Page 10 of It Takes Two to Tumble
“He was everything to me.” The captain spoke with such seriousness, such earnestness, that Ben was taken aback. He tried not to imagine what it would be like to hear someone speak of himself in those terms.
“But you don’t know if he returned the sentiment.”
Dacre examined the contents of his glass. “It’s worse than that. I let him believe that it was the sort of schoolboy arrangement you mentioned earlier. And then he died.” He took a slow sip of his brandy. “He died without ever hearing me give it a name.”
“Does it matter?” Ben asked, addressing the question to Dacre, to himself, to God, to any other benevolent presence who might see fit to provide guidance. “Does it matter what it’s called?” He genuinely didn’t know, had indeed deliberately avoided thinking about what it might mean to find love and companionship and desire all in the same person, because to form that thought would mean to acknowledge a future he would never have.
“Goddamn it, yes!” Dacre nearly roared, and then fell silent. “Christ, Sedgwick,” he said in a different, lighter tone. “I’ve never talked about that and never will again. Do me the favor of not mentioning this.”
“Naturally,” Ben said, ashamed to have been the recipient of regretted confidences.
By noon the following day, Phillip hadn’t caught a glimpse of his children. They might spend the next two months hiding from him, and he would have wasted his entire leave. As little as he liked it, he was going to have to try a different strategy. And for that, he needed Sedgwick’s help.
“Mr. Sedgwick will be in the barnyard, sir,” a footman said when Phillip asked where the vicar might be. “Playing with the ducklings, like as not.” An indulgent smile flickered across the servant’s face.
Phillip blinked. He was about to enlist the help of a madman, it seemed. Well, if that was his only option, then so be it. He put on his sturdiest boots and walked to the part of the home farm that he recalled being used to raise poultry. Indeed, there was Sedgwick, kneeling on a patch of muddy earth and coaxing a pair of ducklings up his arm with a trail of seeds that led all the way to his shoulder.
“You’ll spoil them,” Phillip said nonsensically.
Sedgwick looked up, and he smiled as if he were happy to see Phillip, and it was the first time anyone had even pretended to be glad to lay eyes on him since he had returned. That smile was so honest and warm it was somehow shocking. Phillip nearly caught himself smiling back, the corners of his mouth twitching up involuntarily. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled.
“I had no idea your philosophy of discipline extended to barnyard fowl,” the vicar said. “Or that you knew anything about newly hatched ducklings.”
“We had chickens on the ship,” Phillip protested, before realizing how asinine it was to argue on those grounds, or any grounds, about so trifling a subject.
“I didn’t realize I was dealing with an expert. Hop to it, ladies, you’re being watched by a master. You’ll make me look very stupid if you dawdle like that. Come on, Louisa, step lively, there is no way you don’t want that tasty seed that’s waiting for you on my elbow.” He went on in this manner until both the ducklings were on his shoulder.
Phillip had to bite his lower lip to keep from laughing. It was absurd. Sedgwick raised his eyes and must have seen how close Phillip was to bursting out in laughter, because he grinned. Unless Phillip was mistaken, there was a touch of triumph in the vicar’s smile, as if he had been desperate to wrench that reaction out of Phillip. Phillip couldn’t remember the last time somebody had tried to amuse him. Impress, yes. Please, certainly. But amuse? Out of the question. Amusement was the sort of thing men wiped off their faces at Phillip’s approach, not something they tried to cultivate in him.
Then one of the ducklings realized its path of seeds had come to a dead end, and got the inspired idea to see if additional treats awaited her at higher ground. With a squawk and an ungainly flap of the wings, she landed on the vicar’s bare head.
“No, that’s not at all the thing, miss. You’ll make a spectacle of me, I’m afraid.”
Phillip could hardly stand it. He wanted to swat the birds away so he and the vicar could have some semblance of a normal conversation. He couldn’t be serious and stern with a man who had ducklings in his hair, or who talked to baby birds like they were guests at a tea party, or who seemed to dearly want Phillip to smile.
But at the same time he wanted to take a step forward and pet the birds, and maybe run his fingers through Sedgwick’s hair, too, and see if it was as soft as the feathers. It was ridiculous.
He kept his feet planted firmly on the ground and resolved not to take a single step closer. “I came to ask for your help.”
The vicar bit his lip. “You’re fascinated by my skill with barnyard fowl and wish me to teach you my mysterious ways?”
Phillip strove for some sort of customary chilliness, just enough to see him through this nonsense. “Be serious for half a moment. I implore you.”
“All right.” The vicar scooped up the ducks and placed them gently on the ground. “Have at it.” He spread his arms wide, inviting Phillip to hurl accusations or insults at him. But his eyebrow was arched ever so slightly, as if he and Phillip were in on the same joke, as if that were even a possibility.
With the force of a slap in the face, Phillip realized it would be terribly easy to develop a tendre for Sedgwick. He was all easy charm and raw good looks; after last night’s conversation he had to know exactly where Phillip’s interests lay, but he didn’t seem repulsed or scandalized. Indeed, Phillip recalled something Sedgwick had stammered about his own experiences at school.
As Phillip continued to stare wordlessly, Sedgwick’s smile dropped and he looked down at his feet, as if he knew exactly what Phillip was thinking. Phillip prepared himself for the inevitable distancing, the slight flicker of disgust. But then he lifted his eyes to Phillip and—oh hell, was he blushing? That just wasn’t fair.
Phillip’s prick had been all but asleep for fourteen months, and it chose this moment to remind Phillip of its continued existence, the stupid thing.
Well, it needed to settle down. Phillip was done with trying to get people into bed. He had learned his lesson after McCarthy died; all those nights of closeness had left him with feelings he could hardly name, had hardly even acknowledged to himself until after McCarthy was dead and at the bottom of a stormy sea. Their coupling had been convenient and discreet, which was all he usually sought in such arrangements. Hell, it was all he had ever hoped for. But then McCarthy was gone and Phillip, whose mind drifted so easily to sorrow and darkness, found himself not only regretting the loss of his lover but also regretting everything he hadn’t said, everything he could never offer a lover anyway.
Phillip was done with convenient tumblings or any tumblings whatsoever. He wasn’t equal to the emotions that came along with simple, honest fucking. Like bloody stowaways, and just as much of a hassle to deal with.
“I require your help with the children,” he said frostily. “If you can get them to supper, we can come to an agreement afterward.” He turned on his heel and walked swiftly back to the house, trying not to think of the look of disappointment on the vicar’s face and what that might mean.
“Disgraceful,” Mrs. Winston said, picking a feather out of Ben’s hair. “A man of the cloth, wandering around out of doors bareheaded and acting like a simpleton. Ducklings, indeed. I brought you a tart.” She added this last sentence as if it might present a solution to the problem.
