Page 36 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
“Or a faulty flue,” chimed in another patron.
Sam suppressed a groan. They had already paid good coin for a chimney sweep to put in a new chimney cap and to repair the flue, but still the chimney smoked.
“It’s a down draft,” said the first patron in ominous tones.
“Not good,” agreed the second. “Not good at all.”
The reason he had been able to get the Bell on such favorable terms was that he had a repairing lease, meaning that he alone was responsible for repairs. The building’s owner had, as far as Sam knew, no obligation beyond taking Sam’s money. Whatever additional expenses they incurred fixing this blasted chimney were Sam’s responsibility alone. If they failed to keep the place in good repair, the landlord would have every right to kick them out.
He had worked hard to make this place a cut above the seedy alehouse it had once been. Now it was a place where black tradesmen and laborers could talk to one another over a pint or a bite of food and know they wouldn’t get caught up in a brawl. Sam didn’t want to see that all down the drain just because of a temperamental chimney. He’d just have to find a way to hire another, hopefully better, sweep.
When he caught Kate wiping a table, he didn’t even have the heart to remind her that she didn’t work at the Bell anymore and ought to be sitting down, or possibly be at home getting some rest. Instead he hefted a stack of dishes to bring to the sink when he felt a gust of cold air from the street.
“You,” Kate said in a voice that meant she was scanning the room for likely weapons.
“You, yourself,” answered a too-refined voice. “Honestly, darling, sit down. You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”
Sam held his breath. The patrons at the table nearest Kate edged their chairs away. There was a moment of dangerous silence. But instead of murdering Hartley on the spot, Kate sort of collapsed onto his shoulder in a fit of laughter and tears. “Iknow,” she said. “I’m half asleep on my feet.”
“There, there,” Hartley said, patting her back. Sam was out of view of the table where Hartley and Kate sat, hidden in the shadows near the doorway. But he could see them clearly. Hartley had on one of his many-buttoned waistcoats and a coat the color of wet cobblestones. His hair was as tidy as ever, his face neatly shaved, but around his eyes were tiny lines that Sam thought hadn’t been there before.
Sam watched, transfixed, as two of the prickliest people he had ever met dissolved into a puddle of affection. Hartley had Kate nearly in his lap, and she was sobbing into his collar. Any difficulties Hartley had with being touched didn’t seem to apply to Kate. In fact, Hartley’s starchy reserve seemed to disappear around women. Hartley had been downright charming to the innkeeper’s wife. He wondered how much of Hartley’s chilly demeanor was simply the fact that he was afraid of men.
Maybe fear wasn’t the word. Maybe it was more physical than that—the instinctive flinch at a fast approaching fist. Maybe all men posed that same potential danger for Hartley. And wasn’t that a rubbish bit of luck for a man who preferred men. Sam was glad that old Easterbrook was dead, otherwise he might be tempted to do something about that for him.
Nick appeared then at Sam’s shoulder to relieve him of the stack of plates he was still carrying. “That Kate’s friend who was here the other day? Some toff she used to know?”
“That’s him.” Sam hoped he had managed to keep his voice disinterested.
The dog rushed in through the door Nick had left open and ran over to leap around Kate’s and Hartley’s feet. Hartley promptly picked him up and started to talk to him in a daft voice.
“Not the sort of man you worry about your girl being around,” Nick said.
“You don’t need to worry about Kate around anyone.”
“I know that,” Nick said. “I just meant that I don’t think that fellow is going to give her any trouble.”
“How can you tell?” Sam snapped. “I didn’t think you knew many men like that.”
Nick looked at him, wide-eyed. “Well, he’s not making a secret of it, is he?”
Sam turned his attention back to Hartley and Kate. It wasn’t that Hartley was exactly feminine, but there was something about the way he held himself, something about the tone of his voice, too, that wasn’t quite masculine either. Sam didn’t think it was anything Hartley was deliberately doing, so much as something inborn in him, just part of who he was. And his looks didn’t help; he wasn’t handsome so much as beautiful. Maybe that was why the gossip had ruined him: it was just so easy to believe that Hartley was that kind of man.
Sam had always been able to keep his bedroom preferences separate from the rest of his life. He had good work and a family who loved him. That was the sum and substance of his life. Nobody who saw him had to know that he liked men, which meant Sam hadn’t had to think about it much either. But he knew what it was like to be judged on appearances and found wanting. These days, he rarely heard the slurs that had been openly shouted at him in the ring. Cowed by Sam’s size and his history, people tended to hold their tongues. Only men like Constable Merton, with the full force of the law behind him, weren’t afraid.
Did Hartley walk down the street imagining the slurs that people were just barely managing not to say aloud? Did he suspect that everyone he met secretly disdained and distrusted him? Sam knew what that was like, knew it better than Hartley ever could. When Hartley had said that he wanted to travel, maybe what he really meant was that he wanted to get away from those hateful whispers, wanted to go someplace where people looked at him and only saw a finely dressed white man. Sam didn’t have that as an option, and wouldn’t have taken it even if he had; he didn’t want to be anybody other than hardworking black Englishman that he was, but he knew that when many white Englishmen looked on him they saw someone inferior, someone who didn’t belong.
It had hurt to hear Hartley speak words that seemed to carry the echo of that kind of ugly sentiment. Failing to count Sam as a guest in his house, suggesting that Sam could walk away from the Bell—even if Hartley hadn’t meant to demean Sam, the fact that he didn’t understand how Sam would interpret his words was itself a problem. But seeing the man bent over a table, deep in conversation with Kate, Sam didn’t want to believe Hartley was just another Constable Merton.
What he wanted didn’t matter, though. He couldn’t put his dignity, his safety, or his work on the line for anyone, least of all someone who didn’t respect him and who he was. He ought to cut his losses before he got in any deeper.
“Where’s Sam?” Hartley asked, trying and failing to sound uninterested.
Kate gave a slight roll of her eyes. “He was here before you came, so I suppose he’s avoiding you. You know why better than I do.”
Hartley took a sip of ale before speaking with more sangfroid than he felt. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
She regarded him carefully, as if deciding whether to say something. “He told me about the two of you,” she said quietly. “Well, no, actually I told him and he didn’t deny it. So you don’t need to come up with any tales. Hurt him and I’ll cut off your bollocks and feed them to Daisy.”
