After the ball, with the house quiet and his bed empty, Arthur came very close to tiptoeing to Joe’s room and inviting him to join him for one last time. Surely both of them would enjoy that.
But Joe had made his feelings quite clear. A hot ball of pride and hurt filled Arthur’s belly, its heat strong enough to keep him intractable. He would not beg for Joe’s company. If his guest wanted one last go-around to remember him by, he knew very well Arthur’s door was open to him.
Anyway, Joe’s logic couldn’t be denied. Why delay the inevitable parting? The ache would be no less in a few more days, and might grow even greater. But no matter what Joe said, Arthur would give him the money he’d earned. He’d be gone to India, so Joe couldn’t return the nest egg.
He spent the night fantasizing scenarios in which he rushed to Joe’s side or even declared his love through passionate poetry. But in reality, he lay alone, listening to his family arrive home and waiting for morning. At last he rose and went through his morning ritual of washing, dressing and planning out his day. Time to book passage for his upcoming trip, and he’d have to wire a decent hotel for accommodations, if there was such a thing near the village. Travel plans would keep him occupied once Joe left, so he wouldn’t miss his presence so terribly.
He’d nearly convinced himself until he reached the breakfast room and found Joe gazing at a stack of scones on the table. All of Arthur’s it’s-not-as-bad-as-all-that cheeriness fled.
Luckily, he didn’t have to think of what to say since Bingley swept into the room right behind him, clapping a hard hand on Arthur’s back and talking far too loudly for so early in the day. “How are you doing, old chap? Feeling better?”
Arthur recalled he was supposed to have had a stomach upset. “Much better, although not too hungry.” True enough. He would like to back out of the room, but it was too late now.
Bing dove into the light repast laid out for them and loaded his plate with fried kippers, toast, eggs, and fruit. “What about you, Newman? Quite a lark, wasn’t it, that rumor about you being Russian royalty? Ridiculous professor! That’s what too much education will buy you—a head full of nonsense.”
“Meeting His Majesty was impressive,” Joe changed the subject.
Bing rattled on about incidents they’d missed by going home early, all the while eating heartily and not seeming to notice that neither Joe nor Arthur spoke much.
“…so then Fitch said he’d seen more attractive faces on the heads mounted in his study and he’d as soon kiss one of those. You know he never misses an opportunity to remind everyone of his shooting expedition in Africa. Just then, Robbie Rumfield joined the group and overheard Fitch’s comment about his sister. I thought there’d be pistols at dawn over that. I’m certain Rumfield will make him pay somehow. That man holds grudges.”
Arthur took advantage of Bing’s oblivious babble to sneak looks at Joe. Did he seem pale and tired? Had his night been as restless as Arthur’s? Was he disappointed their affair was over or happy to return home? Arthur picked at the food on his plate and wished the storm of thoughts in his head could burst out: Won’t you miss me at all? Did our time together mean nothing to you? I feel like I’m coming apart while you are so collected and calm.
But Joe had a life to live and, now, so did Arthur. He would focus forward and forget the past. “Bing, tell me more about what you want me to do in India. I need to know more about what’s expected.”
Bing glanced at Joe. “We’ll meet in the study after breakfast to discuss details.”
Joe cleared his throat. “I should mention I will return home today. As soon as breakfast is over, in fact.”
Bing’s eyes widened at this sudden announcement. “Did you receive a telegram? Is someone ill?”
“Nothing so dire. But I’ve imposed on your family’s hospitality long enough. Lady Granville’s ball was the culmination of all I could have hoped for in my London visit. Now I must go home.”
“I certainly understand. Hate the city myself. Can’t get back to the Hall soon enough.”
Arthur stopped pretending to eat and set down his fork. “I’m sorry to hear that, Newman. But hosting you has been no trouble at all. I’ve enjoyed your visit very much. I saw the sights of our city through fresh eyes.” And experienced many other things in a new way.
Just then, Father arrived in the room, covering a yawn. “Your mother must have chosen to take breakfast in bed. We’re both too old to keep such late hours.”
Conversation about old friends flowed between Bing and Father. Then Joe explained again about his departure, thanked them for their hospitality, and left the table. Arthur said nothing, feeling as if he were outside of his body watching characters in a play. His stomach lurched and he thought he might actually be coming down with something.
“Excuse me. I’m still not feeling quite up to snuff.” He pardoned himself and hurried to his room. He hoped Joe would come to him there so they might talk privately, but minutes ticked past and Joe didn’t come.
Arthur gazed out the window at the garden. The leaves were unfurled now, and he could no longer see the benches where they’d sat so many times. Those cool, breezy afternoons, the long talks, the inevitable leaning toward each other, checking the windows of the house to make certain they weren’t observed and then… He felt the pressure of kisses, tasted the delights of Joe’s mouth, recalled the warmth of the man’s body pressed against his.
Arthur growled in frustration, marched to his door, and threw it open.
Joe was outside, a fist raised to knock. He wore a plain blue shirt and gray trousers, and his rumpled locks were free of pomade. They stood gazing at each other, and Arthur felt as if they’d returned to the early days when all they could do was look but never touch.
“So…” he finally said. “You’ve packed?”
“I’ve nothing to pack. I came with nothing.”
Arthur frowned. “But you shan’t leave with nothing. Take all the clothes, the shoes, the accessories, everything. Meanwhile, I’ll write you a cheque as discussed.”
Joe shook his head. “I told you I don’t want it.”
“I insist.”
“I decline.”
Arthur grew impatient. “You’ve gone months without earning wages at your regular job. I can’t let you leave with nothing to show for all the work you’ve done here.”
Joe’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want your dosh. I’ve made myself clear.” He offered Arthur a small box he’d been holding. “I came to return these: the shirt studs, cufflinks and ring you lent me.”
“They were a gift. They’re yours to keep.”
“I’ve no place to wear them.”
“Then sell the damned things!” Why was Joe being so difficult? Why were they fighting about trifles during their last precious minutes together?
“As you wish.” Joe lowered his gaze to the floor. “I want to thank you once more for all you’ve done for me, and I wish you well in your travels.”
“You’re leaving right now?” Annoyance shifted to distress as Arthur acknowledged that the road they’d traveled together had ended at this brick wall.
“There’s no point in lingering. Goodbye, Mr. Lawton.” Joe stuck out his hand.
Arthur stared at it, unable to believe they were going to end things with a formal handshake. Joe’s coolness broke his heart. For an instant, he considered throwing pride to the winds and grabbing him, but habit took over. He shook Joe’s hand, then let go.
“Goodbye, Mr. Sprat,” he replied stiffly. “Thank you for all your hard work. You played your part perfectly.”
Joe bobbed his head, turned on his heel, and walked away.
Arthur didn’t walk him to the door. The fact was they were headed in opposite directions, Joe to Barrow Lane and Arthur to India. He’d be gone for months. Even if he weren’t, how could he carry on an affair with Joe when it was fairly apparent Joe didn’t wish to have one?
Arthur closed his eyes and exhaled to relieve the ache in his chest. Then he went to the bellpull to summon a footman. He’d have the man get a steamer chest from the attic and have Jackson begin to pack his things for the journey.