Page 24 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Some black families, like Sam’s mother’s people, had been in England for centuries. But a generation ago, Britain had promised black Americans freedom if they fought against the colonists. Sam’s father had been one of them. But nobody had quite figured out what to do with an influx of former soldiers, many of whom didn’t have a trade and were barred either by law or prejudice from learning one. There were schools, now, and even some apprenticeships, but they wouldn’t do any good if people were cold and hungry, or if they didn’t know about these opportunities in the first place.
That was where the Bell came in. It was a place for people to meet, to find work, to talk to other people like them. And if it came right down to it, it was a place where they knew they could get a hot meal. It was so much easier to make your way when other people had your back, and there was nobody you could count on as much as other people who had been through the same troubles as you.
Sam knew he couldn’t explain that to Hartley. What would a man like Hartley know about making his own way?
“Are you going to stand there gawping or join us for a pint?” Kate called, ruining Sam’s half-formed plan of pretending not to have noticed them.
“I thought I ought to actually work, as this is a place of business,” he said, hearing the stodginess in his own voice. He deliberately looked at Kate, not trusting his expression if he saw Hartley.
“Sam. If anyone needs another drink they’ll call for you. I mean, you’ve wiped down that bar seven times and it’s not going to get any cleaner.”
“There was a drop of water,” he protested. “It would have left a mark.”
With an exhausted sigh, Kate got to her feet. “Sorry, Hart, but Sam needs help polishing things that are already clean.”
“Sit down, you,” Sam said, exasperated. “Fine, I’ll join you.” He grabbed a chair from a nearby table and hesitated before deciding where to put it. On Kate’s side? On Hartley’s side?
“Oh bollocks,” Kate muttered, hooking the chair with her ankle and dragging it to the short end of the table between her and Hartley.
Sitting, he turned to Hartley and tried to get out a reasonably normal-sounding “Good day” like he would to any customer, but his voice sounded strange. He probably ought to have cleared his throat. He probably ought to go hide behind the bar.
Hartley was watching him with baffled amusement. “Good day,” he answered. Only then did Sam notice that Hartley had the dog sleeping across his lap.
“Daisy likes Hartley,” Kate said.
“Who the hell is Daisy?” Sam asked.
“I named the dog,” Hartley said. “You can’t go on calling him Dog. It’s rude.”
Sam looked at Kate, expecting her to protest. “Daisy’s a good name,” she said.
“You’ll get fleas,” Sam cautioned.
“Don’t listen to the bad man,” Hartley told the sleeping dog. He was wearing his usual fine clothes, but in subdued browns rather than the blues and greens he seemed to favor. Sam wondered if he had chosen these garments to stand out less at the Bell. If so, he had done a terrible job. He looked bright as a new penny in a coal bucket. Sam was going to have to spend years trying to forget that Hartley had ever been here, wiping and polishing away traces of a foreign substance.
“This pie is incredible,” Hartley said. “I asked Kate what was in it but she won’t tell.”
“Mainly because I don’t know,” Kate said.
Sam looked at the nearly empty dish. “It’s my mum’s pork pie. Well, it was my mum’s recipe, but Nick makes it now. I think he uses porter from the tap and chops the pork shoulder himself.”
“And he makes the pastry with equal parts butter and lard,” said a voice over his shoulder. He turned in his seat to see Nick, still wearing a floury apron. Kate sprang to her feet and kissed his cheek.
“Nick, this is Hartley Sedgwick, an old friend of mine,” Kate said. “Hart, Sam’s brother, Nick.”
Hartley inclined his head and said “Mr. Fox” in a way Sam had only ever heard on stage. Maybe that was how gentlefolk talked to one another all the time. But if Nick thought it strange, he didn’t show it, probably because all his attention was on Kate.
“I’m done for the day and now I’m going to take a nap,” Nick said, his eyes on Kate. Sam supposed he was trying to discreetly invite Kate to his bed.
Kate gave him a frank leer that showed she hadn’t missed his meaning. Then she bent across the table to kiss Hartley’s forehead. “Come back, you hear?”
He didn’t answer, but Sam saw him give her a tight smile. Then Kate disappeared up the stairs after Nick, leaving Sam alone with Hartley.
“You can go back to work, if you need to,” Hartley said, and Sam was tempted to take the excuse. After all, the Bell would soon be filling up with the midday crowd. Hartley looked ready to dart for the door. Then they caught one another’s eye and both froze for an instant before Sam smiled and Hartley made a sound suspiciously close to a giggle.
“I have a few minutes,” Sam said. In the center of the table was a pair of gloves that could only belong to Hartley. He picked up one of them and held it against his own palm. He couldn’t have gotten half his hand into it without tearing the seams. They were the sort of gloves gentlemen wore, thin and soft and clean, and would be shredded after a few minutes’ honest work. Sam touched a pair of delicate buttons that fastened the underside of the glove; they would rest against the soft part of Hartley’s wrist. He glanced across the table to where Hartley’s hands gripped a tankard, then upward to the other man’s face. His eyes, pale and disconcerting, were wide.
At first Sam thought Hartley might be afraid, might consider his gloves too close a proxy for his hand. But then he saw that Hartley’s lips were parted with something like a sigh. Not fear, then, but desire. And Sam couldn’t help but feel an answering rush of want. Here, at the Bell, of all places, in plain view of everyone.
