Page 62 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
“A disaster.”
“Sad, I was going to say. And hurting. I think the idea of getting the paintings was the first thing that had made you happy in weeks.”
“I have other things making me happy now.” Hartley tipped his head back to look up at Sam, and on his jaw Sam could see the faint stubble that meant he hadn’t shaved for a few days. “You’re the best man I know, Sam Fox, and I love you.”
“I love you too. God, I’ve missed you.” Sam breathed in deep, inhaling the scent of whatever scent or hair soap Hartley used.
Hartley stepped into the open circle of Sam’s arms. Sam hoped Hartley could feel how heavily his heart thudded, and that he knew it was for him. Sam held still as Hartley settled against him, first tucking his head beneath Sam’s chin as Sam pulled his own coat around them both. Hartley went onto his toes and Sam tilted his head down, and in the split second before their lips met, Hartley’s mouth curved in a smile. Their kiss was slow and patient, the kiss of people who knew they had time. Hartley kissed like he had never done it before, and maybe he hadn’t. That thought touched Sam and tore at his heart at the same moment. Hartley ought to have had years of kisses, a lifetime of kisses; but at the same time Sam was all too happy to be able to claim the entirety of Hartley’s kisses for himself.
Hartley broke the kiss and buried his face in Sam’s coat, but Sam could tell Hartley was smiling. God, it was a rare gift to have this man in his arms. It made Sam feel like he had been given care of something unspeakably precious and fragile. Before they pulled apart, Hartley cupped Sam’s jaw and gave him a wondering look that told Sam that Hartley felt the same way, and this thing between them was equally precious and dear to both of them.
“I don’t need your help with the paintings,” Hartley said. “I used them as a bargaining chip to get Philpott to write a letter to your landlord explaining that you need to be released from your lease. There’s apparently a fair bit of precedent.” He produced a sheet of paper from a pocket. “I didn’t post it. It’s yours to do with as you please.”
Sam’s mind reeled. “A bargaining chip?”
“I told him that I’d never tell anyone what was in his filthy cupboards as long as he wrote me the letter. He seemed hugely relieved.”
“Isn’t that blackmail?”
“I don’t think so.” Hartley wrinkled his brow. “Well, can’t say I care if it is.”
“Well, then,” Sam said. “I suppose then neither do I.” Hartley drew him inside the house for another kiss.
They were interrupted by what seemed to Hartley the rather pointed stomping of feet on the stairs. He pulled away from Sam, because even if Will and Ben knew exactly what Hartley was up to, Sam’s privacy meant something. He didn’t try to wipe the smile from his face, though.
“Sam, these are two of my brothers, Ben and Will. Ben’s visiting from the frozen north. You’ve sort of met Will before. Ben’s about to leave at dawn on the mail coach. You’ll join us for a very early breakfast?” he asked, looking expectantly at Sam.
Sam nodded.
They crowded around the table in Sadie’s parlor, passing dishes of ham and toast, Hartley eating with one hand because the baby slept in the crook of his other arm.
“She’s to be christened next week, Sam,” Sadie said. “I’m calling her Charlotte.”
“That’s a pretty name, Sadie,” Sam said. “And she’s a bonny girl.”
This was the first time they had addressed one another by their Christian names, and it made Hartley feel for a moment like everyone in this kitchen belonged to one another.
“Hartley’s middle name is Charles,” Ben supplied.
“I know,” Sadie said pointedly.
“Does that mean Hartley’s going to be the babe’s godfather?” Will asked. The room fell silent.
Hartley was stunned speechless. Under the table, Sam’s hand found his leg and gave it a comforting squeeze and then stayed there, warm and heavy on his thigh. “I’m hardly fit to be anybody’s godfather.” Sadie and Alf both looked meaningfully at the christening cup that sat on Sadie’s chimneypiece and then at Hartley’s coat. Hartley followed their gaze and saw that the infant had deposited some nasty sort of sputum on him.
“Are you suggesting than an infant selects its godparents by means of vomiting on them?” he asked, furiously dabbing at his coat with his handkerchief. “But if you want me to, of course I will.” Perhaps after a whilegodfatherwould come to mean his relation to the baby, rather than Easterbrook’s relation so him.
Sam and Sadie didn’t even bother to conceal the satisfied glance they shared. Hartley didn’t need to look in Will and Ben’s direction to know they were sharing similar glances.
“I hate all of you,” he announced. Hartley finished the meal in a mood of rare merriment, despite it being wretchedly early in the morning and not having had a full night’s sleep in days.
Later, after Ben had left to catch the mail coach and Will had gone with him, Sam and Hartley had the house to themselves.
“I’m sorry you had to give up on the paintings,” Sam said from the zinc tub they had placed in the kitchen by the hearth. It was Sadie’s morning out and Alf had made himself scarce, so Hartley felt utterly free to sit back in his chair and admire the proceedings. Sam barely fit in the tub, and his strong muscles were soapy and gleaming in the firelight.
When Sam had let it slip that he was bedding down in the back room of the Bell, Hartley had insisted that he instead stay with him. To Hartley’s surprise, Sam hadn’t protested. “I’m too old to sleep on the floor,” he had said. “And I suppose your neighbors have been watching me come and go for months now. No harm in my sleeping here. People will just think you’ve gotten another servant.”
But to hear Sam mention the paintings brought Hartley up short because, after making his deal with Philpott, he had felt strangely free. He was building a life that didn’t depend on being seen as anything other than what he was. There would be danger, and he and Sam would always have to be discreet when they were in public. He would need to find work; with that would go his last claim to gentility, and good riddance to it. But he would be surrounded by people he cared about and who cared for him in return. Hartley had been hurt in a way that couldn’t be undone or avenged: Easterbrook had done wrong and had never paid for it. But Hartley would be happy anyway. In addition to happiness, Hartley had a new feeling that was utterly foreign. It was like a new flavor he couldn’t quite identify. He was looking forward to the future, eager to see what it brought. This was hope, he supposed.
