Thomas and the Society of Sentinels (10/15)

[alex51324]

Chapter Ten



“We’ll need to go down to London for a few days next week,” Gerald said one evening as Barrow was helping him into his dinner clothes.

“What for, my lord?” he asked, slipping the shirt over his shoulders.

It was the first time Barrow had asked him any question that didn’t have to do with his clothes. Gerald thought he’d seen a few hints that he was beginning to soften, just a little, but there was nothing obvious enough that he could be certain. He answered carefully, aiming to be a bit less formal than they had been of late, but not overbearing. “Ah, well, it’s been three months,” he explained. “There are a few formalities we have to take care of with the Society. Some papers to sign, nothing to worry about. And you can give the livery back; I expect you’ll like that.” He essayed a smile. That had to do with clothes, so perhaps it wasn’t too personal.

“I just need to know what to pack, my lord,” he said, with a faint air of irritation.

Oh. Right, of course. “Couple of suits, and the dinner jacket, I suppose. I shouldn’t need evening dress; I’ll just be dining at the club.”

“Very good, my lord. Do you know what train you want to take?”

“Ah. We’ll go down on Wednesday, I suppose.” It didn’t matter much, but he was expected to name the day, wasn’t he? Probably. He thought so. “I’m not sure when the trains are…something that gets us in by mid-afternoon, I think, if that can be accomplished without getting up at the crack of dawn.”

“Yes, my lord.”

All right, so that must have been specific enough. “I’ve an appointment at the war hospital to have the new leg fitted Friday morning. You’ll need to go along with me for that.” He hoped Barrow wouldn’t object; the hospital would be difficult for him to manage on his own. “I’m not certain yet if I want to come back Friday afternoon or Saturday morning.”

“I’ll check the train times for both days, my lord.”

“Good. Yes. Thank you.” He’d never quite sorted out whether one was supposed to say “thank you” to valets. Barrow had never objected-but then, he didn’t think valets were supposed to object to anything.

Once his dinner jacket was on, Barrow brushed it, which was always a bit soothing. Barrow seemed to like it, too-sometimes he smelled nearly content when he was doing it.

Not tonight. But sometimes.

#

Thomas was a little surprised by the upcoming trip to London-the time had passed, somehow, without him noticing it. But he was downright shocked that his lordship had managed to get through the conversation without asking him how he felt about it. Or worse, telling him how he felt about it, and demanding to know why.

But he hadn’t. Not wanting to press his luck, Thomas carefully put the matter out of mind until after his lordship had been put to bed and he went outside for his evening smoke.

He’d checked the calendar in the servants’ hall, and Tuesday next was three months to the day after his sentencing.

His lordship had probably planned it that way on purpose. But as long as they didn’t have to talk about it, Thomas could live with that. For one thing, this way, no one couldn’t make him wear the damn livery; for that, he was willing to put up with having one more bloody thing to be grateful for.

Even without the livery, the trip would be pretty grim. The others at the Society would understand his decision even less than the Bellerock staff did. And they were unlikely to leave him alone about it, since they never had left him alone about anything. Beyond that, he’d probably have to stay in his lordship’s rooms, and he didn’t much like the chances that his lordship would be able to mind his own business under those conditions.

Still, it was only a few days. Two nights, three at the most. The train journeys would be a doddle; he’d ride in third class, where he belonged, and he wouldn’t be dressed like a git, so no one would bother him. All he had to do, in order to improve on his previous performance, was get through the three days in between without punching anyone in the face. He ought to be able to manage that, no matter what the provocation.

#

“Yes, that sounds all right,” Gerald said on Monday, after Barrow had presented his recommendations about the train times. There was a good train going down to London midmorning, and several choices for the return. “Book an open return. I think we’ll likely end up taking the 5:05 on Friday, but it’s always possible the hospital business will wear me out.”

“Very good, my lord.”

As much as Gerald tried to ignore it, Barrow did smell a bit nervous whenever the subject of the London visit came up. Tentatively, he asked, “Are you ready for the trip?”

Barrow gave him a wary look. “I’ll do the packing the morning of, my lord, but I’ve made the packing list and checked that everything’s in good repair.”

“Ah.” That hadn’t been what he’d meant, and he suspected Barrow knew it. Still, he’d been on thin enough ice even asking as much as he had; if he went any further, it might crack underneath him. “Efficient as always. Good.”

“I did wonder, my lord, if you’ll be wanting to bring back more of your things from your London rooms.”

He hadn’t thought of that. He was moving home more or less permanently-and with things the way they were between Thomas and the rest of the Society, he likely wouldn’t be visiting often. “I should. Not everything.” There was no hurry-his resident member’s fees were paid through spring, and he didn’t like the thought of giving up his secondary territory so soon; he might keep the rooms another year and decide later. “But some clothes and books, yes. Good idea, Barrow.”

“I’ll send a trunk down ahead of us, my lord.”

“I should have one there already. In the attics or somewhere. Weatherby will know. We’ll decide-I’ll let you know what to pack once we get there.” Or would Barrow want to help decide which clothes to bring back? He might consider that something a valet would do.

“Yes, my lord.”

#

It seemed as if no time at all passed before it was time to go to London. Their arrival at the Society was almost a repeat of Thomas’s arrival three months ago, except that Franklin the front door porter greeted his lordship with even more enthusiasm. And ignored Thomas completely.

After settling him in his rooms-on the sofa where Thomas had first been introduced to evening cuddle time-Thomas went downstairs to oversee the unloading of the luggage. No one stopped him as he passed through the servants’ area, but he did notice some unfriendly looks.

No matter. The driver had gotten the cases down without scratching them; Thomas collected them with a nod of thanks and started back.

Before he’d gotten halfway through the back corridor, Mr. Weatherby loomed in front of him. “Mr. Barrow.”

“Mr. Weatherby,” Thomas said with a nod. He’d written a short note informing Mr. Weatherby that his lordship was coming down, because valets did that, but he had included only the bare facts of the visit. Preventing Weatherby from finding out about the new arrangement had seemed a lost cause, but he hoped to put it off as long as possible. Had his lordship written as well?

“Clement wrote to inform me of your new position,” Weatherby went on. “I don’t believe we’ve ever had a valet here before, but I daresay we’ll manage.”

Whatever reaction he’d expected from Mr. Weatherby, that was not it. Thomas nodded slowly, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

“I’ve put you in room sixteen on the Guides’ corridor. I hope that’s satisfactory.”

He nodded again. “That’s fine. Thank you, Mr. Weatherby.”

“There is a conversation we need to have, once you’ve settled in and gotten your gentleman settled in.”

That was more like it. “I need to take him a tea tray and unpack these cases,” Thomas said.

“You can find me in my pantry when you’re ready.”

Feeling just a little bit ill, Thomas took his own case up first, noting to his surprise that room sixteen was not the dankest, draftiest hole imaginable, and nor did he have to share it with an adolescent or a half-wit. It was much like the room he’d slept in at Lord Grantham’s London club-small, plain, and unremarkable.

Then he put his lordship’s case in the dressing room, and went back down to confront Mrs. Groach over the issue of a tea-tray. She produced one without much complaint-but then, he had mentioned the possibility in his note to Mr. Weatherby. “I’ll let you know about his other meals when I bring the tea things back,” he told her.

“See that you do.”

Back in his lordship’s rooms, he set out the tea things in silence, thinking again of that first day three months ago. This time, his lordship didn’t ask him to pour himself a cup and sit down.

And Thomas was not a bit sorry, because really, who did that? Once his lordship had made his way to the table and got started, Thomas returned to the dressing room for the unpacking.

There was a bit of ironing to do, which let him put off the confrontation with Mr. Weatherby a bit longer. By the time he’d arranged everything in the dressing room to his satisfaction, his lordship had finished his tea-finished picking at it, that is; he hadn’t eaten much-and returned to the sofa.

Thomas began putting the dishes back on the tray. “Will you be going down for dinner, my lord?”

“Ah, no. I’ll eat here. Tomorrow night I’ll go down.”

“Very good, my lord. And breakfast?”

“Oh….” He rolled his head back against the back of the sofa, looking pensively at the ceiling. “Here, I think. I’ll go down to luncheon.”

“Yes, my lord. Will you need anything else before dinner?”

“No. No, I’m just going to…sit here.”

Thomas nodded, picked up the tray, and left.

There had been no sign of tea downstairs-it was a bit late for it-and Thomas doubted very much that the kitchen would be at all pleased to make anything specially for him. Instead, he paused on the landing and ate one of the crumpets his lordship hadn’t bothered with. Carefully balancing the tray on his left arm, he poured a cup of the cold, stewed tea and knocked that back, too, like a dose of medicine.

Thus fortified, he went to beard the cook in her den. Mrs. Groach received his lordship’s meal orders with a grunt and a, “Now, was that so difficult?” He didn’t answer.

When Thomas passed by Mr. Weatherby’s pantry, he was occupied in explaining something to one of the young Guides, so Thomas went back up to room sixteen to fetch his livery. When he came back with it, Mr. Weatherby was free, so there was no putting it off any longer.

“Ah. Mr. Barrow,” he said, getting up from his desk. “I expect you’re glad to be giving that back.” He nodded toward the bundle of clothing Thomas was holding. “Let’s take care of that, first.”

They went into the livery cupboard, and Mr. Weatherby looked over the livery, counting buttons and marking things off on a checklist. He’d been told to keep the shirts, socks, and underwear, so he had, but everything else was there.

“You keep this,” Weatherby said, handing back the green-and-gold striped tie. “Most Society Guides wear it when they return. It isn’t mandatory, but you’re entitled to it.”

“All right.” Thomas didn’t think he would wear it-since he wasn’t a Guide-but he wasn’t going to argue. He folded it and put it in a pocket of his black coat. “Everything else is in order?”

“Of course it is; you know how to take care of a livery.” He turned to lead the way back to his pantry. Once there, he sat down at his desk, motioning for Thomas to sit across from him. Leaning forward and steepling his fingers, he began, “I understand you do not wish to be considered a Guide.”

“That’s right,” Thomas said, steeling himself to defend his position.

“Nevertheless, there are certain responsibilities that I’m expected to fulfill, relating to your departure, so I ask that you bear with me.”

Feeling as though he’d miscounted a flight of stairs, and put his foot down on empty air where he’d expected another step, Thomas said, “All right.”

“The Society takes its duty to Guides very seriously, and that duty does not end simply because you’ve found a place elsewhere. You’re welcome-indeed, encouraged-to return at any time if you require assistance seeking another position, or a place to stay while you do so, or anything of that nature.”

Thomas doubted very much that any of that was true in his case; Mr. Weatherby had the air of one reciting a well-worn speech. “Right. Yes.”

“I mean that,” Mr. Weatherby said. “Your situation is unusual, and if you chose to seek another position it would certainly put Lord Pellinger in a difficult position. But the Society’s primary function is to assist Guides, not to find Guides for Sentinels.”

“All right,” Thomas said, still doubtful.

Weatherby sighed. “It’s unlikely that we’d be able to find for you another position under the terms that Lord Pellinger has accepted, but that’s neither here nor there. Plenty of us-of Society Guides, that is-do not find being a personal Guide congenial.”

That was the first Thomas had heard of it; he was startled into speaking without weighing his words first. “They don’t?”

“No,” Weatherby said. “The requirements of the position can be…taxing. Particularly for those not brought up amid Sentinel ways. I myself would not do it for a thousand pounds a year and the proverbial gold clock.”

Thomas managed to keep his jaw from dropping open. Barely.

“The gentlemen do not realize how…intrusive…their attention can be. The Guides raised on Sentinel estates enjoy it-and those that do not keep their distance. There’s a good reason we don’t assign new arrivals to be personal Guides; there is simply no way that you can understand what you’re getting into, and it isn’t fair to thrust it upon you unawares. But Lord Pellinger’s situation was…very difficult.”

“I heard a bit about that.”

“Yes, so. The gentlemen were quite determined to have you attend on his lordship, and I did not think it my place to insist otherwise. I also hoped that your being of the lavender persuasion might help you to cope with the required…intimacies, but clearly that was not the case.”

“Ah. No,” Thomas said, a little rattled to have it so casually mentioned.

“Yes, well. In hindsight, a better course would have been to assign you to smoking-room duty and have you take Lord Pellinger’s meal trays up. That would have alleviated a great deal of his lordship’s difficulty while giving you time to adjust, and perhaps then by this time, when your mandatory association with the Society is at an end, you’d be in a better position to make a decision about your future. But I didn’t think of that at the time.”

“That might have worked better,” Thomas agreed. If they’d done it that way, he’d likely have pursued the job as his lordship’s Guide, and he still wouldn’t have understood it. But at least then it would have been his decision.

“In any case, you’ve found another solution-quite on your own, I understand-that, while not ideal, seems tenable. You’re to be congratulated for that.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said, as it sank in that this was not a conversation about his ingratitude, nor was the aim to convince him to give up his stand and be a Guide again. “I-well. It seems to be working.”

“Good.” Weatherby nodded. “You’re welcome to write, if there’s any matter I might be able to advise you on.”

That was a dismissal if Thomas had ever heard one. Standing up, he wondered if Weatherby, perhaps, was as uncomfortable with long conversations about feelings as he was.

Or more so, perhaps. For a thousand pounds a year, he might have considered being a Guide again. Never mind the clock; with those kinds of wages, he could buy his own.

The thought became less funny as, on his way outside to smoke a cigarette, he realized that the Bellerock lot might have found a thousand pounds a year a less ridiculous request than what he had actually asked for. There was a very real possibility that he could have gotten it.

Just thinking about that somehow made his principled stand against having his life interfered in seem…a bit less principled.

He shook his head. No. He’d had good reasons for doing what he did. All that nonsense about his lordship making him happy and talking about his feelings all the time was-as Weatherby had said-intrusive. That was a good word for it. All right for some, if they liked it, but Thomas didn’t. And he had every right not to.

But when he took his lordship’s dinner up, and caught himself looking at the former-cuddling-spot sofa with a queer feeling that he could not possibly mistake for revulsion or loathing, he had to admit that there were some parts of being a Guide that hadn’t been so bad.

He quickly cut off that thought. Whatever he was feeling, he didn’t want his lordship knowing about it.

Since dinner had courses-even when eaten in a sitting room-Thomas had to stay and serve it. Standing up against the wall while his lordship ate his dinner in silence was, perhaps, even more awkward than sitting down with him to eat it. At Downton, there had always been more than one person in the dining room, and usually Carson or William had been there serving, too. That made it a bit easier to blend into the wallpaper.

Here, it was just odd. His lordship must have thought so, too-after pushing away his dessert plate, he said, “I’ll definitely go down to dinner tomorrow evening, Barrow.”

“Very good, my lord,” he said, taking the plate away.

“You aren’t missing your own dinner for this, are you?”

“No, my lord.” The dining-room staff ate after they’d served dinner; Thomas would eat with them. Since there weren’t any other valets for him to eat with.

“Good.” His lordship pushed back his chair and stood, carefully. “I’m going down for a drink. I’ll-one of the others will let you know when I’m ready to undress.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He left, through the front door, while Thomas carried the dishes out the back.

#

Wandering around the public rooms-mostly deserted, since dinner was still going on-Gerald ran into Ace, who was holed up as usual in the reading room, the remains of a plate of sandwiches pushed to one side of the table.

“Hullo, Pelly,” he said, closing the book he was poring over.

“Hullo. Don’t let me interrupt you.” He would be meeting Ace in his official capacity tomorrow-as the Society’s legal man, he had to, as he put it, advise Barrow to go forth and sin no more; as chair of the Guides Committee, he had to speak to Gerald about the expectations for a member who hired a Society Guide. Under the circumstances-which he’d written to Ace about-the latter was likely to be a bit of a farce, but if one didn’t observe the formalities, what did one have?

“I’m not getting anywhere, anyway.” He shook his head. “How are you faring?”

“Well enough,” Gerald said, sitting.

“I’m sorry this hasn’t worked out as we would have hoped.” Ace was smelling worried. Gerald suspected that he was, too. Or worse.

“It’s worked out better than I have any right to expect,” Gerald answered. “I’m certainly doing better than I was when we talked here three months ago.” Ace could probably tell that he wasn’t as convinced of that as he wanted to be.

“Yes, but….” Ace stood up abruptly. “Do you want to play billiards, or something? Or-can you?”

“I can certainly try,” Gerald answered. The game would distract them both from the conversation they were having-and from what they both knew the other knew about what they weren’t saying. That might make it a bit less mortifying to discuss such a personal matter with another Sentinel.

It was a shame he’d never thought to try something similar with Thomas.

They went into the billiard room. Gerald selected a cue, chalked it, and attempted some practice shots. Not being able to bend his knee made it a bit awkward, but once he was sure he could manage it without actually falling over, he motioned for Ace to set up the table for a proper game.

“The fact is, Ace,” he said, lining up his first shot, “I made a botch of things. I didn’t mean to, but that’s what I did. When he first got here-” He shot, then stepped back, leaning on the cue for balance in place of his crutch. As Ace picked his shot, he went on, “I didn’t tell him enough about us. About Sentinels, I mean,” he clarified, in response to a questioning look from Ace. “And about being a Guide. I thought he’d ask, but he’s…well, he’s been neglected.” He still thought that, even after what he’d learned from observing the other Guides on the estate. Maybe Guides didn’t necessarily need Sentinels’ constant attention, but they needed something Thomas hadn’t gotten.

Ace took his own shot, then nodded for Gerald to take his.

Circling the table at a limp, he continued, “I was waiting for him to come to me-which might have been the right thing to do, except he didn’t have the slightest idea what I was waiting for. Didn’t know I cared.” Selecting a shot, he bent to make it. He overbalanced a little, and the ball went off-course, but the game didn’t really matter. “He’s used to taking care of himself. He didn’t know there was another way.”

“I can see that,” Ace said, appearing to hesitate over whether to take advantage of Gerald’s mistake or not. “But then once you figured it out--” He decided to take the shot; good. It would have been patronizing if he hadn’t.

“Once I figured it out, I tried to make up for thirty years of neglect in a matter of weeks. I expected he’d be thrilled to have someone caring for him at last, but-” He took another shot, this time sending the ball precisely where he’d wanted it. “-he didn’t see it that way. He doesn’t think he needs taking care of. And perhaps he’s right,” he added, stepping away from the table.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ace commented, approaching the table. “Considering.”

“Perhaps you’re right, as well.” Gerald still wasn’t sure about that. “But even so, he needed some time to get used to the idea, to start figuring things out for himself. I didn’t give him that. Perhaps if I had-” But there was no use thinking about that. “He wasn’t ready.”

They played for several more turns in silence except for the click of the balls on the table. “All right,” Ace said, after a while. “But it’s an over-reaction, this saying he isn’t a Guide.”

“He’s entitled to an over-reaction or two.”

“Are you going to go on like this for the rest of your lives?”

Gerald shook his head. “That’s up to him, really. I can’t push him. Not anymore. I’ve done too much of that.”

“And if he gets the slightest bit stroppier, he could leave you. There’s no way to stop him; I’ve checked.”

Was that what Ace had been researching so intently? “Even if there was, I wouldn’t.” He shook his head. “He’s…content, with the way things are now. And he doesn’t want to leave-he knows what would happen to me, and he doesn’t want that. That’s why he came up with this idea of being my valet.” Gerald allowed himself a slight smile. “He really is rather clever.”

“You’re still fond of him,” Ace said, studying his next shot much more intently than he really had to.

“Of course I am. He’s my Guide. I’m just…keeping it to myself.”

#

“I thought you said he wasn’t a Guide anymore,” Sammy said to Franklin in what he clearly thought was a whisper.

Franklin eyed Thomas across the table. Thomas pointedly looked away. “Don’t worry about it, Sammy,” Franklin said.

“But he is,” Sammy insisted.

With another wary glance at Thomas, Franklin said, “Yes, fine, he is. He’s acting as though he isn’t.”

“Like playing make-believe?”

“I suppose,” Franklin answered.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. And it isn’t really any of our business,” Franklin added.

He’d gotten that much right, at least. Thomas decided he’d repeat the point himself if Sammy asked any more questions, but he didn’t. As soon as he’d finished eating, Thomas disappeared outside to smoke. In spite of the growing autumnal chill, he stayed there until one of the Guides came and told him his lordship had gone up.

After helping him into his pyjamas and seeing him off to bed, Thomas lingered for a few minutes, tidying up the dressing room. His bed was still there, in the corner, just stripped of the bedding. He tried to avoid looking at it; every time his eye fell on it, he felt a pang of some emotion he didn’t know how to name.

The tidying up didn’t take long. When there was very clearly nothing left to do in there, he made a pass through the sitting room, straightening the sofa cushions and arranging the magazines more neatly in the rack. His lordship had been restless.

He almost went into the bathroom to make sure everything was ready for his lordship’s morning bath-but he’d checked that already, when he unpacked the shaving things. Going in there would mean admitting he was looking for excuses not to leave. Excuses not to go and sleep in his own bedroom, three floors away, the way he’d wanted. And he couldn’t have that, so he went.

In the privacy of room sixteen, Thomas began turning over the events of the day in his mind. It was a bit funny how, moments after hearing that Mr. Weatherby understood his decision, he’d begin to second-guess himself. Was he really that bloody-minded, that any time someone agreed with him, his first impulse was to turn and run in the other direction?

Perhaps he was. After all, he’d been crying his eyes out over the idea that his lordship didn’t care about him, right up to the moment when he started resenting him for caring too much. Was he never satisfied?

Well, that right there was a reason he wasn’t cut out to be a Guide-all the ones at Bellerock were so even-tempered it was frightening. They couldn’t like what he was doing, insisting he was a valet and not a Guide. His lordship wasn’t being looked after the way they’d like to see him looked after, and it was disruptive to the household, besides. Not to mention that they were probably as mystified by his reasons as Sammy was. But no one had argued with him about it. It was like they just…took whatever came, without being bothered by it. He couldn’t manage that.

Not that that was the main thing, though. It was the nosiness he couldn’t stand. He thought about Mr. Weatherby saying that he thought Thomas being “lavender” might make it easier for him to adjust. That showed what he knew-if acting on your feelings could get you arrested, naturally you wouldn’t want anybody knowing about them.

Of course, those particular feelings weren’t a problem for Guides. But still. They couldn’t expect him to overturn a lifetime of caution just because some nosy bastard held his hand and said he was a Guide.

That hadn’t been what Weatherby had meant, though. A normal bloke would have balked long before the nosiness started-if not at the hand-holding, then at the cuddling. He hadn’t minded those.

Hell, he’d liked those. As long as his lordship wasn’t asking questions. And until he’d realized he was already hip-deep in a…he avoided the word as long as he could, but eventually had to face it. In a relationship he’d never agreed to. Until he’d realized that, he hadn’t minded the cuddling, or the meals, or the walks. Hell, if he was being honest with himself-and if he wasn’t going to be, what was the bloody point?-he’d liked those things more than he hadn’t.

A long time ago, the Duke had told him about a pair of Uranians (as they called themselves) he’d met at a party, who had set up housekeeping together, just like a real couple. Thomas had thought it sounded quite nice, had even wondered if His Grace was on the verge of suggesting something similar. Until, that is, the Duke had started asking a series of mocking rhetorical questions about their domestic arrangements-which one stayed in the dining room for port and cigars while the other withdrew to the drawing room, to begin with, and then on to bawdier questions.

Thomas had quickly fallen into line with an agreement that the arrangement was laughable. So he hadn’t always been quite so contrary.

He’d never given serious thought, after the Duke, to the idea of having a life with another man. It just wasn’t how things were. Not unless you were rich and artistic, and didn’t care who laughed at you. Otherwise, you got brief, erotic fumblings in semi-public places with men you’d never see again. You got chaste, one-sided yearnings for normal blokes who thought you were normal too. He’d thought the matter with Jimmy was the latter; when he’d realized he was about to be sacked, he’d taken a chance on turning it into the former. He’d never have dared to dream that they could-what, run away together and live in a cottage, like Anna and Bates?

Just thinking about it, he could hear His Grace’s mocking laughter in the back of his head. And, he realized, feeling a bit sick, it had been that same remembered laughter that had set him off in that second-to-last conversation with his lordship. That had sent him from quiet resentment of the nosiness and the prying into headlong, panicked flight.

The nosiness was a problem. But it was a problem that there were other ways to get ‘round. And that his lordship hadn’t asked was a real problem, too. But there were solutions to that, too. Like Mr. Weatherby had talked about that afternoon-they could have given him a chance to decide.

But even if they had, he would still have ended up where he was, saying he wasn’t a Guide, would never be a Guide, and he’d only stay if his lordship promised to leave him alone forever. Because being a Guide meant that it was all right for his lordship to care about him. To, maybe, eventually, love him. And the mere thought that another man might love him made Thomas Barrow run for the hills.

Perhaps he had more in common with Jimmy than either of them thought.

#

“Is your leg bothering you, my lord?”

“What? Oh. No.” They were in the waiting room at the prosthetic limb clinic. Gerald had been absent-mindedly pressing his hand into his stump-it was aching a bit, off and on. Just since they’d been in London. But it wasn’t anything he wanted to trouble Barrow about.

Yesterday, they’d gotten Ace’s “formalities” out of the way in the morning, and then had gone back to ignoring each other, as they usually did these days. Barrow seemed a bit troubled and sad-but it was, Gerald reminded himself, none of his business. The leg had started aching around mid-afternoon, and a couple of whiskies before bed hadn’t done much to quiet it.

“Perhaps you should mention it to the doctor, my lord.”

Gerald was a little surprised at the concern-but perhaps he was speaking as medical orderly Barrow, who would have a slightly different range of duties than valet Barrow. “I have. Before. There’s not much they can do-psychological, they say. It’s the part that isn’t there anymore that hurts.”

“Yes, my lord,” Barrow said, with a tiny hint of irritation. “A lot of men who’ve lost limbs have that. I thought they might have learned something new about it since last time.”

“Perhaps they have,” Gerald said. “I’ll ask.”

When they went into the consulting room, and the doctor asked if he’d had any trouble with the re-fitted prosthesis. “No, it’s been quite comfortable. I’ve been walking on it a great deal. The weight can be tiring, but otherwise it’s all right.”

“Good,” the doctor said, still examining the stump. “The new one will be lighter; that should help.”

“Yes,” Gerald said. “But I’ve had a slight recurrence of the phantom limb pain.” That was what one of the doctors he’d seen had called it; he liked that term better than “hysterical pain.” “Just recently.”

The doctor didn’t even look up from his stump. “Have you been under any particular stress lately?”

Gerald very carefully didn’t look at Barrow. “Oh, well. Travelling, I suppose.”

“Well, everything looks fine here. If there’s no physical cause for the pain, there isn’t much we can do. You’re welcome to consult a psychiatrist.”

“No, that’s quite all right,” Gerald said.

A nurse brought in the new prosthesis, and the specialist showed him, and Barrow, how to put it on, since the harness was a bit different from the other one. Then he spent some time walking round the consulting room and up and down the corridors, getting used to the much lighter weight and slightly greater flexibility. Barrow hovered at his elbow, occasionally steadying him when he lost his balance. Gerald guiltily enjoyed having him be so attentive, even if it was in a purely medical sort of way.

Once the doctor agreed he was ready to tackle the pavement without falling on his face, he asked if Gerald wanted to take the old leg with him. He was about to say no, but before he could, Barrow said, “Yes, I’ll take charge of it, thank you.”

“What for?” Gerald asked.

“In case the new one breaks, or it turns out not to fit properly after all, my lord,” he explained.

Thank goodness he had someone sensible with him; Gerald would never have thought of that. “Ah. Quite right.”

They probably looked a bit ridiculous returning to the Society. The hospital had supplied a bit of paper to wrap the leg in, but it still looked like precisely what it was. He heard more than one passer-by say, in tones too low for anyone but a Sentinel to hear, “Is that a leg?” Fortunately, Barrow managed to fit it into the trunk for the train journey, so he was spared making even more of a spectacle of himself.

Gerald had decided that he wasn’t too tired to go back that afternoon, but the train was delayed, and by the time they reached Bellerock it was late and he was exhausted. He’d thought to just go straight to bed, but it turned out that Mrs. Pirbright had left something in the warming oven for him-some sort of casserole, a bit homelier than she usually made for the family, but easy to keep hot, he supposed. Once he started eating, he realized he was ravenous and scraped the dish clean.

Just as he finished, Barrow came in, Gerald’s dressing gown over his arm. “Would you like something else, my lord?” he asked, taking away the empty plate.

“No, that was just enough. Thank Mrs. Pirbright for me, please.”

“Yes, my lord. Would you like a bath?”

Earlier, he’d have said he was too tired, but the simple supper had revitalized him. And he did hate to wake up grubby. “Yes, I think I will.”

Barrow, he noticed, stayed busy in the bedroom and dressing room while he splashed about. Usually, in the mornings, he found some excuse to disappear until it was time to help Gerald out of the bath. But this time he stayed close.

It didn’t mean anything, of course, except perhaps that Barrow had noticed what the doctor had said about stress, and thought he might be the cause of it. The thought was confirmed when, after he was dried and dressed in his pyjamas, Barrow said, “My lord? I wondered if it would help, with your leg, if I slept down here. Once in a while, I mean. When it’s hurting you.”

“I don’t know if it would, but it’s kind of you to suggest,” Gerald said. Very kind, but he wouldn’t ask it of him unless it was really necessary. “Perhaps we could try, if it hasn’t got better in a day or two. I think perhaps it may just have stiffened up because I’ve spent too much time sitting down, these last couple of days.” That explanation made no sense at all-it could hardly have stiffened up since it wasn’t there-but at least that way it wasn’t Barrow’s fault. “So we’ll see. Thank you.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Going into his bedroom, Gerald saw that the bed had been turned down and the pillows fluffed, things Barrow didn’t usually do. He’d have been glad of it, if he didn’t think Barrow had only done it because he felt guilty.

#

The next evening, his lordship pronounced that his leg was right as rain, so there would be no need for Thomas to sleep in the dressing room. Thomas told himself that was a good thing-his lordship was clearly better; he’d been eating well since last night’s supper, and hadn’t been hitting his whiskey decanter any harder than usual. And he hadn’t wanted to sleep in the dressing room anyway-it was only that if his lordship was in pain, and that would help, then he should.

Except, he barely admitted to himself, some part of him had hoped that his lordship would say yes, and then he’d sleep there once in a while, until once in a while turned into more often than not, and eventually they’d end up more or less back where they’d been, without either of them-particularly Thomas-ever having to say anything about it.

Because, while he hated having decisions made for him, it turned out he wasn’t too keen on making them himself, either. Especially when doing so meant he had to risk looking like even more of a fool by climbing down off his high horse.

For the next week or so, his thoughts kept returning to the question of whether it might, perhaps, someday, be worthwhile to reconsider possibly being his lordship’s Guide again. Sometimes, he remembered all of the good reasons he’d had for making his decision, and felt firmly convinced that he had done the right thing. Other times he wondered if there might be some way to make being a Guide work. Were the nosy questions really essential? Could he have the rest of it, but have his lordship mind his own business? On that question, too, he went back and forth.

In the second week after their return from London, he realized abruptly that it wasn’t entirely up to him. Some chances didn’t come round again-in fact, in Thomas’s life, they almost never did. His lordship might not even want him back as his Guide. If Thomas did decide to think about whether he might want to give it another try, that is.

Deciding to feel him out on the subject, Thomas formulated, and rejected, a dozen clever and not-so-clever plans for raising the subject without really raising it. He never found one that he liked, but one evening, after undressing his lordship for bed, he felt that he simply had to know. As his lordship turned to go into his bedroom, Thomas blurted out, “I’ve missed you. My lord.”

His lordship stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t speak, or even look back at Thomas.

That answered that all right. Thomas turned to go, out the other door.

Before he reached it, his lordship said, “I’ve missed you too. Thomas.”

He fled.

#

It was all Gerald could do not to run after Thomas-Barrow-to ask him what he’d meant. The fact that he’d already taken his leg off for the night helped. Practiced as he was on the crutches, any man with two sound legs could have outpaced him easily.

That thought slowed him down enough to realize that pursuit would be precisely the wrong thing to do. Even if Thomas’s declaration was a sign that he might want things to change, again, between them, pushing him too hard or too fast would only send him into retreat again.

The next morning, Barrow was back, efficient and professionally distant. Gerald managed not to ask him any questions then, either. But when he went down to breakfast, and it was just him and Clement again, the dam broke. He relayed the conversation, finishing, “What do you suppose he meant?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t say,” Clement answered.

“He hasn’t…I suppose he hasn’t said anything to you.”

“No, your lordship,” he said, with a faint hint of rebuke.

Yes, that was one of the things Thomas had hurled at him, that day a little over a month ago: that he’d spread Thomas’s personal affairs all over the house. “Right. I…suppose I ought to just carry on as we have been, and see what happens next.”

“That does seem the wisest course, your lordship.”

After breakfast, Gerald went to the library and tried to read, but his thoughts kept turning to what he might say to Thomas, to encourage this new development without scaring him off. Even though he’d already decided to say nothing, and agreed with Clement that it was best, he kept searching for another way. Knowing that if he did think up the perfect thing to say, it would be even harder not to say it, he decided to try a stronger method of distraction.

Collecting his coat and hat, he wandered towards the stables to visit Clint. Gerald was unlikely to be tempted to discuss Thomas with him, and even if he did fall to temptation, Clint would promptly forget the conversation, since Thomas was not a horse.

He found Clint standing in one corner of a back paddock, while a wild-eyed bay horse trotted in frantic circles, occasionally throwing a buck. The horse seemed nearly oblivious to Clint’s presence, except for a slight increase in its anxiety each time its flight brought it close to him. Clint didn’t seem to be doing anything at all; he just stood there and watched.

Gerald took up a position not far from Clint, leaning against the fence. The horse didn’t seem to particularly care, so he hoped he wasn’t interrupting…whatever it was Clint was doing. After several minutes, the horse slowed to a walk, blowing through its nostrils. Finally it stopped, at the farthest point of the pen from Clint. Warily, it lowered its head to lip tentatively at the dry autumn grass.

He thought that Clint might go over to it then-he had a headcollar and rope over his shoulder, so it seemed that perhaps he’d want to put them on the horse at some point-but instead he backed over to where Gerald was, still keeping an eye on the horse. “Your lordship. Did you want to ride?”

“No, no, I’ll ride later, as usual.” It ought to have been plain he wasn’t here to ride, since not only was he not dressed for it, but he had his prosthetic leg on. They’d learned quickly that the horses didn’t much care for having it banging against their ribs; he always came down on his crutches when he wanted to ride. But he wasn’t terribly surprised that Clint hadn’t noticed-Gerald was not a horse, either. “I’m just out for a walk.”

Clint nodded. “New ‘orse,” he said. “Picked ‘im up at the sale while you were in London.”

“Ah. Who’s he for?”

“Don’t know yet. Got ‘im for next to nothing because he’s five years old and never been handled. Threw a real fit in the sale pen. Nice mover, though. Could make a hunter. Just look at the slope on his shoulder.”

“Oh, yes,” Gerald said, although he couldn’t really see what Clint was talking about-he rarely did, when grooms started talking about sloping shoulders and deep heartgirths and so on. “What, ah, what are you doing? Don’t let me interrupt, if you’re busy,” he added hastily.

Clint shook his head. “No, it’s fine, your lordship. I’m just getting him used to me being here, that’s all. He’s a clever one-see how he’s watching us?”

Now that Clint mentioned it, Gerald could see how the horse’s near-side eye was focused on them, even as the animal seemed to be ignoring them.

“Our colts, born on the farm I mean, we handle them from the day they’re born, so they know they can trust us. This fellow was reared on pasture with a lot of other unhandled colts. He’s seen ‘umans before, but the only times ‘e’s been close is when they weaned him, gelded him, and took him to the sale. Doesn’t quite know what to make of us. But look.”

The horse had turned its body toward them, still cropping grass. It took one step toward them, then another.

“Oh, good show,” Gerald said. “What’ll you do now?”

“Just keep waiting. Don’t make any sudden movements, your lordship, if you don’t mind. It’ll just scare him off. We’ve got to let him make up his own mind he wants to see what we’re all about.”

It took nearly an hour for the bay colt to make his way across the small paddock, sometimes approaching, sometimes backing away. Clint just stood there, keeping one eye on the horse while talking quietly to Gerald. When the horse finally neared, he reached slowly into the pocket of his jacket and took out a handful of corn, scattering it on the ground near the horse. The movement caused the horse to dance back a few steps, blowing anxiously, but when he lowered his head to the grass again and found one of the morsels of corn, he began seeking them out. Clint repeated the process three more times, each time scattering the grain a little closer to himself. By the second time, the horse was close enough that a quick movement could have caught him, but Clint made no move to touch him.

Now the horse was snuffling at the toes of Clint’s boots, looking for more tidbits. Still, Clint didn’t reach toward him. Instead, he took more feed from his pocket-and even that motion caused the horse to raise his head and back away. This time, though, Clint didn’t scatter the grain. He held it out in the palm of his hand, turning sideways to the horse and watching him through the corner of his eye.

The horse craned its neck toward the feed, keeping his feet firmly planted. Eventually, he seemed to realize that his neck would not grow any longer, no matter how hard he tried, and took a cautious step toward Clint. Then another, and another. Finally, his muzzle was within reach of Clint’s hand, and he lipped up the corn.

As soon as he’d done so, he promptly wheeled and cantered for the far side of the paddock.

There was something very familiar about it, and it dawned on Gerald that, perhaps, they had been having a conversation about Thomas after all. Given time to make up its own mind, the horse had approached, but then fled, as if frightened by its own daring.

For a few moments, Clint watched the horse settle in at the far end of the paddock; then he climbed over the fence, dusting his hands off against his breeches, saying, “That’s enough of that, for one day.”

“You’ll…do the same thing again tomorrow?”

“And the day after, and the day after that,” Clint agreed cheerfully. “Things’ll move a bit faster once I get him to accept the headcollar, but it’s no use rushing this first bit. ‘e’s a clever one; he’ll decide soon enough that life’s more interesting once he gets to know me.”

#

For the next few day, Thomas waited in dread for his lordship to-as he’d put it, months ago-‘pounce’ on him, demanding to know what Thomas had meant, if he was changing his mind, if he’d cuddle, or eat with him, or-anything. But as the days passed, and he didn’t, Thomas relaxed enough to take a measured look at the situation.

After examining the thing from all angles, he decided that his lordship was willing to let him back in, if he wanted. But it would be up to him to make the next step-fair enough, Thomas supposed, given the tantrum he’d thrown, even if he didn’t like it much.

The trouble was, he didn’t know what the next step would be. Wasn’t even completely sure that he wanted to make it. There were still things about being a Guide that he didn’t understand, and wasn’t sure he could handle. Not yet, and perhaps not ever. Did he have to trust his lordship with everything? Could he have some private thoughts? He thought that it was likely that he could, but he didn’t know.

If he did become his lordship’s Guide again, he’d have to ease into it. Somehow. He didn’t know what that would look like. Susan’s “courtship” with Miss Imogene had taken place over the course of two weekend visits, but they’d been on quite intimate terms from the start. The other personal Guides had reminisced a bit, in the course of giving her advice, sometimes in Thomas’s presence. He had an idea that the pace of things varied a bit-sometimes the pair took longer than that to make up their minds.

Comparing his situation to Susan’s reminded him of what his lordship had said, about what would have happened if he’d been on the estate from the beginning. He’d have gone to Mr. Clement, and if he wasn’t ready, Mr. Clement would have come up with a plan to get him ready. So: he wasn’t ready, he knew that. He didn’t entirely know how he wasn’t ready-but apparently, he had a right to help sorting it all out.

Could it really be that easy?

After thinking the matter over for a few more days, Thomas picked his moment and went to Mr. Clement’s pantry, after tea and before he’d need to begin getting ready for the dinner service. Mr. Clement was going over the wine ledger when he entered, but put it aside. “Mr. Barrow-please, sit, if you like.”

Thomas sat. “If we…talk about something, can you keep it to yourself?”

“Keep it from Lord Gerald, do you mean?”

“Well, yes. Mostly him. But everyone else, too. For now.”

“Yes, I can. For now.”

That was the best he was likely to get. “A while ago, before we came here, his lordship told me about…what would ordinarily happen, if someone wanted a different position in the house. He said that I’d-that they’d start by coming to you.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Mr. Clement said cautiously.

“And that if they weren’t…ready for it, you’d…help. With training and so on.”

“Yes,” Mr. Clement said.

“So, all right. My question is, if I wanted to be his lordship’s Guide again, what would I have to do? Because I’m not…I know I’m not ready for it.”

“I see,” Mr. Clement said. And, after a long pause, he said, “I see,” again. Finally, he rallied himself, sat up straighter, and said, “Why do you want to?”

Thomas stood up, before he’d even realized he was doing it. “This was a bad idea. I’m sorry for bothering you, Mr. Clement.” He turned to go.

“Wait, Thomas-Mr. Barrow, please.”

He waited, but he didn’t sit down again.

“I always start with that question, when someone comes to me with a request like yours,” he explained. “Being a personal Guide is, as you’ve noticed, an unusually complex position.”

Thomas sat down again.

“It can look very different, from the outside, to how it really is. And not everyone is suited for that kind of life. So I like to start by finding out why the young person wishes to pursue it. If, for instance, the person has been pushed into it by a parent, as sometimes happens.”

“My parents don’t even know I’m here, so I don’t think that’s the case with me,” Thomas snapped.

“No,” Mr. Clement said. “No. But it’s still an important question. You aren’t ready; you’re right about that, and your response to the question gives me some idea of where to start. You see.” He leaned forward. “His lordship understands that he was…overbearing, earlier, and that his demands were excessive. But Sentinels do need a certain amount of…openness, with their Guides. Intimacy. Not necessarily physically-although that is often a part of it-but mentally. Emotionally. They’re very aware of how we’re feeling, and if what we say and do doesn’t match what their senses tell them, they get…frantic.”

Thomas hadn’t really thought of it that way-he’d been so occupied with feeling invaded that he didn’t think about what it was like from the other side. “I’m not…not very comfortable with that,” he said, and even that statement left him feeling raw and naked.

“I know you aren’t. I think it likely that we can find some middle ground between your natural reserve and his lordship’s…concern, but it will require considerable effort on your part. His lordship can tell when you aren’t comfortable, but if you are unable to tell him why or to give any indication of what you want, the chances for successful compromise are slim.”

Thomas nodded. It would have been nice if they could just fall into some unspoken and easy understanding-but that wasn’t very realistic. Still, the prospect was daunting-it seemed as if Mr. Clement was saying that the only way to avoid the long, personal conversations that he disliked so much was to have more of them.

His suspicions were confirmed when Mr. Clement went on, “In short, to be successful as a personal Guide, you must learn to cope with questions like the one I just asked without lying, resorting to sarcasm, or running away.”

For a moment, Thomas was genuinely unsure what was left, after those options were eliminated. “Oh.”

“Yes. So, I suggest you think about that question-why you might want to be his lordship’s Guide-and when you’re prepared to talk about it, we’ll move on from there. If you’d like to keep talking now, I have a bit more time, but I rather expect you’ll want to think it over by yourself first.”

“Yes,” he said, profoundly unsettled. He stood again. “Yes, I do. Thank you, Mr. Clement.”

“Mr. Barrow,” Clement said with a nod.

He took himself out.

#

Trying to emulate Clint’s patience with the half-wild horse, Gerald waited for Thomas to approach again. It was very difficult to tell if anything was happening. He still saw Barrow several times a day, but he couldn’t say for certain if the times he thought Thomas might be peeking out were real, or merely wishful thinking. For instance, every once in a while he skirted the boundaries of what he’d declared were acceptable subjects of conversation between the two of them.

“It’ll soon be too cold to ride much, won’t it, my lord?” he asked one day as he was helping Gerald out of his riding things.

That clearly fell under the headings of The Weather and Gerald’s plans that involved changing clothes. But when he said, “It should be all right for a bit yet-it’s when the ground freezes that’s a real problem,” Barrow went on,

“Ah. That’s nice. It seems to be doing you a bit of good, my lord. All the riding, I mean.”

And that was very nearly almost personal, wasn’t it? “Yes, I think it has,” he replied carefully.

Too, Barrow started lingering a bit. In the first weeks after his declaration that he was to be only a valet, he’d done as much of his work as possible when Gerald was out of his rooms-he’d return and notice that Barrow had tidied up, or had brought down some clothing from the cedar rooms in the attic, or something of the kind, but he scarcely ever saw or heard him do it. Now, he often heard him bustling about in the next room-in the dressing room while he was in the bedroom, or in the bedroom while he was in the bath. Occasionally he’d even come into the bedroom while Gerald was there, on some minor errand that he likely could have put off until Gerald was absent. Gerald thought of the horse, moving gradually toward them as it grazed, never giving any sign that it was approaching on purpose, except for that one watching eye.

Clint was making faster progress than he was. Gerald had learned that he usually worked with the new horse at about the same time of the morning, and often planned his walks to coincide. Clint never commented on it, but would explain what he was doing, always keeping half his attention on the horse.

Before long, the horse was trotting over at the first sight of Clint, nuzzling his pockets for apples or corn, and even after devouring the treats, the horse would stay, with no headcollar or rope on him, while Clint stroked its neck and shoulders, moving gradually toward the more vulnerable areas of the face, belly, and flanks. Clint always carried the headcollar and rope, and once the horse accepted the touch of his hands, began touching him with the rope as well, always slowly and patiently, a little at a time. Sometimes he led the horse about, still with no rope-he’d walk across the paddock, and the horse would follow.

To Gerald’s surprise, the horse came to accept him, too. It would come over to the fence to look at him and sniff him, eventually putting its head over the fence for a pat. Once, he arrived at the paddock before Clint, and the horse came over to the fence just the same.

When Clint did arrive, though, he didn’t seem the least bit surprised. He just said, to the horse, “Ah, I see you’ve made friends with his lordship, then. Good lad.”

“I don’t know how,” Gerald said. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You’ve been here; that’s enough,” Clint answered as he climbed over the fence.

As he settled in to watch-Clint was working on getting the horse to accept having its feet handled-Gerald became aware of another wary presence. Barrow-or perhaps Thomas-was nearby. Gerald did notice him, from time to time, between their regular meetings in the dressing room, but usually Thomas was in a hurry, either to get away or on some errand of his own. Now he was waiting-or staying, at least-out of sight, but in range of Gerald’s smell and hearing. Smoking, from the sound of it-he heard the rasp of the lighter, followed by long, measured breathing.

Gerald wondered if it was time to start throwing corn.

#

Naturally, Thomas spent the first few days after his meeting with Mr. Clement trying to come up with some suitable, undetectable lie to present as the reason he wanted to be his lordship’s Guide. He knew even as he did so that it was ridiculous and self-defeating, but he couldn’t help himself. He likely would have tried it, too, if he had been able to figure out what sort of answer would pass muster with Mr. Clement.

Eventually, though-after exhausting all other possible options-he settled down to really think about the question. What really drew him, he realized, was the same thing that repelled him-the idea of intimacy, closeness. Trusting and being trusted. He’d wanted those things, before he learned to fear them.

He feared them because every time he’d tried-the Duke, Courtenay, Jimmy; even O’Brien, in a different way-he’d been betrayed in one way or another. Courtenay hadn’t meant his suicide as a betrayal, Thomas knew, but it felt like one just the same. He was-perhaps, possibly-willing to take that risk again for the same reasons anyone did. He didn’t know how to name them, except to say, hope.

As for his lordship in particular…it wasn’t just that he was there and willing to have him, although that did play a part. If he’d been as thoughtlessly cruel as the Duke, Thomas would have wanted-he hoped he would have wanted-to keep things just the way they were. His lordship was kind-kind enough, perhaps, to make up for Thomas’s own glaring deficiencies in that area. Everything he’d done towards Thomas was kindly meant, and while it was a bit too much at times-a lot of times-it was unfair to fault a man for trying. He wasn’t used to kindness, but he liked the idea of getting used to it.

And he needed Thomas, too, much the way Courtenay had. Except this time, Thomas was in a position to really help him-and his lordship was strong enough, steady enough, to withstand a bit of bumbling on Thomas’s part. He wondered if, perhaps, somewhere in the back of his mind he’d worried that if he took on the task of being his lordship’s Guide and failed, it would end in another bloody suicide. These last couple of months proved otherwise. If his lordship could keep going after Thomas had pushed him away so completely, he was likely to survive any smaller mistakes Thomas might make.

Beyond that, Thomas just liked him. He was clearly intelligent and well-educated, but didn’t talk down to you like some did, or pretend to know things he didn’t. In the brief time when Thomas had been asking him questions left and right, he’d tried to answer them all, and had thought about them, but there were times he’d admitted that he just didn’t know. And he’d asked Thomas questions, too-not-personal ones-and had seemed to regard the answers as something more than a way to show Thomas how wrong he was. And it wasn’t an act, either. Thomas observed him a bit-not sneakily, really, but just…so he’d know. His lordship liked talking to people, and often asked them about their jobs, as he had when they’d toured the estate just after his lordship came back. Part of that likely had to do with the fact that his lordship would be running the place one day, but also, he seemed to just enjoy learning new things.

He spent far more time than he had to with that stable boy, for instance. Part of that was likely boredom and loneliness-he seemed to have given up on finding another Guide-but he also seemed to have limitless patience for what to Thomas would have been the mind-bogglingly tedious practice of watching someone else break a horse. His lordship wasn’t likely to take up horse training himself-not with his leg the way it was, and he’d told Thomas once, before, that he hadn’t been much of a horseman himself. But he seemed to get something out of watching. Part of that was likely his obsessive caring-for Clint, and possibly even for the horse as well. But even the caring was a good thing, as long as it wasn’t aimed exclusively at him.

In a way, Thomas realized, his lordship was quite a bit like Lady Sybil-for whom, if she’d been the right sex for him, he could have given Branson a run for his money. Even with him being as he was, if things had turned out differently, he could have seen himself being devoted to her the way Carson was to Lady Mary. Brave, intelligent, and kind. He’d often thought kindness a bit insipid-something weak people used because they knew they wouldn’t get their own way anyway-but his lordship and Lady Sybil showed it didn’t have to be.

So he had an answer. It had taken him two weeks, which he suspected was a bit more of a delay than his lordship would be able to endure without fussing, and he still quailed at the thought of actually discussing it out loud. But it was a start.

Link to Chapter Eleven