Page 22 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
“Do you think your . . . tendencies disqualify you for human company? That simply by being around another man you’ll contaminate him? Because if it is, I’ll let you know that isn’t how it works at all.” A beat of silence, during which all that existed were Turner’s laughing, dark eyes. “More’s the pity.”
Lawrence laughed mirthlessly. “Of all the qualities that disqualify me for companionship, that’s not even in the top three.”
“Tell me about the top three, then.”
“Madness.” He hefted a shovel heaped with dirt. “Madness.” Another shovelful. “And more madness.”
“I’ve been here for two weeks, and I’m still waiting to see evidence of this madness.” Turner’s voice was clipped, ironic. If he had displayed the faintest trace of sympathy, Lawrence would have found it easier to dismiss his words as so much charity or flattery. “I have to say, I’m fairly disappointed. I had hoped for some good old-fashioned howling at the moon, and all you do is build ingenious inventions and eat too much ham.”
Another shovel, and another. Lawrence felt rooted in the pain that traveled down his back, through his arms. “My father was stark raving mad. My brother was not only mad but murderous, to boot.”
“Buthowwere they mad? Madness isn’t like a fever, where one can figure out what’s wrong by putting a hand to a patient’s forehead. I’ve asked Janet and Mrs. Ferris, but they only look at one another darkly and refuse to talk.”
Lawrence turned around, startled. “Don’t plague Mrs. Ferris with talk about my family.” He’d tell Turner whatever he wanted to know as long as he didn’t pester Sally. “My father used to spend weeks at a time in bed, generally quite drunk. He was a miserable sod. One day, I came home from riding and found him dead in the stables. We told everyone he died while cleaning his gun, but he left a note. I burnt it.” The old man had been buried decently in the family crypt, as if he had ever acted with the slightest concern for the fate of his soul.
“Do you ever spend weeks in bed?”
“No—”
“Do you ever wish to kill yourself?”
No, he didn’t. He had found his father’s body and wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone. But how to explain that it didn’t matter whether he wanted to or not, because one day the madness would take him? “I hope I never kill myself.”
Turner was silent a moment. “And your brother?”
Lawrence lifted and tossed another heaping shovelful of dirt. “You mean when he wasn’t imposing himself on the servants or beating his mistress?” he asked, his voice ragged with exertion. “He died a few years ago in a riding accident in the shires. I suspect he was drunk.”
“And then you inherited and promptly closed the house up.”
“Yes.” More dirt. More pain. If Turner kept up his inquisition, Lawrence would have the trench complete before nightfall.
“I don’t mean to make light of your concerns, Radnor. And to have lost your father in such a way—I really can’t imagine what that was like for you.” Turner fell silent for long enough that Lawrence began to hope this ill-advised conversation had come to an end. “Your mind isn’t typical—”
Lawrence snorted.
“No, I’m serious.” Turner’s voice was earnest, pleading, devoid of the detached cynicism that was usually there. “Listen. Your mind isn’t like other men’s minds, and I know it can’t be easy for you. But you don’t seem anything like your father. As for your brother, it seems to me that nobody would have thought him deranged if he were a commoner. He was a villain, not a madman.”
Lawrence felt certain that most people would think his own tinkering with explosives and electricity stranger than mistreating a mistress, but he wasn’t going to argue the point.
Turner was close behind him now. Lawrence buried his shovel in the ground and stepped on it to keep it in place. He couldn’t work with Turner this near. Too dangerous.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me. Do you completely deny your urges, or do you think about them in private?”
Lawrence swung around, whacking his arm against the upright handle of the shovel. “What the bloody—”
“Oh, you’ve cut yourself.”
Turner was right. There was just enough light to see the line of blood trickling from where Lawrence had scraped his forearm on the metal handle. Before he could protest, Turner had taken out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the cut, holding the makeshift bandage into place with both his hands in a way that made Lawrence feel like an oversized brute.
“What I was going to ask,” Turner murmured, “was whether you—”
“I know what you were asking. What the hell kind of question is that?”
“Well, I was curious. I’ve never been partial to shame and self-denial, and I was wondering how far you take it. I mean, sometimes you just have to scratch an itch.”
Lawrence hoped it was dark enough to conceal his flaming cheeks. “Are you seriously asking about that? Good God, man. I thought I was the one without any manners.” And then he felt one of Turner’s hands come to settle against his cheek.
“It reallyissoft,” Turner murmured.
