Page 41 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
Georgie returned the raised eyebrow. “Being a secretary,” he said firmly, but Lawrence thought he saw a flicker of surprised amusement in the other man’s eyes. This wasn’t quite honesty, but more like leaving the door open to the truth. The truth was something they could both see out of the corners of their eyes, lurking in the shadows of an adjacent room. If they didn’t look right at it, they could pretend it wasn’t there.
“Anyway,” Georgie went on, “I meet a good many people, but I try not to get close to them. Not to care about them.”
“I see,” Lawrence said solemnly. “It’s probably best for secretaries not to get too close to their clients.”
Now Georgie laughed. “Yes, damn you. My point is that . . . ” He broke off and leaned forward to brush a kiss onto Lawrence’s lips, and when he spoke again his expression was serious. “It’s no way to live. I find myself . . . ” His eyes grew bright, and he blinked quickly, as if trying to hold back tears. “I find myself quite alone, and without any prospect of that changing. I wish I had gone about things a bit differently, but there’s no use wringing my hands about that now. But you can do better. Meet your son. Know him. Let him know you. Let him love you, Lawrence. I know it’s hard. But I know it’s the right thing.”
“And why should I trust that you know what is right?”
“Touché. Perhaps because I’ve found it out by the process of elimination?” Another kiss. Every time they got closer to acknowledging the shadowy truth, Lawrence felt the delicate, fragile thing between them grow stronger, the ground beneath it less shaky. “But truly, Lawrence, I’ve tried living the other way. So have you, for that matter. It’s no good to be alone. Don’t let Simon be alone.”
Lawrence wished he could be so sure.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
“That one looks good, I think?” Georgie asked hopefully.
Simon threw him a pitying look. “Not nearly big enough.”
Georgie had no idea how they were supposed to get the mistletoe down from the tree, and even less what they were meant to do with it once they got it back to the house. But Mrs. Ferris and Simon both insisted that vast quantities of greenery were instrumental to any proper Christmastide, and Georgie was hardly in any position to argue. His own understanding of Christmas was that it was a particularly good time to pick pockets, so many people having an extra shilling or even a new watch. But he could hardly suggest larceny as an alternative to boughs of holly.
He and the child had bundled into their coats and scarves, equipped themselves with kitchen shears and an alarming-looking handsaw, and prepared to divest the Penkellis woods of all manner of ivy, holly, and mistletoe, maybe even a few fir boughs. Basically, if it was green at this time of year, it was fair game for plunder.
They had lingered in the hall for a while after midday, waiting to see if Lawrence would come down. Even now, Georgie cast a glance over his shoulder to see if he could discern a figure heading towards them.
“He isn’t coming,” Simon said, resting a tentative, mittened hand on Georgie’s arm. “It’s all right.”
It wasn’t all right, not even close. Last night, sitting close together, hands intertwined, he thought he had gotten through to Lawrence. But obviously he hadn’t. He wondered if Lawrence even wanted anyone in his life at all. Maybe he really was happier alone in his tower, seeing no one, caring about no one.
“No worries,” Simon continued, a sympathetic note in his voice, as if Georgie were the one whose feelings needed soothing. “I don’t even remember him.”
Georgie desperately tried to blink away tears. Crying in front of the child would only make things that much worse for both of them. “That isn’t the point.”
Simon regarded him, his nose red with cold. “Uncle Kemble says Lord Radnor isn’t my real father anyway. So it’s only natural that he can’t be bothered.”
“Uncle Kemble can sod right off, then,” Georgie said promptly, before recalling that this language was not suitable for an eight-year-old’s ears. “Damn!” No, that was no improvement. Simon’s eyes were wide. “I’m sorry. But your uncle is a thoroughgoing bastard if he says that sort of thing to you.”
Simon gave him an appraising look. “He’s not my favorite.”
“And your aunt?”
“She is . . . better.”
“A ringing endorsement.”
“Ha. They don’t like me much, and they aren’t as jolly as Uncle Courtenay, but they aren’t bad, not really.” Something about the child’s tone suggested that he knew what kind of behavior might constitute “really bad.” Georgie didn’t like that one bit. But they were supposed to be having a festive afternoon, gathering holly and ivy and whatever the hell else country people needed for Christmas, and he didn’t want to spoil it by asking too many unpleasant questions.
“If I lift you, do you think you can climb the tree and get that big clump of mistletoe?”
Of course the child agreed. That was something all eight-year-old boys must have in common, city or country, rich or poor. Simon weighed next to nothing, and Georgie was able to hoist him overhead onto a sturdy-looking branch. A few minutes later, Georgie noticed snowflakes landing on the sprigs of mistletoe scattered at his feet.
“We ought to go back to the house before it starts falling in earnest,” he suggested.
Even from several feet below, Georgie could see Simon’s disdainful expression. “It’s snow, not artillery fire,” the child said. “The ground isn’t nearly cold enough for it to stick, at least for the next few hours.”
“And we’ll have frozen to death by then, so the snow will be of no import to us.”
Simon landed neatly at the base of the tree. He would have been a worthy addition to any crew of housebreakers, if he hadn’t been the heir to an earldom. “I like snow.” He said it with the emphasis on the last word, as he had said “I likecakes”and “I like thesea” the day before. As if he were reminding himself of the things he liked, that therewerethings he liked, in the face of an otherwise unpleasant world.
