Tonight, Lark had invited Anthony back to his own home. He knew from experience that he could count on the discretionof his household staff, but he’d been reluctant to take Anthony home. There was something too intimate about having a man in his house, but something within Lark had finally broken.
It was the expression on Anthony’s face when he talked about falling in love. That was what did it.
Lark was still out of breath after spending inside Anthony. He intended to roll to the side but instead collapsed on top of Anthony, who was also out of breath.
“I think I saw God that time,” said Anthony, before thrusting his fingers into Lark’s hair and tugging on his hair until Lark lifted his head. Then Anthony kissed him hard, like his life depended on it.
As his faculties returned, Lark asked, “You were really in love?”
Anthony sighed, his chest rising and falling under Lark’s cheek. “I wondered when you’d ask about that.”
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. Well, except for a few minutes there when I could think of nothing at all.”
Anthony chuckled and put an arm around Lark. “Well, if you must know, he was a young fellow at Trinity College studying some obscure Tudor playwright who was not as good as Shakespeare. He was so beautiful, Lark, which I tell you not to make you jealous but to explain how besotted I was. I would sneak into his office at night and we’d talk into the wee hours of the morning about books and my own studies. I even explained to him once that I was mostly at university as a lark since I intended to live a life of leisure once I ascended to the marquisate, and he did not dismiss me but rather saw something in me and cultivated it. And that day, we took a walk by the river and we were discussing an idea he had about this playwright he studied, and I stopped to look at him because he was so smart I was intimidated by it. And I looked into his eyes and I realized I loved him.”
“Did you tell him?” Lark asked, his voice barely a whisper. He wasn’t jealous, but he was caught up in the story now.
Anthony frowned deeply. “No. For the next week, I tried. I wanted to. But I couldn’t seem to get the words out. And then he…” Tears sprung in Anthony’s eyes. “He caught a fever. No one really knew why. Something he ate or just random chance or I don’t know. And I couldn’t go to see him while he was ill, because why would some random student go to see a young teacher, let alone one as prodigal as I was, and I couldn’t say good-bye because he ended up in the infirmary under the constant guard of nurses. I went to the infirmary one day on the pretense I’d heard one of my friends had been there, and I tried to see him, but he was quite insensible with fever. And then a few days later he died. I only found out because it was in the newspaper.”
“Oh, Anthony. I’m so sorry.”
Anthony wiped his eyes. “Men like us, we don’t get to mourn properly. I wore a black armband the week after he died, but everyone did. I could talk to no one about him and I was… I was devastated. I hadn’t imagined that we would have much of a future, but maybe I could have become serious about my studies and become an academic, or I at least could have bought a house for us in Oxford and happily lived a quiet life. But I was robbed of that chance and I never… I couldn’t even mourn him.”
Lark closed his eyes and put his arms around Anthony. Lark had very little firsthand experience with death. His grandfather, he supposed, and Hugh’s father’s death had been quite sad, but no one he was very close to had died. And here was Anthony, this man who put forward a public face like he cared about nothing, but he’d experienced this great loss and likely never spoken of it with anyone before.
This depth in Anthony was not something Lark had expected when they’d first started spending nights together.
“I didn’t mean to force you to talk about it,” said Lark.
“It’s all right. I’ve never spoken about it to anyone. It actually feels nice to talk about him.”
“What was his name?”
Anthony let out a little gasp before he said, “Simon. His name was Simon.”
Lark ran his hand across Anthony’s chest.
“Are you jealous?” Anthony asked.
“No. I am… humbled, in a way. I can tell by how you speak of him that you loved him, and it’s a great tragedy that you mourn him still and no one can know. Except me, I suppose. I’ve never fallen in love that way. And I didn’t know you had experienced that.”
“It’s easier to pretend that nothing matters.”
“But these things do matter. The people we love, they matter. The people we mourn matter, too.”
“I will never forget him, but as time goes on, I think of him less often. And for a while I did not intend to fall in love again, because that way heartbreak and madness lie.”
“Have you changed your mind?”
“Perhaps. One thing your friend Hugh reminds me is that everything can vanish in a moment. He hides it well, but he makes a face sometimes that indicates he is confused or can’t remember something, and it makes me wonder what I would do if I suddenly forgot everything I ever knew.”
“I’ve noticed that face, too.”
“And it makes me think about losing these things I’ve experienced. Sometimes I think my life would be easier if I hit my head and forgot I loved Simon or that I’m attracted to men in a way I should be attracted to women, but these things are so essentially a part of me that losing them would be a nightmare. I would be truly lost.”
“Yes,” said Lark, unsure of what else to say. When he’d become an adult, he’d been somewhat surprised to learn that not all people were attracted to all sorts of people, regardless of gender. But Lark had not met many other than himself. In some ways it felt lonely, but in some ways it was liberating. He moved in secret rooms most in society knew nothing about, rooms full of beautiful people and desire and love, and he would drink his fill before committing himself to an obligatory society marriage.
“Lark,” Anthony said softly.
