Tom walked half a mile down a hedged-in Devon lane, striding fast, propelled by rage, dashing tears from his eyes, furious with himself for crying, furious with Lucas for making love on the floor and then flinching, for giving him that bank draft and then hesitating. Thirty thousand pounds.
And then the rage drained away, leaving a bitter ache in his chest, and he just felt tired and sad.
He halted, and looked around, and saw a spinney with tangled brambles and a dark-leaved holly and the trunk of a fallen oak.
He crossed to the oak and sat, his elbows on his knees, and stared at the ground, at rotting leaves and winter-dead grass and withered twigs.
The more he stared at the leaves and grass and twigs, the more certain he became that he’d overreacted.
Yes, Lucas had flinched, and yes, Lucas had hesitated—but he’d also made love on the floor, and he’d given him thirty thousand pounds, and he wanted him to sell out because it was safer.
I shouldn’t have told Lucas I love him. Tom closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. God, what a stupid thing to do.
Lucas didn’t want his love. Lucas would much rather not have his love, because Lucas thought that a man loving another man was something to be ashamed of—and that was never going to change, because that was who Lucas was.
He opened his eyes and stared down at the dead leaves. I want too much from him. I want more than he can ever give me.
The leaves were a dozen different shades of brown, like swatches at a tailor’s: drab and tan and nankeen, snuff and cinnamon, Dust of Ruins and Paris mud. He watched a millipede crawl over a dark brown leaf that a tailor would call carmelite and thought about the bank draft, about Lucas wanting him to sell out because it was safer.
And then he thought about Daniel and Hetty and what twenty thousand pounds would mean to them.
And then he stopped thinking about the bank draft and just thought about Lucas. Lucas punching him two months ago—Lucas sleeping in his arms last night—Lucas rolling him off the bed today. He’s given me his trust and his body. It’s not fair of me to want more from him. He’s doing the best that he can.
But he did want more. He wanted Lucas not to flinch when he told him he loved him. He wanted Lucas to say the words back to him.
And he knew it was never going to happen.
Tom sighed, and rubbed his face, and climbed wearily to his feet. He owed Lucas an apology.
Dusk was gathering in the sky by the time he reached the inn. He halted, and took a moment to think through what he was going to say to Lucas.
Movement caught his eye: the pretty chambermaid hurrying across the stableyard, her skirts gathered in one hand. Her hair was disheveled beneath her mobcap, her bodice askew, and she had an exultant little smile on her face. She looked exactly like a young woman who’d just indulged in a quick and enjoyable swive. Tom watched her slip back into the inn, and then looked down at himself. He spent a minute checking his buttons, straightening his cuffs, smoothing his lapels, and half a minute combing his hair with his fingers. Thank God the neckcloth hid the bite marks on his throat. When he was certain he didn’t look like a man who’d recently had bedsport with his lover, he took a deep breath, crossed the yard, and pushed open the door.
The sound of an argument echoed in the Golden Hind.
“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!” The voice was the chambermaid’s, high-pitched and tearful.
Caught by her employer, Tom guessed, and trying to lie her way out of it. He didn’t like her chances, not with that crooked bodice and her hair falling out from underneath the mobcap.
He grimaced, and headed for the stairs. Good luck, love.
“He made me do it! I didn’t want to!” She was crying now, noisily.
Tom set his foot on the first step, and glanced into the taproom. Yes, as he’d suspected: a weeping chambermaid and a grizzled Goliath of a landlord, fury on his face, a fist the size of a blacksmith’s sledgehammer half-raised.
Tom hesitated. He’s not going to hit her, is he?
“He made me!” the chambermaid cried, and she looked wildly round, and pointed at Tom. “It were him! He made me do it!”
Tom took his foot off the step. “What?”
The landlord swung round. His head hunched slightly into his shoulders. He looked like a bull about to charge.
Tom held his hands up, placatingly. “I can assure you that—”
The landlord came at him, fist raised.
“I didn’t—”
He tried to duck, but the landlord was faster than he was. He heard his nose break. Crack.
Everything went black for a moment, and then awareness came rushing back, and along with it, the most agonizing pain Tom had ever experienced in his life. He was on the floor again. Second time today. Through watering eyes, he saw the landlord standing over him, and behind him the chambermaid, tear-streaked and horrified. Her mouth was open—she was screaming—but he couldn’t hear it. His ears were ringing too loudly.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Blood poured from his nose, choking him, and he couldn’t say Wait a minute, or It wasn’t me, couldn’t say anything at all.