An Unusual Courtship (9 page)

P
ercival woke
in the morning half-dressed, with Mr. Everett’s warm, heavy arm slung across his belly.

This was a very unusual way to wake up, and he smiled to himself. Turning his head, Percival studied Mr. Everett’s sleeping face: the dark lashes splayed across his cheek, the stern slope of his noble, Roman nose, the line of his lips slightly compressed from whatever dreams were playing within his head.

Percival reached out to brush a strand of hair from Mr. Everett’s face, and then drifted his fingertips down Mr. Everett’s cheekbone, thinking that he might like to kiss those lips.

Mr. Everett’s eyes opened.

Startled, Percival withdrew his hand. Clearing his throat and blushing as a fit of self-doubt washed over him, Percival glanced away. “Good morning, Mr. Everett.”

“Good morning,” he replied, warm and playful, “Mr. Valentine.”

Percival had no idea how to react to this entirely new situation, and decided that the most prudent course would be to flee at once and to contemplate the matter at length once he was safely back at home. “I, um. Shall we, ah, perhaps—ought we to go down to breakfast?”

“Certainly we may,” Mr. Everett agreed, and sat up.

Percival likewise sat up, and grimaced immediately at the way the room seemed to lurch, setting up a pounding in his head.

There was a fire burning already in the grate. A servant must have come in that morning and lit it for them while they slept. This happened on a daily basis in Percival’s bedroom at the Manor, and it made sense to Percival that it should happen in the grander, more luxurious residence of the Grange, but it had never before arrested his thoughts in the way that it did when he realised that the servant would have seen him in bed with Mr. Everett, even
entangled
with Mr. Everett as they slept.

Surely, he thought, this was not so very incriminating. Men shared sleeping quarters often, particularly if a house was crowded or to save money on multiple rooms. And many of those men, surely, must sprawl out their limbs occasionally over a bed-partner. Even if Percival had no personal experience as to this, he felt certain that it would be likely and that the servants might have thought nothing of it than that.

Except that he remembered talk of a perfectly comfortable blue bedchamber that had been made up for him last night and which he had not used.

He dressed himself quickly, not wanting to draw the attention of summoning a servant to help him. The boots could be got on without excess difficulty, but he required Mr. Everett’s aid in getting into the very tightly-fitted coat that was fashionable, and returned the help in kind.

“What do you think,” Mr. Everett asked, as he reached out to comb his fingers lightly through Percival’s hair in order to neaten the sleep-rumpled waves, “are we respectable enough to appear for breakfast?”

“I think it will serve,” Percival agreed, straightening Mr. Everett’s neck-cloth for him. “I believe our hosts may be inclined to be forgiving.”

“Mr. Valentine,” Mr. Everett began, as if he intended to declare something.

Percival paused and waited for him to speak.

Cheeks coloured with a blush, Mr. Everett’s blue eyes studied Percival’s face until at last he stepped away without a word.

To Percival’s eye, it seemed that Mr. Everett was uncertain, and perhaps even
wary
. It was a strange new expression upon Mr. Everett’s face, and Percival did not like to see it. He found it far preferable when Mr. Everett smiled and laughed, and resolved himself to restore Mr. Everett to better humour.

“Shall we—” Percival said unsteadily, and tried again. “Shall we go down to breakfast?”

“We shall,” Mr. Everett said.

The two of them nearly collided as they both made a sudden advance upon the door. Halting as quickly as they’d begun, there was a moment of awkward repositioning before Mr. Everett seized upon the door knob and held it open. Percival stepped through quickly in order that they might escape from the awkward uncertainty of the moment.

They did not converse further as they made their way along the pink and gold hallway and down the stairs to the breakfast room.

It occurred to Percival that Mr. Everett’s room had been very fine. The green suite that they had given him was along the back of the house and looked out upon the Grange gardens and out across the elegantly-kept parkland of Linston Grange. From the years that Percival had spent managing and overseeing the estate for the distant Lord Barham, he knew that the green suite was one of the best, being exquisitely furnished with green and ivory wallpaper and beautifully patterned cushions and rugs. Mr. Everett’s lodging within it spoke to the Boltons’ high esteem and friendship toward him. Percival suspected that Miss Bolton would have the white suite—which had the best lighting and the most space and was, in Percival’s opinion, best suited to the lady of the house. When Percival had been overseeing preparations for the new tenants, he had selected the white and green suites for the most detailed cleaning and preparation, expecting that Mr. Bolton would have taken the green for himself. He supposed that Mr. Bolton must prefer a cosier, less ostentatious room, and had very graciously given the best room to his guest.

Percival was still musing upon this topic when he entered the breakfast room, where Miss Bolton was already dining upon a generous repast. She brightened at the sight of her friends, and immediately begged that they should sit and join her.

“I hope that you are well after last night’s festivities?” she asked, as she helped herself to some baked eggs.

“Reasonably well,” Mr. Everett responded with a self-deprecating smile. “I trust that the clamouring in my head will eventually dwindle. Is that coffee?”

“Chocolate,” Miss Bolton said. “Ah—Mr. Elkins? You will fetch us coffee?”

The butler assured her that the coffee was on its way from the kitchen. Percival felt no need to wait upon it, and helped himself to the drinking chocolate.

“And you, Mr. Valentine?” Miss Bolton asked. “Did you sleep well?”

“Thank you, I did,” Percival said. He glanced surreptitiously toward Mr. Everett, who was sleepily focused on buttering his toast. Blushing, Percival took a nervous sip of the drinking chocolate before realising that he ought to return the query. “And you, Miss Bolton?”

“Quite well. I am fortunate to have suffered no adverse effects from the wine.”

“I am very glad for that,” Percival remarked.

Mr. Everett laughed. “Do you suppose it might be attributed in any way to how
very
solicitous you were at filling our cups more frequently than your own?”

“Fie, Mr. Everett!” Miss Bolton laughed at the teasing. “I was being a generous hostess.”

“I suspect rather you were being a conniving hostess,” he chided, smiling as they bantered.

“Fiddle!” she exclaimed. “And even if I were, do you find yourself displeased by the results?”

“Certainly not,” Mr. Everett allowed. “Your results are always impeccable.”

“I am glad you see things my way.” Miss Bolton preened, which caused Percival to laugh, and the three of them were still in fits of giggles at their own jests when Mr. Bolton joined them, groaning about having the headache.

I
t was not
until Percival headed home after breakfast to change that he realised he had not contrived to speak to Mr. Everett about their kiss, and genuinely had no idea if Mr. Everett even remembered the drunken embrace. That, Percival supposed, would make it difficult to try and broach the subject, which was hardly a polite topic of conversation.

When Percival had been younger, the rector of the Linston parish had been a man inclined to loud and impassioned sermons on the loathsome vices of sodomy and prostitution. Percival was grateful that the parish now had the younger Mr. Humphrey, who preferred to deliver sermons on the topics of love and compassion.

As he tidied up at home and then set to his correspondence, Percival contemplated his distraction around Mr. Everett—and, in the past, other well-formed men of his own age—the kisses they had shared, and the potential risk to Percival’s honour that Mr. Everett had implied at the end of the ball some weeks before. It all suggested some form of
buggery
. He didn’t know how he felt about that, having always thought of buggery or sodomy—Percival was not at all certain of the distinction between these things, or if there even was one—as some unknown but unimaginable sin, in no way related to the innocent distraction he felt toward handsome men.

Wondering if that distraction itself was a sin, Percival considered inquiring of Mr. Humphrey on the topic, but quickly decided that such an inquiry would be even more impossible than conversing with Mr. Everett as to the significance of their kiss.

Percival went around in philosophical circles with himself on this topic for a bit, but found that philosophy and morality were not topics for which he had a natural propensity, and came to no resolution whatsoever.

H
e saw
Mr. Everett again the next day in the village. Percival had been headed to Linston’s general-store-cum-bookshop when he encountered Mr. Everett.

“Mr. Everett!” he called, smiling with pleasure at the sight of his friend and waving to him. “I am glad to see you. What brings you to the village?”

“Simply out for a stroll,” Mr. Everett said, returning the smile. “I had thought that after strolling through the village I might ultimately call upon you at the Manor.”

They paused in the middle of the road, grinning like fools at each other, until Percival realised that he had probably ought to say something, and searched for words.

“I would like that,” Percival said. “If you did. Except, I suppose, here you are now, and here I am now, and, I…”

Percival was certain that there was something he had
meant
to say, but he lost all track of it as he gazed into Mr. Everett’s kind, handsome face.

“What, then,” said Mr. Everett, “brings you to Linston Village?”

“Oh!” said Percival. “I had thought to stop in at the bookshop. Well, the general store, really, though it does have books. It isn’t so much like a proper London bookshop, it just—well, have you seen it?”

“I have not seen it.” Mr. Everett offered his arm to Percival. “I would be delighted if you would let me escort you there. I could use a new book or two for myself.”

“How fortunate!” Percival said, who was always delighted by pleasant happenstances like this one. He took Mr. Everett’s arm, guiding him through the village to the little shop.

As they walked, Percival’s mind kept returning to the thought of the messy, drunken kiss that they had shared. He wondered how Mr. Everett would kiss when there wasn’t alcohol involved, or if Mr. Everett would ever kiss another man without substantial alcohol involved. It seemed, from his friendliness and occasional hints, that he might be so inclined, but it seemed forward for Percival to presume anything on that topic, and to be wrong would be humiliating.

Several times Percival opened his mouth to make some attempt at the subject, but he could not find the words to make it appropriate and respectable, and at last he gave up the effort and walked in silence at Mr. Everett’s side.

The little shop was warm and inviting, filled with a variety of scents and spices. Jars of pickles and jellies lined shelves along the front, while the whole place was sweetly redolent with the spices which sat in little wooden kegs lined with linen. Percival did none of his own cooking and very little shopping, so his visits to the shop were always matters of indulgence and pleasure.

“Here, Mr. Everett,” Percival said, drawing his attention to a little hillock of fudge prettily displayed under a glass dome. “The fudge is made locally by Mrs. Atkins, and it is sold in no less than eight shops throughout the shire, on account of its excellent quality.” Percival nodded proudly, very pleased about the industry and skill of all Linston’s tenants.

“Then I must try some,” Mr. Everett said, with a smile, considering the amount of fudge. “And, of course, Mr. Bolton and Miss Bolton will want to sample it, as well. Let me see. I suppose—I’ll take all of it. Both flavours. Minus any amount that may have been promised to other residents of the village.”

“All of it!” Percival exclaimed in surprise. “Why, Mr. Everett, surely you and the Boltons cannot eat
all
that. You should make yourselves sick.”

“No, certainly,” Mr. Everett agreed. “But I did think that perhaps the servants at the Grange would be pleased by a treat.”

“Oh!” Percival blinked in puzzlement, having never met a gentleman who gave a thought to the pleasure of his servants, except perhaps on holidays. “Yes, I think they would. That is very kind of you to think of them, Mr. Everett. Perhaps I should do the same for my staff at the Manor. I am sure they would like it, particularly Mrs. Otto and her children. Perhaps I’ll take them some of the stick-candy, what do you think?”

Once the matter was decided, the shopkeeper wrapped up the candy into parcels for them, and then they went to look through the books. Percival had two books which he had put on order, and the shopkeeper was happy to elaborate upon all the newest arrivals in literature that might catch their eye.

By the time they left, they each had a stack of little purchases. The shopkeeper offered to keep their packages there until a footman could be sent down from each estate to fetch them, but Mr. Everett would not hear of this, and if Mr. Everett would have none, Percival would have none, which was how he found himself headed back to Linston Manor with a stack of books that was just a bit precarious and a bundle of other little packages.

He dropped the books only once, which did them no harm but a bit of dirt on the edges, and was halfway back home when he realised that he had utterly failed to broach the topic of their kiss.

T
hat evening
he joined his friends at the Grange for dinner.

Percival ate quietly, having trouble offering or focusing on any conversation topic other than his kiss with Mr. Everett, which could certainly
not
be politely discussed over the dinner table.