An Unusual Courtship (15 page)

W
hen their friends
had all retired for the evening, William and Percival made their way upstairs to William’s bedchamber.

“How strange to think of all this as yours!” Percival said, going to the window to watch the last evening light fading over the park and forest lands surrounding the Grange.

“Ours,” William corrected, coming over to put his arms around Percival’s waist. “As you perfectly well know. A portion of the Linston estates are yours in your own right, and I certainly cannot be trusted to manage mine without your guidance and wisdom.”

“Ours,” Percival repeated, having a difficult time accepting that concept in his own mind. A partnership with William, in both love and business. “This is more than I ever dreamed of.”

“It is different than I ever dreamed. I was always dreaming of exotic adventures, trying to get as far from England as I could. I never imagined that my heart was always here waiting for me.”

“Why did you leave, if I may ask?”

“My father found out that I had … inclinations toward my own gender. I have inclinations toward women, as well, but it is not so strong, and my affections toward anyone else have certainly never been to the intense degree that they are with you. I think I was only charmed by Miss Martin, but I didn’t know the difference. I love you, Percival. Hopelessly.”

Percival laughed and kissed him, pulling back after a minute to study William’s eyes. “You got distracted from my question.”

“What was your question?”

“Why did you leave?”

“I left as soon as I could. My father was domineering and judgemental. He suspected me constantly of indiscretion—often correctly—and sent me to the strictest of boarding schools in hopes that my passionate nature might be ground out of me.”

Percival raised his brows. “Should I be concerned for indiscretions?”

“No,” William promised him, and stole another kiss. “I am passionate but loyal. Each of my indiscretions—well, I was always passionately loyal to them, and it always ended poorly. But I think that a part of me was always thinking of a sweet-natured ginger-haired boy who had once giggled when I kissed him.”

“I did not,” Percival objected, and then laughed as William swiftly pounced him in a kiss for it.

They ended up on the bed, tangled in each other’s arms and gazing into each other’s eyes.

“I love you,” said William, combing his fingers through Percival’s hair. “I love you, and Linston, and I vow that I shall always do my best by you both.”

“And I love you,” Percival murmured, leaning in to take a soft kiss from his lover’s lips. “My Lord Barham.”

“Mr. Valentine.”

Percival laughed and kissed him again. “William.”

“Percy,” William said, and silenced him properly with a deep, lingering kiss.

K
atherine Marlowe has
a history degree specializing in LGBTQA+ history, and she can very easily be distracted into lengthy discussions on queer cultures and subcultures in dozens of different historical eras and subcultures. When she isn’t writing novels and novellas about handsome men smooching and living happily ever after, she is usually baking, hiking, or fighting eldritch deities in Arkham.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the book please consider leaving me a review! I’d love to hear from you.

O
nce it was put
on paper, the list of people to whom Algernon Clarke owed money was much, much lengthier than the list of people who owed money to him. He frowned at this list and strained his mind to remember some source of funds which he might have forgotten, but only succeeded at remembering another two names of his debtors.

On the right half of the paper, the five gentlemen who owed him money were all friends of his who were excellent company at drinking or gambling, but not much in the habit of repaying debts.

Worse, then, was the left half of the paper, which contained a detailed list of the debts Algernon owed which would soon come due: landlord, public house tab, three creditors who had not been satisfied with the seizure of his townhouse, the former staff of the townhouse who had not been paid when the creditors seized his other assets, the stables where he had kept his horse while he still had one, and Algernon’s fellow investors in the steamship venture. He didn’t even properly owe any money to the last, and was as much a victim as any of them, but the other investors had universally gotten it into their heads that Algernon, being the primary investor and most enthusiastically dedicated to the research of the proposed new engine, had some idea where the project management had absconded.

It had really been a thrilling project, such as would make faster, more elegant steamships, but the leads and inventors behind the project had made a sudden disappearance, and Algernon was sunk.

He reached for the bottle of gin sitting on the desk only to find it empty. Grimacing, Algernon peered into the bottle as though some droplets might be resisting gravity but yet might be spied out by the naked eye. This did not turn out to be the case.

Taking up his quill again, he considered the lists once again. Even if his friends were all to suddenly make good upon their debts, the amounts would not be enough to chase off all the rest of the debtors.

It further occurred to him that he did have some similar debts to friends, small matters incurred over cards or capital lent for some small venture, but those seemed like unimportant and entirely forgivable debts, so he decided it was unnecessary to add them to the list.

Recognising Mr. Cullen’s step upon the stair, Algernon flipped over the incriminating page and put on a dashing smile which he hoped would convey that their straits were really not entirely dire and they probably had at least a week before the creditors took legal action to confine him to a debtor’s prison.

His long suffering valet, Mr. Cullen, had seen this smile before. It gave him pause as he opened the door to their cramped little garret room, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously at Algernon.

“Cullen! You’ve returned,” Algernon said, persisting with the smile in hopes that increasing its intensity might achieve the desired result. “I don’t suppose you brought anything to drink?”

“I most certainly have not,” Mr. Cullen said, handing Algernon a package which revealed nothing but stale bread and slightly-moldy cheese. Algernon wrinkled his nose at it, then remembered that he ought to be grateful and quickly hid the expression. Mr. Cullen broke both bread and cheese, taking half of each for himself. Algernon noted that Mr. Cullen selflessly took the slightly smaller, slightly moldier halves of each.

Frowning dismally at his meal, Algernon poked at it, and resolved to eat it only because he wasn’t entirely certain when he had otherwise last eaten. He did wish that there was some gin to wash it down, if only because the bread was really very dry.

“I did not think you would come back,” Algernon admitted, as he nibbled at the food. His stomach growled and clenched, and he thought wistfully of veal pies and strawberry jellies.

“I’m insulted that you would question my loyalty,” Mr. Cullen huffed. He was an earnest, good-hearted gentleman who had served Algernon as a valet for nearly a decade, and had categorically refused to abandon Algernon even in their current drastic circumstances.

“You ought not to have come back,” Algernon said, trying to be reasonable. “You could certainly fetch a respectable position in a good household, and I would be pleased to recommend you. I am three months in arrears on your pay, Cullen, and it is your meagre savings that has been feeding us both.”

“I won’t abandon you,” Mr. Cullen said obstinately.

“Not until I’m off to the debtor’s prison? Or do you intend to follow me even then?”

Mr. Cullen shifted uncomfortably. “Until then,” he said quietly, not denying that Algernon would be bound there within a fortnight.

Algernon reached again for the bottle of gin. It was still empty.

Footsteps on the stairs below caught at his attention, but he gave no particular thought to them until they climbed flight after flight of the creaking wooden steps. As they mounted the final steps to the garret room at the top, Mr. Cullen rose to his feet.

“Cullen,” Algernon started to object, “I really don’t think—”

Mr. Cullen glanced back at him, the very picture of a respectable valet, and Algernon sighed guiltily. If Mr. Cullen was going to insist on remaining with him out of loyalty and friendship, Algernon thought it was excessive of him to continue serving as a valet as though Algernon was still a respectable gentleman. That argument had already been had repeatedly, to no avail.

The visitor outside rapped at the door, and Mr. Cullen opened it, and bowed. “Sir.”

On the opposite side of the door was a stout man of intermediate age with a very lofty top hat. He gazed up at the tall and very formal Mr. Cullen with puzzlement, then past him to where Algernon was seated rakishly upon the desk chair. The stranger cleared his throat, clearly at a loss for words for a garret room equipped with its own valet-cum-butler.

Mr. Cullen had no salver to offer, so he extended his hand, palm up, in expectation of the visitor’s calling card. This only seemed to further fluster their visitor, who bristled indignantly.

Algernon coughed to cover his laugh, and got to his feet, cutting through the confused formality of the scene at once. “Come now. I imagine you’re looking for me. Tell us your business.”

“Are you Mr. Algernon Clarke?”

“I am,” Algernon said, although he expected this visit to involve a court summons or a warrant.

The stout man upon the threshold turned his attention more fully upon Algernon and startled again, sputtering briefly.

That was a familiar response, though tiresome. It had become customary for strangers, upon meeting the gentleman bearing the respectable English name of Algernon Clarke, to react with surprise at finding him to be a very handsome and tall young gentleman who was, in fact, only half English. Algernon himself thought that his dark eyes and warm complexion, inherited from his mother’s people in India, made him very strikingly attractive, but he was accustomed to receiving very different reactions from small-minded Englishfolk, especially the ones who had him at a financial disadvantage.

Algernon resumed his dashing smile, not intending to offer any assistance in the matter of his colour, and waiting for the inevitable comment upon it.

Flushing deeply, the stranger cleared his throat again and lifted his chin. “Mr. Clarke,” he said, and doffed his hat, clasping it in his hands. “What a very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

This was not at all the reaction that Algernon had expected, and he exchanged a startled glance with Mr. Cullen.

“I,” continued their visitor, “am Mr. Sutton, Esquire.” He offered his hand in respectful greeting.

Confused by this earnest respect for a devastated young businessman of questionable heritage, Algernon stuck out his hand to shake Mr. Sutton’s. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sutton.”

“I’m here on the business of the Coxholt-on-Hugh Railway company,” Mr. Sutton continued proudly. “I expect you’ve heard of it.”

Algernon had not, in fact, heard of it. Nor of Coxholt, or any waterway by the name of Hugh. He looked toward Mr. Cullen for rescue, but only received a shrug.

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Algernon said, and laughed apologetically, giving Mr. Sutton’s hand another shake before releasing it. “How may I be of assistance to you, Mr. Sutton?”

“Well, you see, the matter is,” said Mr. Sutton, opening the satchel at his side and bringing out a bundle of papers. “Here, may I?” he asked, and spread them upon Algernon’s desk. “Are you, Mr. Clarke, the son of Mr. Edward Clarke, who was in his turn the son of Mrs. Eloise Clarke?”

“I am indeed,” Algernon said, increasingly intrigued. He leaned forward to look at the papers, but they seemed to be mostly legal jargon and he couldn’t make any sense of them.

“That is Eloise Clarke, born Eloise Cropper, who was the daughter of Mrs. Tabitha Cropper?”

Algernon bit back a ‘who?’ only because he sensed that it might be to his advantage to go along with Mr. Sutton’s detailed knowledge of his ancestry. “I regret that I never knew my grandmother, and I am not acquainted with her maiden name nor her mother’s name, but I can confirm that her married name was Mrs. Eloise Clarke.”

“Then I suppose you aren’t familiar with your great-grandmother’s maiden name,” Mr. Sutton said.

“No, dreadfully sorry. I haven’t the foggiest.”

“But it does seem that everything
else
is in order?”

“My other relations?” Algernon asked. “Yes, certainly. May I ask, Mr. Sutton, what all this is about?”

“Well, you see, the records that we have found suggest that Mrs. Tabitha Cropper was born Miss Tabitha Allesbury, daughter of George Allesbury, Earl of Wealdhant Manor.”

Algernon wasn’t clear on what all this meant, but the mention of an Earldom in his ancestry had him rapt. “Wealdhant Manor?”

“Charming little place in Lincolnshire,” Mr. Sutton said, waving his hand dismissively. “Of which, if you will affirm that you are indeed Mr. Algernon Clarke, son of Mr. Edward Clarke and descended from Mrs. Tabitha Cropper, you are the heir.”

Algernon opened and shut his mouth, and swallowed. “Sorry, could you say that again?”

“It is our belief,” Mr. Sutton said, with great dignity and authority, “that you are the legitimate heir to Wealdhant Manor and the accompanying estates.”

A thrill of excitement prickled over Algernon’s skin and he gaped at Mr. Sutton for a moment before turning his gape upon Mr. Cullen, who shrugged.

“How do I…” Algernon cleared his throat, trying to wrap his mind around what Mr. Sutton was saying. “If I were to…”

“If you’ll just sign here,” Mr. Sutton said, with an easy smile. He pushed one of the papers in front of Algernon. “You’ll see that this details your ancestry, and all you need to do is affirm that you are indeed Mr. Algernon Clarke, son of Mr. Edward Clarke.”

Algernon seized upon his quill, dipped it in ink, and hesitated.

“Mr. Sutton,” Mr. Cullen said, putting Algernon’s hesitation into words. “I don’t believe you’ve told us the reason for your interest in Mr. Clarke’s ancestry.”

Algernon put down his quill pen and looked expectantly at Mr. Sutton.

“Oh, but of course!” said Mr. Sutton. “How silly of me. It’s very simple, you see. The Coxholt-on-Hugh Railway company is building a rail line which crosses the lands of Wealdhant Manor, the whole hereditary Allesbury estate, and we simply wish to purchase the slender strip of land which we need for the rail line. It seems that the estate has lain empty for years, so it became necessary to track down the legitimate owner, and here you are!”

Mr. Sutton cast a meaningful look around Algernon’s meagre accommodations—a cold garret room with not even a fire in the grate in January. “Quite advantageous for all parties, don’t you think? An estate for you, a railway line for us, and progress and transportation for the people of Lincolnshire!”

“That seems straightforward enough,” Algernon agreed, and took up his pen again. Glancing toward Mr. Cullen, he found that his friend and valet seemed likewise wary but had no certain objections. “Is there, ahem, any money with the estate?”

“Indeed, there is a trust with the estate that has been untouched for nearly a century! Let me, here we are. This is the information on the bank which holds the trust for the Allesbury estate. As soon as we have your paperwork finalised to establish your identity, you can claim your estate and the respective funds. We already have our Act of Parliament—as is customary in these matters—to authorise the railway’s construction, you see. You’ll sell us the little strip of land we need—hardly anything, railways aren’t very wide, after all! Ha!”

Algernon produced an amiable smile at the joke, still hesitating his pen above the paper.

Mr. Sutton went silent, making it clearer that he was waiting.

An estate! Not the Earldom, most likely. Algernon suspected that the title would have been declared extinct if the old Earl had no sons. He wondered, briefly, what had happened which had caused the estate to fall abandoned and why his supposed great-grandmother Tabitha hadn’t made a claim upon it.

Quite advantageous for all parties
, he thought. This could hardly get him in any more trouble than his current situation: there weren’t many fates worse than a debtor’s prison, and at the very least this business would delay that fate.

Algernon scrawled his name upon the page and handed it to Mr. Sutton.

“Such a pleasure doing business with you, my dear boy!” Mr. Sutton exclaimed, gathering his papers and leaving Algernon with a stack of pages on the subject of his new estate and the proposed railway line. “We’ll take care of this bit of the paperwork. As soon as this is registered, you can draw upon the trust—and then it’s off to Wealdhant for you, I imagine! As you see here, this diagram shows the proposed route of the railway line. All of this is your property, from here to here, including these tenants and farms. I’ll leave it to you to sort out the matter of their unpaid rents these past decades! Ha! But the thrust of the matter is, well. You see, the railway will cut through some of these farms, and that will need a landlord to sort it out with the farmers resident upon the land… you understand, I’m sure.”