“Touchy, touchy,” Martha groused. “If’n ya really must know, I was only doin’ what I was told.”
Byron snickered again at the woman’s guttural dialect, knowing she affected backward ways intentionally to goad the prim and proper butler, for he’d heard her on numerous occasions conversing as though to the manor born—when it suited her purposes. His attention switching back and forth between the two as though watching a tennis match, he eagerly awaited Bernard’s next volley.
“What were you told, and by whom?”
Bernard’s face turned an alarming shade of purple. In his fifty-four years, Byron had never acquired much medical knowledge, but it didn’t take a license to practice medicine to tell him “purple face” wasn’t a good thing.
“Mr. Anderson told me if a breaker marked ‘Dining Room’ was to be accidentally switched off, certain young men could have themselves a cozy dinner. I had Isaac take care of it.”
“Well, Alfred certainly gave you those instructions,” Bernard sniffed.
“Why ya say that? How many times ’ave I told you not to be callin’ Mr. Anderson by his first name? It’s not right.” Martha wrung her hands as if some great evil would befall them for his impropriety.
Bernard rolled his eyes, as did Byron. “I shudder to think of so massive a number. However, your efforts were quite unnecessary, I assure you.” The normally stoic butler smirked. “The hutch has been against the wall for years, and few remember a dimmer switch hidden behind it. I turned it off while you had their attention.”
It seemed the two seniors had independently worked toward the same goal. They began arguing over who’d actually succeeded, and Byron left them to their bickering, reminded wistfully of Douglas. He dearly missed their lively debates.
Despite his own health worries, it seemed Alfred intended to keep his promise to unite the boys, even involving the help.Speaking of Alfred, time to check in on him at the hospital. But first, Byron wanted one more quick peek at the nephews before he went….
“NOW, isn’t this cozy?” Alex gazed at his dinner companion from across the table. Paul’s glasses reflected the candlelight, eyes appearing to flame. Alex’s breath caught in his throat as he recalled the scene from his bedroom such a short time ago: Paul’s profile, partially hidden in shadow, before he locked their lips together, like kissing Alex was the most important thing he’d ever done. A few short days ago, Alex’s arrogance would have said,“Itwasthe most important thing he’d ever done.”Ironically, the part of him that sneered at lesser beings remained quiet. Maybe because there were no lesser beings present.
“Yes, it is,” Paul replied, and Alex had to think hard to recall the question. “You know,” Paul confided a moment later, “I’ve always loved Martha’s cooking, but I’m also a bit afraid of her.”
Alex chuckled. “When I was a child I thought my grandmother was the most intimidating woman on earth, until I met Martha. I never knew a wooden spoon could be wielded so lethally.”
Paul threw his head back with a hearty laugh.
Well, damn. For all his quiet intensity, he was capable of genuine laughter. Such a charming laugh, too! Alex didn’t know whether to blame Paul’s lack of wariness on the wine, the dinner, or the earlier apology, but during the course of the meal, Paul slowly unwound, and no longer appeared coiled to spring and run.
“How often did you visit?” Paul asked, refilling their glasses, a gesture not wasted on Alex. Far from being the spoiled plaything of a wealthy lover, Paul behaved in a thoughtful and kind manner, serving others without a second thought. Not as a servant, more as a polite host—as Byron had been.
When Alex thought about the question, his smile fell.
“S-s-sorry, didn’t mean to be nosy,” Paul stammered.
“No, it’s all right.” Alex had nothing to lose by being candid and answered honestly, “I didn’t visit nearly as often as I would have liked.”
“Why not? They both adored you. I’m sure they were thrilled whenever they had the chance to see you.”
Alex sighed, wondering how much the man truthfully knew about his life. “You know my grandparents raised me, right?”
“Yes,” Paul answered. After a moment’s consideration he blushed and added, “Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ My grandparents didn’t disown Alfred when his orientation became public knowledge. They didn’t dare, even if they weren’t exactly thrilled with their only son ‘flaunting his perversion’ in polite society.”
His grandparents’ treatment of Alfred was a sore subject for Alex, who idolized his uncle, considering him incapable of wrong. “They only allowed me see him on vacation or when he visited Boston. They did everything in their power to keep me from coming here, fearing too much exposure to his ‘proclivities’ and the ‘LA lifestyle’ would taint me.” His gloomy expression turned into a self-satisfied smile, and he raised his glass in toast. “If they could only see me now.
“The rest of the family back in Boston, a useless bunch of hangers-on, gossiped and backbit, but none dared speak ill to Uncle Alfred’s face. He’s too powerful, even for them.” Alex shuddered to think what the wolves might have done if Alfred possessed his partner’s easy demeanor, recalling his self-righteous grandmother’s scathing remarks about Byron Sinclair.
Voice subdued, Paul ventured, “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, it’s none of my business, but I’m curious because of what I’ve heard about them. Were they hard on you when you came out?”
“I didn’t come out,” Alex admitted, his words laced with bitterness at yet another example of cowardice. “They went to their graves thinking it a matter of time before I found the right stuck-up debutante, settled down, and gave them a great-grandchild to ignore.” While he hadn’t intended to demean his family publicly, keeping his feelings bottled up for years took its toll. The floodgate now stood open; he might never be able to close it again.
“It’s different with Alfred and Uncle Byron…,” Paul began.
Alex cut him off. “As far as Uncle Alfred knows, I’m bi. He’s never discouraged my relationships with men, even though he’s reminded me often enough that I’m the last of the Andersons.” Byron correctly said Alfred never voiced such a thing; Alex read between the lines, completing the thought with words of his own. “He wants me to father children and continue the family line.”
Paul’s outrage, on his behalf, warmed Alex more than he cared to admit. “Surely you’ve spoken with him?”
