“I wonder how they met, then?”
There was one possibility that occurred to Theo.
“She said he was from Essex,” George continued. “Why did he go to London, I wonder?”
He seemed genuinely bewildered, and for some reason, that made Theo feel an exasperated sort of fondness. George could be very innocent.
“He probably went there hoping to make money,” Theo said. “If he was the son of a large family, he may have had few opportunities at home.”
“But how would he have met your uncle if your uncle had no servants? They would hardly move in the same circles.”
Theo sighed. “Perhaps they met somewhere else. You know, somewhere like Redford’s.”
George glanced up sharply. “I thought you didn’t believe there was anything between them?”
Theo shrugged. “I’m yet to be convinced. Martin didn’t strike me as a man whose interests lie in that direction, but”—he sighed, constrained to be honest—“he would hardly be the first man to conceal such preferences. I’ve done as much myself, all my life.”
George opened his mouth to speak.
“But,” Theo interrupted before he could go on, holding up a hand, “let’s remember—we have no proof.”
“I know. I just—I have a feeling about this. And all right, I admit I want to believe it.” George swallowed visibly. “I want to believe that sort of happiness is attainable. That men like us don’t have to be lonely all the time. Is that so awful? Would it be better if I refused to acknowledge the possibility?”
Theo’s jaw tightened. “As I do, you mean?”
George gazed at him sadly. “I suppose that is what I mean,” he admitted at last. “You act like you don’t care whether Martin was your uncle’s lover or not. But you do care, don’t you? And unlike me, you don't want it to be true. Why is that?”
Theo shook his head wordlessly. George was right, and Theo had no idea how to explain himself.
George eyed him thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s just that you don't need it. You seem to enjoy your life as it is. But I’m not like you, Theo. And I’m tired of being lonely.”
Theo swallowed against the painful lump those words brought to his throat. Because yes, he was lonely too. And yes, he feared that loneliness.
The path of his life stretched out before him, as narrow and solitary as the knife-sharp ridge of Crib Goch. He’d arranged it with an eye to his own safety, and, since being caught was the greatest risk to him, his path was a solitary one, albeit littered with fleeting encounters. When he’d embarked upon it, he hadn’t realised that the further he went, the higher and more treacherous the path would become, and the more his solitude would weigh upon him.
And that there would be no turning back.
For years he’d sacrificed intimacy at the altar of anonymity and called it a good bargain, but now his choices were beginning feel more like a penance.
Theo became aware that his heart was racing, his gut twisting anxiously. It was as though a storm was rising inside him that he could not quell, and he found himself rising unsteadily to his feet. “I think it’s time I retired for the night,” he said. His voice audibly shook.
George stood then too, his expression morphing into a frown of worry. “Please don’t go,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry for speaking so bluntly.”
Theo waved his apology off. “You’re perfectly entitled to speak your mind. It’s only that I can’t—” He broke off then, unsure what it was, precisely, that he could not do. There was an excruciating pause. Then he muttered, “I’m sorry. George. Excuse me.” And with that, he strode out of the dining room and went straight upstairs.
When he reached his bedchamber, he closed the door behind him, dropping his head back against the solid oak and running his mind over what he and George had said to one another. It seemed ridiculous now to be so upset, yet the feeling lingered. As did that picture he now had of himself as a solitary figure, balanced on a ridge, alone in the cold wind, without no one in front of him, or behind.
He began to undress, forcing himself to go through the motions of his normal evening routine, moving more slowly than normal as he stripped away his clothes, then washed up and cleaned his teeth. None of it settled him. None of it made him feel normal.
When he was ready for bed, he paused, remembering something he’d thought of earlier.
Crossing the room to the sideboard, he unlocked the smallest, topmost drawer and stared down at the brass key lying there. He'd found it on his first visit, along with a number of other items belonging to his uncle that had seemed particularly personal, including the letter his uncle had left for him. Vaguely, he'd wondered what door it fitted, but had given it no real thought. He’d been too busy with other matters.
Now, though, glancing over at the locked door that connected his room to George’s, he wondered again.
Picking up the key, he walked over to the door. For a moment, he hesitated. He hadn’t heard George come up, and it was very quiet. He was fairly sure George’s bedchamber was empty. There would probably be no better time to satisfy his curiosity.
Carefully, he inserted the key into the lock.
