“He seemed well enough,” George said. “Though we didn’t see the inside of his larder, so I can’t tell you what he’s having for dinner.”
Mrs. Ford laughed, “I’ll wager he didn’t even invite you inside the house.” When their reaction confirmed she was right, she only laughed harder. “Ah, that man’s gone just about feral since he left this house.”
Theo frowned at that. “Left this house?”
Mrs. Ford blinked, seeming puzzled by his question. “Well, yes,” she said. “He used to live here. Didn’t you know?” At Theo’s blank look, she added, “Robert—sorry, Mr. Martin—was Mr. Lockhart’s steward here, for years and years. He ran the whole farm with Mr. Lockhart.”
“Mr. Martin was steward here?” George echoed, sounding as astonished as Theo felt.
“Oh, yes—for thirty years or so,” she replied, seeming tickled by their surprise. “In fact,” she said, “the bedchamber you’re in now was his room, Mr. Asquith.”
George’s eyes went wide at that, and perhaps Theo’s did too.
“After Mr. Lockhart fell ill the first time,” Mrs. Ford continued, “he decided to lease out half the land. That was when Ned Morgan took his lease on. And then, when Mr. Lockhart took ill again, and it was clear he wasn’t going to get better, he made arrangements for Mr. Martin to lease the rest of the land. Even then, he lived here until Mr. Lockhart passed away. He only moved into his own house after the funeral.” She sighed sadly. “He was so good with Mr Lockhart when he was ill. Mr. Lockhart had no personal servant, you see, and he needed help with—” She broke off, flushing, as though she’d just remembered who she was speaking to. “Well, with all sorts of things. And Ro—Mr. Martin—was ever so patient with him.”
“He didn’t mention any of this when we spoke with him,” Theo said.
“Well, as I’m sure you've realised by now, he’s not the most talkative man you’ll meet,” Mrs Ford replied, tucking the empty tray under her arm. “And certainly not one to sing his own praises. But I’ll tell you this: he was a devoted friend to your uncle, Mr. Caldwell, especially in his darkest days. I will never forget that, and I do not think the good Lord will either.”
“Is that why there’s a connecting door between the two chambers?” George asked. “So, he could help Mr. Lockhart in the night?”
Mrs. Ford looked briefly flustered. “I—I don’t think so,” she said. “I don't know when that door was put in, but I think it was before I ever came to work here. I'm the housekeeper, and I’ve certainly never had a key for it. I expect it got lost years ago.”
She excused herself then, and once the door had closed behind her, George looked at Theo, his brows raised, “Well, that was interesting.”
Theo regarded him warily. “What in particular?”
“That Martin lived here, of course. And that he slept in my bedchamber.” Meeting Theo’s gaze, he added, “The one next door to the bedchamber your uncle slept in. With the convenient connecting door.”
“What’s your point?”
George rolled his eyes. “Come on, Theo.”
Theo shook his head, irritably. “You’re making assumptions now and?—”
“I am making assumptions, yes,” George interrupted. “But I think they’re warranted, don’t you? Robert Martin and your uncle were bachelors who lived in this house together for three decades.”
“So?”
George’s eyes widened. “You heard how Martin spoke about him earlier—he was livid when he thought you were criticising the man. And Mrs. Ford just said he took care of your uncle’s intimate needs when he was ill.”
“Someone had to,” Theo pointed out. “And he was my uncle’s servant. Besides, it's possible for two men to be friends with nothing more between them than that.”
George eyed him curiously. “That’s true,” he admitted. “But I’m surprised by how unwilling you are to consider they may have been more to one another—considering your own experience.”
“My own experience?”
Theo could see that George was beginning to get irritated now, but he was irritated too. Why should this even matter?
“Your encounters with other men,” George said, primly.
Theo’s brows drew together. “My encounters as you call them are just that—they rarely last more than an hour or two and involve a simple exchange of pleasure. In my experience that’s what most men like us want, not the sort of longstanding arrangement you seem to be referring to."
For several long moments, George stared at him in silence. His gaze was somehow disappointed, and Theo felt oddly resentful. What did George want him to say? This was the real world they were talking about, and most men did not own substantial ducal estates in which they could hide away their illicit lovers.
Finally, George said, “Well, I don’t see why two men can’t have a shared, happy life together.”
Had George actually tried to imagine living such a life? Theo had, and he knew just what it would be like. Always wondering what one’s neighbours were thinking, always worried about the risk of discovery. It was the very opposite of how he wanted to live. From being a boy, Theo had valued freedom above all else. The thought of living under the yoke of that kind of worry was intolerable to him—and yet it filled him with a strange, breathless yearning when he imagined sharing such a life with George. When he imagined George sitting opposite him at breakfast and dinner and sharing his bed at night.
