Memories

Chapter 2-2

“Supper time,” he announced as he walked into the room holding the cup of broth, a towel, and the nursing spoon. “It’s me. Will. Let’s get you sat up so you can eat. You will like it, even though you don’t deserve it,” he said, and pulled Dearne up so he could prop him against his own chest in the way he did before. Dearne was warmer now and smelled a whole deal better. Will tilted the man’s head back and found himself stroking his hair, which had dried to a soft, wavy, dark, burnished looking red. He stopped.

“Here,” he muttered, and spooned up some of the broth. Testing it again against his lip, he tipped some into Dearne’s mouth with more confidence, and sure enough it went down. When he had managed half the cup he let the man rest and just held him. Dearne’s head rested just under his chin. He could smell the warmth of him and feel the solid muscled weight press against him. Will closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the soft hair for a second and inhaled, but then caught himself and quickly laid the man back on the pillow and left the room. He went back to the chair by the fire and pulled out his newspaper and resumed his search for a position and somewhere to live. After scouring every inch of the newspaper and finding nothing much, he got out his ledger and pen. Settling himself at the table he opened the pages that showed his journey. Showed how he had moved from owning nothing, being nothing, to being a man of some means. He started at the beginning and stroked his fingers over the ink and the story each entry told going back well over ten years. He turned each page and watched as the figure grew. Soon, he would be able to go a bank and open an account to keep the money safe. He would be respectable. A man of means. When he came to the end of the journey he dipped his nib into the ink and carefully wrote in the five hundred pounds Lady Araminta had given him. He wondered about what to write in terms of how he had earned the money. ‘Care of a wastrel’ didn’t sound quite right, although he was tempted. He considered services rendered, but in the end he dipped the nib in ink, and wrote in his careful, neat hand, ‘Safeguarding of the Holbrook estate during the sale of said property.’ He blotted it carefully with a nod, and then began the process of securing his funds.

His money was secreted in a battered-looking metal box with not only a key, but an intricate puzzle lock he felt certain would deter the curious. It was also a battered, dirty looking box, scuffed and stained with age which should hopefully be overlooked in the event of a theft on his house. It was kept in the bottom of a wooden casket of similarly aged junk in the cupboard in the bedroom. He didn’t want to draw attention to its importance by hiding it, as he felt it was best hidden in plain view. He went back into the room where Dearne lay, still motionless, and checked him. He shook him, pulled back one eyelid, and when he was satisfied the man was indeed insensate, went to the cupboard, and pulled out the box holding his future. He followed the puzzle to open the box, and then folded the bank notes into it. Once he had the money from Dearne’s sister on her return he would be set for life. He felt a little uneasy about having it sitting in a box of junk, but until he could get an appointment to see a bank manager, it would have to do.

The urge to hide it under the floorboards was strong, and he wished he had invested in a safe, but he held firm and put the locked box back, buried in a box of rusty tools, beside a pile of ancient newspapers and a pile of ragged clothing. The shelf above held his neckcloths, handkerchiefs, and a box of cheap, masculine frippery. Some snuff boxes, a couple of cravat pins, some fobs and seals, and a good pocket watch he wouldn’t like to lose, but would be willing to bear the loss of if thieves were diverted by the shiny items and missed the real prize below. He locked the cupboard, comfortable thieves would think it was locked to preserve his watch.

It was growing late. The candles were starting to gut, and the fire was running low. He drummed his finger on the chair arm and reached a decision. He stripped off in the kitchen and washed himself carefully, as usual. Pulled on a nightshirt, as usual, and then got into bed as usual. He could see no reason not to sleep in the bed. He was tired, Dearne was unconscious, and the bed was big enough for two. He blew out the candle and settled himself, careful his body did not touch Dearne’s, and closed his eyes.

In the early hours he still laid with his eyes closed. He shifted and opened them so he could look at Dearne in the darkness. He could barely discern his face but he could feel his warmth and presence like a huge, suffocating cloud in the room. It made it hard to breathe. When the thoughts he had fought for years to banish crept insidiously into his head, he knew he had to move. He took the pillow from the bed, pulled his spare blanket from the top of the tall boy, and headed back to the kitchen where the fire still smouldered. He banked it up, lit a candle, and wrapped himself up, retrieving his woollen socks, and picked up a book he had been reading on the husbandry of sheep.

* * * *

Will woke with a jump. The fire had dwindled, his neck was stiff, and he was cold. He sat upright in the chair and listened. Movement. Movement from the bedchamber. He was on his feet in seconds, pulling the blanket around him and heading for Dearne. He scrambled to re-light the candle and then held it aloft. Dearne was restless; moving a little with a frown drawing his brows together. Will settled the candle on the table and pulled the bedclothes down to free Dearne’s arms. This seemed to help a little.

“Dearne, can you hear me?” The man just carried on moving and moaning. “Dearne. It’s me. Will,” he said, louder this time. Dearne’s arms flailed a little and Will caught a hand. “Come on Flash, wake up,” he said and ran a hand over the man’s hair. It would be easier to deal with him awake. Easier to dislike him.

He was shocked when the hand he was holding gripped back. “Flash?” he whispered staring at their linked hands. “Do that again?”

To his astonishment Dearne squeezed. “Can you hear me?” Will said, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting. Again, another squeeze. “Good God, Dearne can you open your eyes?” Will waited, but no squeeze came. “Do you want to open your eyes?” he asked and the squeeze came. Warm, reassuring and real. Will stroked the hair out of Dearne’s eyes even though they were closed. “Are you thirsty?” A very definite squeeze.

Moments later, Will was spooning water into him, murmuring to him, and he was surprised to see his hand was not quite steady. In the moonlight Dearne’s hair looked as dark as blood and his skin pale. No expression, just that immovable sleep which rendered his features a youthful blank.

Once he had fed him the water, Will sat with Dearne in his arms and resisted the urge to press his cheek against head again. The thought Dearne might have been aware of his earlier caress struck him with some force and his heart thudded in his chest.