Page 63 of Once a Gentleman
Anything could have happened, anything at all; and how long would it be before Kit learned of it, if there were some disaster, the specifics of which Kit couldn’t bear to contemplate? Even if the Naval Office were to notify him directly, it could still be a matter of weeks before they themselves knew what had happened.
Three weeks and one day following Andrew’s departure, he was briefly distracted by a note from Robinson, enclosing another letter from Josiah Colton. The money, it seemed, was quite real, and would be waiting for him at the same bank where Andrew kept his own funds. Robinson had arranged it all. The letter also made vague references to wishing to see Kit, something that stirred up emotions he could hardly categorize: wistfulness, anger, melancholy, and eager joy were all among them.
But no. It was too much, and also too little too late. He had shed bitter tears over Josiah’s abandonment, and he would have welcomed his overtures with open arms a year before. But he had since learned what it meant to have real friends, loyal and steadfast. Andrew had his faults. Many of them. But he would never, ever have left anyone he professed to care for alone in the world under those circumstances.
Kit set the letter aside to be replied to later—perhaps much later. Or even never.
Three thousand pounds.
Andrew had perhaps gone missing.
He might or might not love Kit, really, while Kit sat here loving him, very pathetically.
Kit had managed to work himself into a truly Byronic state, running his hands through his hair and sighing deeply, when a quick rap on the study door announced Samuel, who stepped inside without waiting for an answer.
He sat bolt upright and tried to look as if he’d been working, or doing anything other than acting the ninny.
“Mrs. Felton reports that mice have gotten into the Stilton, sir,” Samuel intoned gravely. “I am afraid you must suffer with Cheddar this evening. Also, the pipes seem to be clogged. The rain has backed them up, I regret to say.”
Kit stared at Samuel for a moment, his mouth hanging open, as he came crashing back down to earth with a thump.
Mice in his dinnertime cheese and clogged pipes: had Byron ever had to suffer such mundane insults to his flights of high-minded misery? Almost certainly; he simply hadn’t inflicted any poems about it onto the world at large.
“Cheddar will be quite adequate,” Kit stammered. “And I suppose we must all use the privy out back instead of the water closet. And in the pouring rain, too.”
No, Kit would not be writing any poetry.
Samuel sighed. “Indeed, sir. Also, I have the post for you.”
He held out a stack of letters, all variously water-smudged and dirty, and not sorted by recipient. Kit would be opening everything in any case.
At first he flipped through the stack idly, not particularly interested in the business of the day—and then his eye caught and held.
That was his name in Andrew’s hand.
He tore into the letter rather like a starving lion with an antelope, and Samuel cleared his throat. God, Samuel. Kit could not possibly open a letter from Andrew with an audience.
“From Turner,” Kit said, too distracted even to observe the proprieties, the letter feeling like it vibrated in his fingers with eagerness to be read. Or perhaps his hands shook so much they could hardly follow his instructions. “I’ll—be sure to tell you anything the household would wish to know of his whereabouts. A few minutes, please.”
Samuel left without another word, as observant and discreet as always, and Kit held his breath and opened the letter.
Rather, two letters: one within the other.
The exterior missive was, at first, a terrible disappointment. The salutation addressed him as Hewlett, and the contents were dry in the extreme. An unexpected change in plans had necessitated a more extended voyage; he was not at liberty to divulge his whereabouts, but he would write again as soon as practicable. In the meantime, he knew that his affairs were in more capable hands than his own, and sent his thanks for Kit’s continued efforts on his behalf.
The postscript asked Kit if he would be kind enough to pass on the enclosed to one whom he knew was dear to Andrew’s heart, and that he trusted this affair to Kit’s energy and discretion as much as any of his others.
This, then, was the solution Andrew had found to writing to Kit openly. He would no doubt tell his fellow officers, should they inquire about his letter-writing, that he had a mistress. Kit allowed himself one moment’s passing thought that he wished such measures were not necessary, and then found himself smiling foolishly down at the enclosure, relief at knowing Andrew was alive and well, and delight that Andrew would think of writing to him like this, superseding even the crushing disappointment of knowing he wouldn’t be home at any moment—that he could be gone for weeks, or months, and that Kit would have no way of knowing if he were safe in the meantime.
His own heart pounding unsteadily, he opened the second letter.
My dearest love,
As I have no doubt my very efficient secretary has informed you, I shall be gone for rather longer than anticipated. I cannot tell you where I have gone or when I shall return. In fact, as to the latter question, I am left in ignorance myself.
May I confess something? While I am in a fever of impatience to see you again, and utterly miserable without you, I am not good enough to hope you are less affected by our separation than I am. In fact, I find myself praying, quite selfishly, that you are as unhappy as I at the thought that I may not be home again for some while.
Forgive me for this, my darling, though I know it is a great fault. At least I shan’t compound that fault by lying to you, and perhaps that is something. I love you to distraction. I adore you, I dream of you, I think of nothing but you, though I hope I haven’t neglected my duties too dreadfully in my distraction. The thought that you might be as bereft without me as I am without you distresses me, as any unhappiness of yours must do, but it also gives me the sweetest joy I could experience—and I am ashamed of that, but not enough to change my own feelings.
