and accustomed to these kinds of dramas that servants so indulged in, who understood the way they both resented and relished being so privy to the most intimate aspects of their employers’ lives, would say, “Well, what is it? Out with it, Walden!,” and Walden, dipping his head in a pantomime of humility, as well as to hide the smile he could not keep from forming on his long, thin lips, would begin, “It is about young Mister Bingham, sir.”
“Do you mean to threaten me?” he whispered, when he had recovered himself.
“Threaten you! No, David, of course not! You mistake me. I mean only to reassure you, to tell you that if your past has made you understandably wary, that you have nothing to fear from me, that—”
“Because you shall not. You forget—I am still a Bingham. While you? You are nobody. You are nothing. You may have money. You may even have some standing back in Massachusetts. But here? No one will ever listen to you. No one will ever believe you.”
The ugly words hung in the air between them, and for a long while, neither of them spoke. And then, in a quick, sudden movement, so sudden that David rose to his feet, thinking that Charles might strike him, Charles threw back his covers and stood, resting one hand against the bed to balance himself, and when he spoke, his voice was like metal, like nothing David had heard before.
“It seems I have been mistaken. About what I thought might be your fear. About you, in general. But now I have said all I mean to, and now we need never speak again.
“I wish you well, David—I do. I hope this man you love loves you back, and always will, and that you have a long life together, and that you will not find yourself as I do at my age, a fool standing in your bedclothes before a beautiful young man you trusted with your heart and whom you thought decent, and good, and who has revealed himself to be neither, but instead a spoiled child.”
He turned his back to David. “Walden will see you out,” he said, but David, recognizing the moment he had spoken the horror of what he had done, simply stood frozen in place. Seconds passed, and when it was clear Charles would not face him again, he too turned, and walked to the door, where he was certain that on the other side Walden waited, his ear pressed to the wood, a smile playing on his mouth, already planning how he would relay this remarkable story to his colleagues at that night’s staff meal.