Passion & Profession: Chapter 10
In which the Rev. St. John learns 'tis as joyful to Give as to Receive, imparts Unexpected Information over an Egg, receives an Unwelcome Missive and, having put his Hand to the Plough, looks Back.
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St. John emerged slowly from sleep, his mind clumsily working through why he had awoken so early. No dawn light crept in through the window; he was not overly warm or cool; he did not feel any pressure to void. Cpt. Aquilaine and he were not tangled in some sleepy embrace, for although they preferred to fall asleep with their bodies pressed together they rarely found themselves in that position come morning. This provoked good-natured grumbling from the Captain, no matter how many times St. John explained that he simply could not maintain that contact whilst they slumbered, on account of how much warmth radiated out from the larger man's body. That explanation often led to another discussion, one centred around how foul-tempered men of the cloth tended to be before their first pot of tea.
As he lay quietly, still puzzling over what had roused him-for he felt certain he had not woken of his own accord-St. John noticed an odd sort of quaking sensation, as if a heavily-laden cart had rolled past the window. Just as he was rejecting this idea on the grounds that he was on the first floor, he felt the shaking again, and this time it came accompanied by a single muffled gasp. Suddenly suspicious, he turned over to the Captain.
“Marcus, are you awake?” The quaking froze. “Is that you shifting around?” He was surrounded by silence. And then-
“I did not intend to wake you! I am quite sorry.”
“But what are you about?”
After a moment, Cpt. Aquilaine whispered into the darkness, “What do you think I am about, St. John?”
Chagrin twisted in the Reverend's stomach. “My pardon for interrupting!” He fell silent before stammering out, “But why? You could have told me if you felt needful; I would have agreed to it. Is there … not enough for you? Or is it too poorly accomplished? I know am still learning.”
“I have never yet complained as to the quality or quantity of your affections, St. John.”
“True, but now you are resorting to such baser actions!”
The Captain gave a grunt of annoyance. “Must everything be base until it has met with your approval? I already have nearly all I desire-” here he shifted to kiss St. John on the shoulder “-and what few things I have not yet received will no doubt come with time and circumstance. It is true that there are various … practices that would be most welcome, but I am not expecting them yet.”
St. John pushed himself into a sitting position. “I hope I have made it clear that I refuse to engage in certain activities; is that what you are after? Do not attempt them in the hopes that I will simply yield.”
“O ye of little faith! Do you really worry that if you let down your guard, then-when you are unsuspecting-I will leap on your back and bugger you?”
“No! It is hardly … well, yes, in a way. If pressed, I will admit to worrying. Not about you-” he hastened to reassure, as the Captain began to protest, “-I merely worry about the inequity of our situation. You are a far more worldly man than I, and you have worldly expectations and preferences. This is all so new to me that I am made content by joy even in the simplest of forms. Please do not make me spell it out further, Marcus.”
Cpt. Aquilaine, now also sitting, put an arm around his shoulders. “No, you are quite clear, so let me be also. You share my bed, every night. For that I am content.”
“But not satisfied.”
“A terrible injustice! Are you concerned enough that you would take steps to remedy this travesty?” he teased.
St. John turned his head away in embarrassment and steadied himself. “Yes, as I am able, although I may not do things very well.”
“You are serious!” The Captain sounded genuinely taken aback. “I should not have made fun; I did not realise you meant it.”
“I do, and I shall try, if the notion pleases you.”
Cpt. Aquilaine took up St. John's earlobe between his lips and tugged gently, sending a shiver of heat down the Reverend's spine. “You are so good to me I almost hate to ask-almost! But since you have offered … Consider how fine it is to have a friend do some simple thing for you. Even my morning toast is more delightful when you butter it whilst I am straining our tea.” He took up St. John's hand and set it gently between his legs, where his arousal lay, warm and half-full. “Do I make myself plain?”
They settled back down under the sheets and St. John took up his task, in equal parts ashamed that he even now felt twinges of disgust whilst touching his friend, and that he had never yet attempted this most basic of gestures. At first he felt uncertain of how to proceed, and simply encircled the flesh loosely with his hand, sliding the sheath up and down on its shaft. This did not seem to produce anything tangible in the way of results but he did not want to move quicker or clench his fist too tightly, certain that he would give pain by doing so. Thus he continued with an increasing sense of foreboding, not wanting to proceed or stop-both would be an admittance of sorts that he knew his ministrations were failing. But when his forearm had begun to ache, and he thought it might be best to simply accept defeat and creep away, Cpt. Aquilaine unexpectedly gave a contended moan and shifted his thighs apart as he grew very stiff. Astonishment surged through St. John's veins.
He is enjoying this after all … I am not unskilled! And what I am doing gives him delight, a delight solely because of me and my actions. Better still, I could move slowly, or swiftly, and I would be determining his response. I am pleasing him. And his pleasure is dependent upon mine.
O, that transfixes me quite strangely.
The darkness of the room hid how greatly his own need increased in response to the discovery. But he did not flinch from this new knowledge; rather, he grew curious to learn Cpt. Aquilaine's opinion on the matter. As a Godly heart proves its worth through tests and trials, so must any new idea be challenged and put to the fire, in order that the dross be separated from the gold. Thus St. John decided to do the needful and educate himself; he paused, all movement halted except for his thumb, which continued to rub the sheath almost imperceptibly over the little slit on the shaft's very tip.
Cpt. Aquilaine made a strangled noise and thrust his hips up, pushing into St. John's palm; in response, St. John snatched his hand away entirely.
“Ahhh-what are you doing? You have stopped!”
“It does not seem to be working as such, so I thought oil might improve matters?” St. John tried to purge the satisfied smirk from his voice.
“I assure you, you were making great progress. Pray continue,” he groaned, fretful.
“And I shall, presently. But first a little oil … have patience, Marcus. You have not been abandoned.”
St. John dripped a few fat drops onto his palm and a few more onto the Captain's shaft, causing his friend to grunt in frustration. Next he began to trail his now-slippery fingers from tip to stem, working oil over the head and peeling the sheath back as he went. Immediately Cpt. Aquilaine grew even harder, his hips beginning to shift up and down for want of further stimulation. St. John gripped him but lightly in return, sliding his hand in a too-measured fashion until he heard pleas for more friction, more speed, and felt the first beads of hot seed leak out. Not wishing to be cruel, and struggling to focus over his own mounting need, he pressed forward with the task. Almost too soon, as he stripped the Captain back with firm, quick strokes, Cpt. Aquilaine went rigid and arched his back, thighs shaking as he spilt out with a great and wordless cry. St. John also froze, suddenly filled with uncertainty.
When his friend began to catch his breath and recover himself, he whispered, “Marcus, are you well? Was I too vigorous?”
“No-no-hardly. Wait, though,” he gasped, “now I am … overthrown.”
“Most excellent.” St. John tone was tinged by a hint of awe. “When you have quite recovered yourself I, too, have a task that needs attention.”
When he next woke St. John lay in the crook of the Captain's arm, cheek pressed to shoulder and one hand resting on his broad chest as it rose and fell. He felt shy about his recent accomplishment, but marvelled yet again at how even this simplest of intimacies, skin against skin, settled him more than an entire evening's worth of prayer and scriptural meditation.
Truly, I do not even need to touch him. His very scent calms my heart.
He watched silently as Cpt. Aquilaine also slowly roused himself for the day. As always, his first action was to pull St. John closer and kiss him sleepily. Then he yawned, stretched, and enquired “Today is Friday, is it not?”
“It is. Are you going to ring for breakfast?”
“Of course! Every opportunity I can get.” On Friday mornings the club would bring breakfast up on a tray if requested; Cpt. Aquilaine had a standing order to do so. In the past month he had modified that order somewhat, and now the footman brought eggs, toast, tea and rashers for two instead of one. St. John was still deeply grateful for the discretion of the servants, who never criticised any behaviour other than scratching the lacquered dinner table. And if any of the Club's other inhabitants noticed their relations, they gave no indication of it by word or deed; many of them, being ex-military or ex-navy, believed firmly in the importance of overlooking the proclivities of others. The Reverend himself had learnt how to achieve this during his voyage on Albert of Wales: when physical privacy is not possible, give emotional privacy instead. Thus if he encountered sailors mourning some secret loss, or engaging in strictly-forbidden intimacies, his preferred course of action whilst on board was to simply walk past the scene and allow the other persons to make mention of it (or ignore the entire thing) on their own time. The Club's fellow residents apparently followed a similar strategy even on land.
A quarter of an hour later they sat to table en déshabillé, happily guzzling tea and tapping at soft-boiled eggs. When St. John reached for the pepper, Cpt. Aquilaine grasped his arm and gave him a wicked look.
“You have more skill than you give yourself credit for, you know.”
St. John blushed and rapped the Captain's knuckles with his spoon. “Stop that. You made your opinions on the matter quite clear already, and now I am trying to eat my egg.”
Cpt. Aquilaine laughed. “I did not realise your egg was of such critical importance to the morning.”
“Empires have crumpled for want of an egg. I am certain that was Napoleon's weakness.”
“Indeed? An egg brought down the great general? And here I always thought it was his invasion of Moscow during winter-time. Or Waterloo.” At this St. John joined him in laughter, and it was some moments before they could again be serious enough to focus on the critical task of eating.
“You do not laugh often enough. Truly, it transforms you.” Cpt. Aquilaine pulled softly at St. John's side-whiskers. St. John just batted his hand away.
“Marcus, you are being quite overly-affectionate this morning.”
“Need you ask me why? Be warned … I shall tell you if you ask.”
For the second time in as many minutes St. John blushed. “Thank you, but my egg is now going cold, and we must talk about other things. I hardly care what, just so it is something else.”
“Then you are going to hear military talk.” But the Reverend merely shrugged, and so the Captain chatted on, not discussing anything of significance, sharing gossip about other officers, the latest theories of uniform design and the relative merits and faults of the Sepoys. St. John nodded along, listening with half an ear, until the topic of the Afghanistan campaign came up.
“There are rumours of a transition in leadership, which could mean tremendous changes or nothing at all, but naturally everyone is trying to learn whatsoever they can and the top ranks are absolutely closed up. Supposedly Sir Willoughby Cotton will step down and turn matters over to a subordinate. Of course all are aflutter to see who shall take over the campaign, hoping it will be their own commanding officer, which would give them a shot at promotion themselves. Since more high officers have been bringing their wives and families to Kabul as of late-God only knows why, as the place is both wretched and dull-every pair of eyes in looking to spot visiting generals and family and so on-”
“Like Lord Elphinstone?”
Cpt. Aquilaine stopped mid-sentence and gave St. John a queer look. “Yes, I suppose so, but he is not in Calcutta. He remains in Benares, overseeing the fort and tending pigeons.”
“He was here as of three weeks ago, according to his grand-niece. She had just arrived from London, and said he was going to take her for a tour of the site where he would found a new Masonic Temple.”
“How would you know that? You did not tell me this.” He stared as if the Reverend had suddenly declared an interest in naval armaments.
St. John swallowed a mouthful of toast and tea. “She stopped me and asked for directions one Sunday as I was on my way to church. I did not mention it because I did not think anything of it.”
“That is interesting, to be sure. I had not heard he was in town at all. It could not be him in charge of the campaign-he is old and feeble-but perhaps it will be one of his under-generals or secretaries. How odd! And here over breakfast you have imparted to me more information than any of my august colleagues. You have so many uses indeed.”
For the third time that morning, St. John flushed red.
After the Captain had collected his cane and made his way off to another day of demonstrating pull-ups, marching formation and fencing to his recruits, St. John settled in for a morning of reviewing Hindustani, French, geometry, and the history of Britain, all in anticipation of his future tutoring. After lunch he grew restless, bored by the studies and increasingly frustrated with his predicament. As he had no especial interest in tiring his mind with what he had already worried over a dozen times that morning, he decided it was time to take the airs.
He rambled on for nearly an hour, enjoying the sights and sounds, trying not to think of how in a short month he would leave it all behind for Hill Tippera and Prince Krishna. When the rains began to fall yet again (he was quickly learning the art of determining when it was safe to go outside and how long he could linger there) he was only a few hundred yards from the Club. As St. John swept back in through the door, brushing drops of rain off his hat, the footman bowed deep and handed him a letter on a small silver plate. He was ashamed at how high his heart leapt to see the local postal marks-this was sent but yesterday; who lives that close except the Bishop? perhaps he has written to tell me I have been found unsuitable for the position-but then sank low at the unfamiliar seal. He nodded to the footman and retreated to his room, opening the envelope with trembling fingers.
30th of July, 1840, from the desk of Col. Fitzpatrick, Bt., Esq.
To the Reverend St. John Rivers,
Greetings! Please forgive the impropriety of this letter, written to one I know but in passing. I merely wish to send my felicitations to the man who has made my dear friend Marcus Aquilaine so happy. I retain so many fond memories from our various times together, both at Cambridge and in Calcutta when he first arrived in India. Have you yet had occasion to attend the symphony or accompany him on his Thursday mornings? I remember how he would arrive after work with orchestra passes, saying he had received them from a fellow officer or similar nonsense. Such transparent plays for my affection never deceived, not for a moment. As for Thursdays, I am a firm believer in discretion, and will only say: semper sub rosa! I do so miss his earnest nature and firm belief that there must never be any secret between two men so engaged in brotherly companionship. My best wishes to you both.
Most sincerely, Col. Fitzpatrick
St. John dropped the letter and stared aghast, as if it were a glowing hot coal fallen unexpectedly onto his hand. He did not know whether to hold the paper over the nearest flame or march over to Cpt. Aquilaine and demand, once and for all, an explanation of his past activities. How foolish he had been in so many things, to think the attentions paid to him were singular or heartfelt. How crass the Captain seemed now in light of his many dalliances. And how stupidly St. John had assumed, upon enquiring that day at the park as to the Captain's sad condition, that he had heard the truth!
After a full ten minutes of pacing the very small sitting room, alternating between picking up the letter in a fury and throwing it down in disgust, St. John forced himself into a calmer mode of being.
This missive comes from the odious Col. Fitzpatrick, who owns slaves and beats women and takes advantage of the most tender vulnerabilities of good-hearted men. I cannot trust a single word of what he says. He has obviously written an epistle deliberately calculated to inflict the cruellest sort of damage on me and Cpt. Aquilaine, all because he could not have what he wanted. I must not pay it any more heed than I would the ramblings of a madman at Bedlam, claiming to be King Harold.
But it does confirm that something happens on Thursdays, something of such significance and regularity that even Col. Fitzpatrick is aware of it. Damn-damn-damn.
By evening St. John had worked himself into a terrible state of anxiety; he was still of two minds whether to destroy the letter and force it from his mind or shout down the Captain in a fury until he had surrendered all of what he kept hidden. As he sat and stared at his desk, hands clenched into shaking fists, his ears stayed alert for the sounds of the familiar limp over the other noises in the hall. It came promptly at half past five, as always. St. John set aside his books, washed his face and changed his shirt, but then grew so agitated that he could not decide whether to stand or sit, whether to stay in his room or charge down the corridor and demand an explanation. He forced himself to sit, tapping his feet and fidgeting in his chair, his nightly need increasing along with his foreboding and adding to his overall discomfort.
Eventually the longcase clock struck six. He determined not to go to the Captain; the Captain would come to him. So he waited further, reciting scripture and poetry, trying to settle his mind, but all he could think of that calmed him was his friend's broad shoulders and gentle hands, and how dark his fingers looked against St. John's pale thighs. This did not sooth his thoughts or his need. He forced his attentions back to Greek, conjugating -μι verbs until he cursed the Athenians for their stubborn insistence on archaisms. When he had run through as much Homer as he could recall, mostly about γλαυκώπις Αθηνά, he turned to Latin. Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris … time slid past as he lost himself in the hexameters of Virgil. When he next heard the clock strike it was seven in the evening, far later than he had anticipated.
A great fear pierced his heart. Without pausing to think on what he was doing St. John hastened down the hall and began knocking at the Captain's door, ignoring the looks of fellow-residents. Something has happened. Marcus has taken ill. He has been seized by some horrible fit. His leg has given out, he has fallen, and he cannot reach the servant-bell. O God, he is laying there on the floor and wondering where I have gone and why I have abandoned him. No one answered at the door and he pounded louder, calling “Marcus, Marcus are you in there? Are you well?” as he did. He received no reply.
St. John began to wonder if he should alert a footman, or summon Sanyal and demand a spare key to the room. In desperation he twisted the door-knob, and the door swung open! He muttered a prayer of gratitude and peeked into the sitting room, frightened that he would find the Captain fallen on his own knife in a pool of bloody gore, or dead of apoplexy, or some such melodramatic nonsense. But the room was empty. He crept in, shutting the door behind him and calling out softly, “Marcus, it is I, St. John. Is anything the matter? Are you ill?”
Finally he heard noise from the bedroom; the sounds of sniffling, and hiccoughed breathing as if someone had been weeping but now made attempt to stop. His fears increased: loss of employment, death of a friend, tragic news from home.
“I am going to come in,” he warned, wishing to give his friend time to compose himself. When he did not hear assent, he entered anyway.
There, in the dark, Cpt. Aquilaine lay on his back atop the coverlet, one arm flung over his face in an attempt to hide his appearance. St. John glanced around the small room, noting the red coat and cane discarded into a corner, the half-drunk glass of water, and a neglected snifter of brandy on the side-table next to crumpled paper. He picked it up, dreading a black riband or seal; instead he saw a familiar-looking cream envelope and an unmistakable hand.
Of course … Col. Fitzpatrick would never have simply written a spiteful letter to me. He would relish the opportunity to spread misery as far as he could manage.
“Ah. I see the Colonel has written you.” he said heavily. “Now I think I know your unhappiness, but may I read it anyway?”
Cpt. Aquilaine's response was muffled by his arm and by a hoarseness in his throat indicative of someone who had been mourning bitterly. “By all means. It does not matter now.”
St. John picked up the paper as if it were a spitting cobra and smoothed it out, none too carefully.
My dearest Marcus,
After much consideration, I regret to inform that I could not recommend your case to my cousin the Governor-General. Cavalry-men must not only be of sound body, but also of good character and breeding. Whilst your many charms have quite entertained me in the past, in all three of these most important areas I am afraid you fall rather short of the mark. Please do not think this reflects poorly on yourself as a person; you have many fine qualities to offer, but they are-let us be clear and open amongst ourselves-the sort of qualities a cavalry officer should take enjoyment from, not possess himself. As much as it pains me, noblesse oblige demands that I do my duty to Crown and Country.
With fondest recollections,
Colonel Fitzpatrick, Bt, Esq.
Such a letter was not to be lightly set aside. He knew he should have been furious, raging at Col. Fitzpatrick for his brutality, for taking so much from those who already had so little, but he was not. What he felt instead was sorrow, sorrow at the sad state of the fallen world and the miseries of its inhabitants. How hard it was to long for happiness in any form, to have it so consistently denied and to be compelled to struggle every hour of every day, hoping upon desperate hope for joys in heaven to repay the woes found on earth! Cpt. Aquilaine had known the Colonel's character; he must have been prepared for such a possible outcome. Yet he had made the attempt nevertheless.
I do not think I realised, until this very moment, what an act of courage it is to be cheerful in the face of a pitiless world. My response has always been to avoid whatever joys I can, in the fear that they may be taken back from me. Marcus chooses to face life with enthusiasm and hope; this is the consequence. I am certain he has chosen the harder, and braver path.
In silence, he took off his boots and cast aside his frock-coat. Thus lightly clad, he climbed up onto the bed and sat, cross-legged, carefully easing his friend's head onto his lap. For some minutes St. John remained there, motionless except for his hands, which he slowly combed through the Captain's hair whilst the Captain fought back his emotions. He could not think of any words to say, and he had no good counsel or advice to give. What could give consolation to a man who has just had his last desperate attempt at happiness swept out from under him, catching him so by surprise that he is utterly defeated?
When Cpt. Aquilaine grew quieter and less agitated, St. John dipped the corner of his handkerchief into the glass of water. Remembering his own recent afternoon of tears, he began to wipe Cpt. Aquilaine's cheeks clean. He cooled sticky red eyes, brushed hair off a forehead damp with sweat and salt, smoothed away the furrows in the brow, and finished his ministrations by placing a single kiss on the small widow's peak.
Finally he felt the time was appropriate to speak his piece. “I am so sorry, Marcus. You have tried your best, and it has come to naught; there is nothing I can say or do to ease that.”
Cpt. Aquilaine shook his head slowly. His voice was clumsy and thick. “No, do not think that. I know this must sound foolish, but I cannot be grateful enough that you are here. That letter is a true indictment of my character, and yet you have still come. Thank you.”
“That letter is nothing but nonsense and cruelty, and I will not let it distract from my duty to you. Moreover I am glad to be of help; it is hard seeing you this heartsick.”
“Still, few men would do their duty so willingly, especially to one lacking in honour as I am.”
St. John sighed in frustration. “But you know I care nothing for honour, not as the world defines it. I do not understand how can it mean so much to you, when you have so many good qualities … ”
“None of them mean anything if there is not honour to be their foundation! It means holding your head up in society and being unashamed of your character and your family name. Without honour I can never be a true officer or gentleman, because who will respect my orders if they do not respect me?”
“So you will not set aside your passion, even now?” He wiped away more tears as he spoke.
“How could I, St. John? If honour were an object, some prized token captured by savages, I would travel beyond the boundaries of the known world and take on a thousand single-handed, trying to reclaim it. I would do anything to have it; I would give my life for it. As a boy, all I dreamt about was making Uncle Harold proud of me. How I wished to move past my family's legacy of shame, and prove to him (and myself) that I was of a better character than my father or grandfather! When I came to India I had every intention of winning such glory and renown that no Englishman who learnt of my family would dare mock me. I dreamt of sending home such riches that my uncle could regain what had been lost due to my father's immoderation. And I would finally have honour, true honour, honour that I knew was rightfully mine and not some sham of respectability that came only from a changed name and a hushed-up history. But now I am doomed to waste my life sitting around the Club, honourless and soft, whilst the silky-arsed sons of noble lords, who can hardly piss standing upright, divide all the spoils of India amongst themselves.” He paused and viciously rubbed at his eyes. Then he continued, in a softer voice,
“Forgive my hot tongue. I should not speak so crudely, especially not to you, St. John.” He reached up and took the Reverend by the hand, then lapsed once more into silence. When he finally spoke again he had grown calmer.
“Not everything in my life is sad, however. In the first, there is your presence here. You have such a compassionate heart, but you do not allow it to rule you; such strength of will that you are not blown about by the winds of fortune as I am. You have already taught me so much, in such a short time!”
St. John almost laughed, so startled was he to see his many faults put into a positive light. “No, Marcus, you must not say such kind things to me. You cannot know the magnitude of my sins. I am timid, fearful and stingy with my affections. You have always been courageous and strong, in your own way; I can see that now. I am hardly worthy of you.”
“You are hardly worthy of me? I am a ruined soldier, a natural son, a lapsed Christian and a cripple. I am credulous, weak-willed, have not even the ability to fulfil my most basic duties. All I ever truly wanted in life was to be a better man than my father … and how dismally I failed! You would not even stay in this room if you knew the whole of my crimes.” His eyes filled once more.
St. John cupped his friend's face in his hands. “Hush, Marcus. You will make yourself ill. Be easy.”
“How can I? When you do not know … I will tell you. Yes, I will tell you, and then we will see just how well you think of me.”
A wave of panic swept through St. John. If the Captain began to speak of his hidden sins then conscience would compel him to reveal his own intentions to leave. He feared the mortal consequences of revealing his plans, given his friend's already fragile state. “No, do not make yourself worse! This is neither the time nor the place for such confessions. They mean nothing to me; they will not change the high regard in which I hold you. If you want to admit anything, begin by explaining how you can possibly think so well of me, for I do not understand it at all.”
The silence in the room grew long, very long indeed, broken only by the Captain's heavy breathing and occasional sniff. When finally he responded, he looked away to the far wall of the bedroom. “St. John, despite knowing your flaws, does not God Himself love you?”
“He does.”
“I … I too know your flaws.”
The Captain did not speak another word; there was no need. The enormity of what was left unsaid swept through St. John like the monsoon. He bent over and kissed Cpt. Aquilaine once more on the brow, and Cpt. Aquilaine squeezed his hand until it hurt. When he straightened he continued to gaze at his friend's face, reddened and swollen, noting how despite his unfortunate appearance the Captain did not turn away, as if he felt no discomfort in exposing his true self and not only the more flattering parts of his nature. St. John's heart began to crack.
He has made his feelings clear at last, and I think I have known them for some time. But this I do not know: how long now have I loved him in return?
He thought back to the night of the symphony, to the way he had offered himself over to Cpt. Aquilaine with fear and trembling, trusting only in the goodness of his heart that he could not be unkind-and how he was repaid for that trust! Back further, to the Fitzpatrick estate and the luncheon by the lake, the heartbreak of the safari expedition … he could see now how in all those circumstances he had already felt love, although he had not the ability to recognise it as such. Even their very first meeting, when the Captain saved him from the crowd of beggar children, with his cheerful mien and white flashing grin, had it begun that very day?
All this time I had assumed I was still in love with Jane, poor Jane Eyre who saw through me so easily, because she matched so well with all the qualities I thought would make for a happy and harmonious marriage. Her quiet spirit, good education, modest demeanour and feminine nature … And yet she and I were as oil and water. Here I am with the Captain, who possesses none of those qualities, but already we form such a fine partnership of mind and body. That which I had with Jane was mere infatuation, a fascination with the idea of love, but not possessing any of its nature or reality. This is the truth.
God forgive me, I shall not go to the Prince.
Cpt. Aquilaine broke into his thoughts. “Will you stay the night? Although I am afraid I will not be good company.”
“That is not important.” St. John realised that under the right sort of circumstances, setting his need aside proved quite an easy thing. His greatest wish, at the moment, was merely to give the Captain what sympathy he could offer. “But if I order up any food, would you take some? Otherwise you will be completely famished by morning.”
“If you think it necessary, then of course.”
St. John carefully shifted away and swung his legs onto the floor, stretching out the cramped muscles. “Then I shall be back presently, and we will eat a little cold supper. After that we can talk, or smoke, or sleep, whatever you prefer, and I shall stay.”
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notes:
en déshabillé - partially or carelessly dressed.
Sir Willoughby Cotton - After the Army of the Indus installed Shuja Shah on the throne in Kabul, all but 8,000 of them returned to India. The Afghanis deeply resented the British interference, and it quickly became apparent that the new Emir (who was both cruel and vindictive towards his enemies) could only rule if backed by greater numbers of foreign soldiers. But the British did not want to live in Kabul, any more than the Afghan natives wanted them to, and so Cotton and Macnaghten encouraged soldiers to relocate their families to Afghanistan. Unsurprisingly, this only upset the Afghanis even further. Sensing an opportunity, Dost Mohammad attempted to attack Kabul, was captured, surrendered, and was exiled to India. His son Akbar Khan took up the cause and began to wage guerrilla warfare.
Despite the many difficulties they faced, the British troops began to enjoy themselves heartily, drinking copiously and harassing the local women. The British government in India paid large bribes to the surrounding tribes, which helped keep the peace, and began to look for a replacement for Sir Willoughby.
Benares - Varanasi.
local postal marks - Various principalities and states within the subcontinent of India had postal services of a type (usually messengers on foot or by horse) long before the EIC arrived. The British made improvements to existing systems when they first arrived, but in 1837 passed the Post Office Act stating that only the Governor-General had the right to authorise a paid postal system within EIC territory. The service was open to everyone and relatively reliable; even more remarkable, the British developed an express mail route that cut across the isthmus of Suez (which would become the Suez Canal in 1869). The distance the letter had to travel was reduced from 16,000 miles sailing around the Cape of Good Hope, to only 6,000 miles steaming through the Red Sea, and travel time dropped from 90 days to 40. Everyone marvelled at the swiftness with which information could now speed its way across the globe.
Col. Fitzpatrick, Bt., Esq - “Bt.” indicates that the Colonel was also a Baronet.
semper sub rosa - always/ever confidentially.
-μι verbs - a particular category of verbs in the Athenian dialect of Ancient Greek. -μι verbs are extremely archaic (they are found in the reconstructed proto-Indo-European language), extremely irregular, and only tangentially follow the conjugation patterns of normal Greek verbs. Naturally, because they are so archaic, and so difficult to form, they also comprise many of the most common and necessary words in Athenian (to be, to give, to say, to know, to see). -μι verbs are the bane of the Greek student's existence.
γλαυκώπις Αθηνά - glaukopis Athena. In Homer's Odyssey, the Greek goddess Athena was given the epithet glaukopis, “grey-eyed”. Interestingly, the Greek for grey, “γλαύκος”, is closely related to the Greek for owl, “γλαύξ”, possibly because owls have such distinctive eyes. Athena, considered the wisest of the goddesses (and the gods, frankly), was also often represented by an owl; the earliest coins of her patron city, Athens, have an owl stamped into them.
Arma virumque cano - These are the opening lines to Virgil's Aeneid: “I sing of arms and a man, who first came from the shores of Troy.”
supper - Traditionally, in many parts of England, the three daily meals are named breakfast, luncheon, and dinner, for the morning, noon, and evening meals respectively. Supper is a light snack or small meal before retiring to bed, if one is feeling peckish.
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St. John emerged slowly from sleep, his mind clumsily working through why he had awoken so early. No dawn light crept in through the window; he was not overly warm or cool; he did not feel any pressure to void. Cpt. Aquilaine and he were not tangled in some sleepy embrace, for although they preferred to fall asleep with their bodies pressed together they rarely found themselves in that position come morning. This provoked good-natured grumbling from the Captain, no matter how many times St. John explained that he simply could not maintain that contact whilst they slumbered, on account of how much warmth radiated out from the larger man's body. That explanation often led to another discussion, one centred around how foul-tempered men of the cloth tended to be before their first pot of tea.
As he lay quietly, still puzzling over what had roused him-for he felt certain he had not woken of his own accord-St. John noticed an odd sort of quaking sensation, as if a heavily-laden cart had rolled past the window. Just as he was rejecting this idea on the grounds that he was on the first floor, he felt the shaking again, and this time it came accompanied by a single muffled gasp. Suddenly suspicious, he turned over to the Captain.
“Marcus, are you awake?” The quaking froze. “Is that you shifting around?” He was surrounded by silence. And then-
“I did not intend to wake you! I am quite sorry.”
“But what are you about?”
After a moment, Cpt. Aquilaine whispered into the darkness, “What do you think I am about, St. John?”
Chagrin twisted in the Reverend's stomach. “My pardon for interrupting!” He fell silent before stammering out, “But why? You could have told me if you felt needful; I would have agreed to it. Is there … not enough for you? Or is it too poorly accomplished? I know am still learning.”
“I have never yet complained as to the quality or quantity of your affections, St. John.”
“True, but now you are resorting to such baser actions!”
The Captain gave a grunt of annoyance. “Must everything be base until it has met with your approval? I already have nearly all I desire-” here he shifted to kiss St. John on the shoulder “-and what few things I have not yet received will no doubt come with time and circumstance. It is true that there are various … practices that would be most welcome, but I am not expecting them yet.”
St. John pushed himself into a sitting position. “I hope I have made it clear that I refuse to engage in certain activities; is that what you are after? Do not attempt them in the hopes that I will simply yield.”
“O ye of little faith! Do you really worry that if you let down your guard, then-when you are unsuspecting-I will leap on your back and bugger you?”
“No! It is hardly … well, yes, in a way. If pressed, I will admit to worrying. Not about you-” he hastened to reassure, as the Captain began to protest, “-I merely worry about the inequity of our situation. You are a far more worldly man than I, and you have worldly expectations and preferences. This is all so new to me that I am made content by joy even in the simplest of forms. Please do not make me spell it out further, Marcus.”
Cpt. Aquilaine, now also sitting, put an arm around his shoulders. “No, you are quite clear, so let me be also. You share my bed, every night. For that I am content.”
“But not satisfied.”
“A terrible injustice! Are you concerned enough that you would take steps to remedy this travesty?” he teased.
St. John turned his head away in embarrassment and steadied himself. “Yes, as I am able, although I may not do things very well.”
“You are serious!” The Captain sounded genuinely taken aback. “I should not have made fun; I did not realise you meant it.”
“I do, and I shall try, if the notion pleases you.”
Cpt. Aquilaine took up St. John's earlobe between his lips and tugged gently, sending a shiver of heat down the Reverend's spine. “You are so good to me I almost hate to ask-almost! But since you have offered … Consider how fine it is to have a friend do some simple thing for you. Even my morning toast is more delightful when you butter it whilst I am straining our tea.” He took up St. John's hand and set it gently between his legs, where his arousal lay, warm and half-full. “Do I make myself plain?”
They settled back down under the sheets and St. John took up his task, in equal parts ashamed that he even now felt twinges of disgust whilst touching his friend, and that he had never yet attempted this most basic of gestures. At first he felt uncertain of how to proceed, and simply encircled the flesh loosely with his hand, sliding the sheath up and down on its shaft. This did not seem to produce anything tangible in the way of results but he did not want to move quicker or clench his fist too tightly, certain that he would give pain by doing so. Thus he continued with an increasing sense of foreboding, not wanting to proceed or stop-both would be an admittance of sorts that he knew his ministrations were failing. But when his forearm had begun to ache, and he thought it might be best to simply accept defeat and creep away, Cpt. Aquilaine unexpectedly gave a contended moan and shifted his thighs apart as he grew very stiff. Astonishment surged through St. John's veins.
He is enjoying this after all … I am not unskilled! And what I am doing gives him delight, a delight solely because of me and my actions. Better still, I could move slowly, or swiftly, and I would be determining his response. I am pleasing him. And his pleasure is dependent upon mine.
O, that transfixes me quite strangely.
The darkness of the room hid how greatly his own need increased in response to the discovery. But he did not flinch from this new knowledge; rather, he grew curious to learn Cpt. Aquilaine's opinion on the matter. As a Godly heart proves its worth through tests and trials, so must any new idea be challenged and put to the fire, in order that the dross be separated from the gold. Thus St. John decided to do the needful and educate himself; he paused, all movement halted except for his thumb, which continued to rub the sheath almost imperceptibly over the little slit on the shaft's very tip.
Cpt. Aquilaine made a strangled noise and thrust his hips up, pushing into St. John's palm; in response, St. John snatched his hand away entirely.
“Ahhh-what are you doing? You have stopped!”
“It does not seem to be working as such, so I thought oil might improve matters?” St. John tried to purge the satisfied smirk from his voice.
“I assure you, you were making great progress. Pray continue,” he groaned, fretful.
“And I shall, presently. But first a little oil … have patience, Marcus. You have not been abandoned.”
St. John dripped a few fat drops onto his palm and a few more onto the Captain's shaft, causing his friend to grunt in frustration. Next he began to trail his now-slippery fingers from tip to stem, working oil over the head and peeling the sheath back as he went. Immediately Cpt. Aquilaine grew even harder, his hips beginning to shift up and down for want of further stimulation. St. John gripped him but lightly in return, sliding his hand in a too-measured fashion until he heard pleas for more friction, more speed, and felt the first beads of hot seed leak out. Not wishing to be cruel, and struggling to focus over his own mounting need, he pressed forward with the task. Almost too soon, as he stripped the Captain back with firm, quick strokes, Cpt. Aquilaine went rigid and arched his back, thighs shaking as he spilt out with a great and wordless cry. St. John also froze, suddenly filled with uncertainty.
When his friend began to catch his breath and recover himself, he whispered, “Marcus, are you well? Was I too vigorous?”
“No-no-hardly. Wait, though,” he gasped, “now I am … overthrown.”
“Most excellent.” St. John tone was tinged by a hint of awe. “When you have quite recovered yourself I, too, have a task that needs attention.”
When he next woke St. John lay in the crook of the Captain's arm, cheek pressed to shoulder and one hand resting on his broad chest as it rose and fell. He felt shy about his recent accomplishment, but marvelled yet again at how even this simplest of intimacies, skin against skin, settled him more than an entire evening's worth of prayer and scriptural meditation.
Truly, I do not even need to touch him. His very scent calms my heart.
He watched silently as Cpt. Aquilaine also slowly roused himself for the day. As always, his first action was to pull St. John closer and kiss him sleepily. Then he yawned, stretched, and enquired “Today is Friday, is it not?”
“It is. Are you going to ring for breakfast?”
“Of course! Every opportunity I can get.” On Friday mornings the club would bring breakfast up on a tray if requested; Cpt. Aquilaine had a standing order to do so. In the past month he had modified that order somewhat, and now the footman brought eggs, toast, tea and rashers for two instead of one. St. John was still deeply grateful for the discretion of the servants, who never criticised any behaviour other than scratching the lacquered dinner table. And if any of the Club's other inhabitants noticed their relations, they gave no indication of it by word or deed; many of them, being ex-military or ex-navy, believed firmly in the importance of overlooking the proclivities of others. The Reverend himself had learnt how to achieve this during his voyage on Albert of Wales: when physical privacy is not possible, give emotional privacy instead. Thus if he encountered sailors mourning some secret loss, or engaging in strictly-forbidden intimacies, his preferred course of action whilst on board was to simply walk past the scene and allow the other persons to make mention of it (or ignore the entire thing) on their own time. The Club's fellow residents apparently followed a similar strategy even on land.
A quarter of an hour later they sat to table en déshabillé, happily guzzling tea and tapping at soft-boiled eggs. When St. John reached for the pepper, Cpt. Aquilaine grasped his arm and gave him a wicked look.
“You have more skill than you give yourself credit for, you know.”
St. John blushed and rapped the Captain's knuckles with his spoon. “Stop that. You made your opinions on the matter quite clear already, and now I am trying to eat my egg.”
Cpt. Aquilaine laughed. “I did not realise your egg was of such critical importance to the morning.”
“Empires have crumpled for want of an egg. I am certain that was Napoleon's weakness.”
“Indeed? An egg brought down the great general? And here I always thought it was his invasion of Moscow during winter-time. Or Waterloo.” At this St. John joined him in laughter, and it was some moments before they could again be serious enough to focus on the critical task of eating.
“You do not laugh often enough. Truly, it transforms you.” Cpt. Aquilaine pulled softly at St. John's side-whiskers. St. John just batted his hand away.
“Marcus, you are being quite overly-affectionate this morning.”
“Need you ask me why? Be warned … I shall tell you if you ask.”
For the second time in as many minutes St. John blushed. “Thank you, but my egg is now going cold, and we must talk about other things. I hardly care what, just so it is something else.”
“Then you are going to hear military talk.” But the Reverend merely shrugged, and so the Captain chatted on, not discussing anything of significance, sharing gossip about other officers, the latest theories of uniform design and the relative merits and faults of the Sepoys. St. John nodded along, listening with half an ear, until the topic of the Afghanistan campaign came up.
“There are rumours of a transition in leadership, which could mean tremendous changes or nothing at all, but naturally everyone is trying to learn whatsoever they can and the top ranks are absolutely closed up. Supposedly Sir Willoughby Cotton will step down and turn matters over to a subordinate. Of course all are aflutter to see who shall take over the campaign, hoping it will be their own commanding officer, which would give them a shot at promotion themselves. Since more high officers have been bringing their wives and families to Kabul as of late-God only knows why, as the place is both wretched and dull-every pair of eyes in looking to spot visiting generals and family and so on-”
“Like Lord Elphinstone?”
Cpt. Aquilaine stopped mid-sentence and gave St. John a queer look. “Yes, I suppose so, but he is not in Calcutta. He remains in Benares, overseeing the fort and tending pigeons.”
“He was here as of three weeks ago, according to his grand-niece. She had just arrived from London, and said he was going to take her for a tour of the site where he would found a new Masonic Temple.”
“How would you know that? You did not tell me this.” He stared as if the Reverend had suddenly declared an interest in naval armaments.
St. John swallowed a mouthful of toast and tea. “She stopped me and asked for directions one Sunday as I was on my way to church. I did not mention it because I did not think anything of it.”
“That is interesting, to be sure. I had not heard he was in town at all. It could not be him in charge of the campaign-he is old and feeble-but perhaps it will be one of his under-generals or secretaries. How odd! And here over breakfast you have imparted to me more information than any of my august colleagues. You have so many uses indeed.”
For the third time that morning, St. John flushed red.
After the Captain had collected his cane and made his way off to another day of demonstrating pull-ups, marching formation and fencing to his recruits, St. John settled in for a morning of reviewing Hindustani, French, geometry, and the history of Britain, all in anticipation of his future tutoring. After lunch he grew restless, bored by the studies and increasingly frustrated with his predicament. As he had no especial interest in tiring his mind with what he had already worried over a dozen times that morning, he decided it was time to take the airs.
He rambled on for nearly an hour, enjoying the sights and sounds, trying not to think of how in a short month he would leave it all behind for Hill Tippera and Prince Krishna. When the rains began to fall yet again (he was quickly learning the art of determining when it was safe to go outside and how long he could linger there) he was only a few hundred yards from the Club. As St. John swept back in through the door, brushing drops of rain off his hat, the footman bowed deep and handed him a letter on a small silver plate. He was ashamed at how high his heart leapt to see the local postal marks-this was sent but yesterday; who lives that close except the Bishop? perhaps he has written to tell me I have been found unsuitable for the position-but then sank low at the unfamiliar seal. He nodded to the footman and retreated to his room, opening the envelope with trembling fingers.
30th of July, 1840, from the desk of Col. Fitzpatrick, Bt., Esq.
To the Reverend St. John Rivers,
Greetings! Please forgive the impropriety of this letter, written to one I know but in passing. I merely wish to send my felicitations to the man who has made my dear friend Marcus Aquilaine so happy. I retain so many fond memories from our various times together, both at Cambridge and in Calcutta when he first arrived in India. Have you yet had occasion to attend the symphony or accompany him on his Thursday mornings? I remember how he would arrive after work with orchestra passes, saying he had received them from a fellow officer or similar nonsense. Such transparent plays for my affection never deceived, not for a moment. As for Thursdays, I am a firm believer in discretion, and will only say: semper sub rosa! I do so miss his earnest nature and firm belief that there must never be any secret between two men so engaged in brotherly companionship. My best wishes to you both.
Most sincerely, Col. Fitzpatrick
St. John dropped the letter and stared aghast, as if it were a glowing hot coal fallen unexpectedly onto his hand. He did not know whether to hold the paper over the nearest flame or march over to Cpt. Aquilaine and demand, once and for all, an explanation of his past activities. How foolish he had been in so many things, to think the attentions paid to him were singular or heartfelt. How crass the Captain seemed now in light of his many dalliances. And how stupidly St. John had assumed, upon enquiring that day at the park as to the Captain's sad condition, that he had heard the truth!
After a full ten minutes of pacing the very small sitting room, alternating between picking up the letter in a fury and throwing it down in disgust, St. John forced himself into a calmer mode of being.
This missive comes from the odious Col. Fitzpatrick, who owns slaves and beats women and takes advantage of the most tender vulnerabilities of good-hearted men. I cannot trust a single word of what he says. He has obviously written an epistle deliberately calculated to inflict the cruellest sort of damage on me and Cpt. Aquilaine, all because he could not have what he wanted. I must not pay it any more heed than I would the ramblings of a madman at Bedlam, claiming to be King Harold.
But it does confirm that something happens on Thursdays, something of such significance and regularity that even Col. Fitzpatrick is aware of it. Damn-damn-damn.
By evening St. John had worked himself into a terrible state of anxiety; he was still of two minds whether to destroy the letter and force it from his mind or shout down the Captain in a fury until he had surrendered all of what he kept hidden. As he sat and stared at his desk, hands clenched into shaking fists, his ears stayed alert for the sounds of the familiar limp over the other noises in the hall. It came promptly at half past five, as always. St. John set aside his books, washed his face and changed his shirt, but then grew so agitated that he could not decide whether to stand or sit, whether to stay in his room or charge down the corridor and demand an explanation. He forced himself to sit, tapping his feet and fidgeting in his chair, his nightly need increasing along with his foreboding and adding to his overall discomfort.
Eventually the longcase clock struck six. He determined not to go to the Captain; the Captain would come to him. So he waited further, reciting scripture and poetry, trying to settle his mind, but all he could think of that calmed him was his friend's broad shoulders and gentle hands, and how dark his fingers looked against St. John's pale thighs. This did not sooth his thoughts or his need. He forced his attentions back to Greek, conjugating -μι verbs until he cursed the Athenians for their stubborn insistence on archaisms. When he had run through as much Homer as he could recall, mostly about γλαυκώπις Αθηνά, he turned to Latin. Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris … time slid past as he lost himself in the hexameters of Virgil. When he next heard the clock strike it was seven in the evening, far later than he had anticipated.
A great fear pierced his heart. Without pausing to think on what he was doing St. John hastened down the hall and began knocking at the Captain's door, ignoring the looks of fellow-residents. Something has happened. Marcus has taken ill. He has been seized by some horrible fit. His leg has given out, he has fallen, and he cannot reach the servant-bell. O God, he is laying there on the floor and wondering where I have gone and why I have abandoned him. No one answered at the door and he pounded louder, calling “Marcus, Marcus are you in there? Are you well?” as he did. He received no reply.
St. John began to wonder if he should alert a footman, or summon Sanyal and demand a spare key to the room. In desperation he twisted the door-knob, and the door swung open! He muttered a prayer of gratitude and peeked into the sitting room, frightened that he would find the Captain fallen on his own knife in a pool of bloody gore, or dead of apoplexy, or some such melodramatic nonsense. But the room was empty. He crept in, shutting the door behind him and calling out softly, “Marcus, it is I, St. John. Is anything the matter? Are you ill?”
Finally he heard noise from the bedroom; the sounds of sniffling, and hiccoughed breathing as if someone had been weeping but now made attempt to stop. His fears increased: loss of employment, death of a friend, tragic news from home.
“I am going to come in,” he warned, wishing to give his friend time to compose himself. When he did not hear assent, he entered anyway.
There, in the dark, Cpt. Aquilaine lay on his back atop the coverlet, one arm flung over his face in an attempt to hide his appearance. St. John glanced around the small room, noting the red coat and cane discarded into a corner, the half-drunk glass of water, and a neglected snifter of brandy on the side-table next to crumpled paper. He picked it up, dreading a black riband or seal; instead he saw a familiar-looking cream envelope and an unmistakable hand.
Of course … Col. Fitzpatrick would never have simply written a spiteful letter to me. He would relish the opportunity to spread misery as far as he could manage.
“Ah. I see the Colonel has written you.” he said heavily. “Now I think I know your unhappiness, but may I read it anyway?”
Cpt. Aquilaine's response was muffled by his arm and by a hoarseness in his throat indicative of someone who had been mourning bitterly. “By all means. It does not matter now.”
St. John picked up the paper as if it were a spitting cobra and smoothed it out, none too carefully.
My dearest Marcus,
After much consideration, I regret to inform that I could not recommend your case to my cousin the Governor-General. Cavalry-men must not only be of sound body, but also of good character and breeding. Whilst your many charms have quite entertained me in the past, in all three of these most important areas I am afraid you fall rather short of the mark. Please do not think this reflects poorly on yourself as a person; you have many fine qualities to offer, but they are-let us be clear and open amongst ourselves-the sort of qualities a cavalry officer should take enjoyment from, not possess himself. As much as it pains me, noblesse oblige demands that I do my duty to Crown and Country.
With fondest recollections,
Colonel Fitzpatrick, Bt, Esq.
Such a letter was not to be lightly set aside. He knew he should have been furious, raging at Col. Fitzpatrick for his brutality, for taking so much from those who already had so little, but he was not. What he felt instead was sorrow, sorrow at the sad state of the fallen world and the miseries of its inhabitants. How hard it was to long for happiness in any form, to have it so consistently denied and to be compelled to struggle every hour of every day, hoping upon desperate hope for joys in heaven to repay the woes found on earth! Cpt. Aquilaine had known the Colonel's character; he must have been prepared for such a possible outcome. Yet he had made the attempt nevertheless.
I do not think I realised, until this very moment, what an act of courage it is to be cheerful in the face of a pitiless world. My response has always been to avoid whatever joys I can, in the fear that they may be taken back from me. Marcus chooses to face life with enthusiasm and hope; this is the consequence. I am certain he has chosen the harder, and braver path.
In silence, he took off his boots and cast aside his frock-coat. Thus lightly clad, he climbed up onto the bed and sat, cross-legged, carefully easing his friend's head onto his lap. For some minutes St. John remained there, motionless except for his hands, which he slowly combed through the Captain's hair whilst the Captain fought back his emotions. He could not think of any words to say, and he had no good counsel or advice to give. What could give consolation to a man who has just had his last desperate attempt at happiness swept out from under him, catching him so by surprise that he is utterly defeated?
When Cpt. Aquilaine grew quieter and less agitated, St. John dipped the corner of his handkerchief into the glass of water. Remembering his own recent afternoon of tears, he began to wipe Cpt. Aquilaine's cheeks clean. He cooled sticky red eyes, brushed hair off a forehead damp with sweat and salt, smoothed away the furrows in the brow, and finished his ministrations by placing a single kiss on the small widow's peak.
Finally he felt the time was appropriate to speak his piece. “I am so sorry, Marcus. You have tried your best, and it has come to naught; there is nothing I can say or do to ease that.”
Cpt. Aquilaine shook his head slowly. His voice was clumsy and thick. “No, do not think that. I know this must sound foolish, but I cannot be grateful enough that you are here. That letter is a true indictment of my character, and yet you have still come. Thank you.”
“That letter is nothing but nonsense and cruelty, and I will not let it distract from my duty to you. Moreover I am glad to be of help; it is hard seeing you this heartsick.”
“Still, few men would do their duty so willingly, especially to one lacking in honour as I am.”
St. John sighed in frustration. “But you know I care nothing for honour, not as the world defines it. I do not understand how can it mean so much to you, when you have so many good qualities … ”
“None of them mean anything if there is not honour to be their foundation! It means holding your head up in society and being unashamed of your character and your family name. Without honour I can never be a true officer or gentleman, because who will respect my orders if they do not respect me?”
“So you will not set aside your passion, even now?” He wiped away more tears as he spoke.
“How could I, St. John? If honour were an object, some prized token captured by savages, I would travel beyond the boundaries of the known world and take on a thousand single-handed, trying to reclaim it. I would do anything to have it; I would give my life for it. As a boy, all I dreamt about was making Uncle Harold proud of me. How I wished to move past my family's legacy of shame, and prove to him (and myself) that I was of a better character than my father or grandfather! When I came to India I had every intention of winning such glory and renown that no Englishman who learnt of my family would dare mock me. I dreamt of sending home such riches that my uncle could regain what had been lost due to my father's immoderation. And I would finally have honour, true honour, honour that I knew was rightfully mine and not some sham of respectability that came only from a changed name and a hushed-up history. But now I am doomed to waste my life sitting around the Club, honourless and soft, whilst the silky-arsed sons of noble lords, who can hardly piss standing upright, divide all the spoils of India amongst themselves.” He paused and viciously rubbed at his eyes. Then he continued, in a softer voice,
“Forgive my hot tongue. I should not speak so crudely, especially not to you, St. John.” He reached up and took the Reverend by the hand, then lapsed once more into silence. When he finally spoke again he had grown calmer.
“Not everything in my life is sad, however. In the first, there is your presence here. You have such a compassionate heart, but you do not allow it to rule you; such strength of will that you are not blown about by the winds of fortune as I am. You have already taught me so much, in such a short time!”
St. John almost laughed, so startled was he to see his many faults put into a positive light. “No, Marcus, you must not say such kind things to me. You cannot know the magnitude of my sins. I am timid, fearful and stingy with my affections. You have always been courageous and strong, in your own way; I can see that now. I am hardly worthy of you.”
“You are hardly worthy of me? I am a ruined soldier, a natural son, a lapsed Christian and a cripple. I am credulous, weak-willed, have not even the ability to fulfil my most basic duties. All I ever truly wanted in life was to be a better man than my father … and how dismally I failed! You would not even stay in this room if you knew the whole of my crimes.” His eyes filled once more.
St. John cupped his friend's face in his hands. “Hush, Marcus. You will make yourself ill. Be easy.”
“How can I? When you do not know … I will tell you. Yes, I will tell you, and then we will see just how well you think of me.”
A wave of panic swept through St. John. If the Captain began to speak of his hidden sins then conscience would compel him to reveal his own intentions to leave. He feared the mortal consequences of revealing his plans, given his friend's already fragile state. “No, do not make yourself worse! This is neither the time nor the place for such confessions. They mean nothing to me; they will not change the high regard in which I hold you. If you want to admit anything, begin by explaining how you can possibly think so well of me, for I do not understand it at all.”
The silence in the room grew long, very long indeed, broken only by the Captain's heavy breathing and occasional sniff. When finally he responded, he looked away to the far wall of the bedroom. “St. John, despite knowing your flaws, does not God Himself love you?”
“He does.”
“I … I too know your flaws.”
The Captain did not speak another word; there was no need. The enormity of what was left unsaid swept through St. John like the monsoon. He bent over and kissed Cpt. Aquilaine once more on the brow, and Cpt. Aquilaine squeezed his hand until it hurt. When he straightened he continued to gaze at his friend's face, reddened and swollen, noting how despite his unfortunate appearance the Captain did not turn away, as if he felt no discomfort in exposing his true self and not only the more flattering parts of his nature. St. John's heart began to crack.
He has made his feelings clear at last, and I think I have known them for some time. But this I do not know: how long now have I loved him in return?
He thought back to the night of the symphony, to the way he had offered himself over to Cpt. Aquilaine with fear and trembling, trusting only in the goodness of his heart that he could not be unkind-and how he was repaid for that trust! Back further, to the Fitzpatrick estate and the luncheon by the lake, the heartbreak of the safari expedition … he could see now how in all those circumstances he had already felt love, although he had not the ability to recognise it as such. Even their very first meeting, when the Captain saved him from the crowd of beggar children, with his cheerful mien and white flashing grin, had it begun that very day?
All this time I had assumed I was still in love with Jane, poor Jane Eyre who saw through me so easily, because she matched so well with all the qualities I thought would make for a happy and harmonious marriage. Her quiet spirit, good education, modest demeanour and feminine nature … And yet she and I were as oil and water. Here I am with the Captain, who possesses none of those qualities, but already we form such a fine partnership of mind and body. That which I had with Jane was mere infatuation, a fascination with the idea of love, but not possessing any of its nature or reality. This is the truth.
God forgive me, I shall not go to the Prince.
Cpt. Aquilaine broke into his thoughts. “Will you stay the night? Although I am afraid I will not be good company.”
“That is not important.” St. John realised that under the right sort of circumstances, setting his need aside proved quite an easy thing. His greatest wish, at the moment, was merely to give the Captain what sympathy he could offer. “But if I order up any food, would you take some? Otherwise you will be completely famished by morning.”
“If you think it necessary, then of course.”
St. John carefully shifted away and swung his legs onto the floor, stretching out the cramped muscles. “Then I shall be back presently, and we will eat a little cold supper. After that we can talk, or smoke, or sleep, whatever you prefer, and I shall stay.”
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notes:
en déshabillé - partially or carelessly dressed.
Sir Willoughby Cotton - After the Army of the Indus installed Shuja Shah on the throne in Kabul, all but 8,000 of them returned to India. The Afghanis deeply resented the British interference, and it quickly became apparent that the new Emir (who was both cruel and vindictive towards his enemies) could only rule if backed by greater numbers of foreign soldiers. But the British did not want to live in Kabul, any more than the Afghan natives wanted them to, and so Cotton and Macnaghten encouraged soldiers to relocate their families to Afghanistan. Unsurprisingly, this only upset the Afghanis even further. Sensing an opportunity, Dost Mohammad attempted to attack Kabul, was captured, surrendered, and was exiled to India. His son Akbar Khan took up the cause and began to wage guerrilla warfare.
Despite the many difficulties they faced, the British troops began to enjoy themselves heartily, drinking copiously and harassing the local women. The British government in India paid large bribes to the surrounding tribes, which helped keep the peace, and began to look for a replacement for Sir Willoughby.
Benares - Varanasi.
local postal marks - Various principalities and states within the subcontinent of India had postal services of a type (usually messengers on foot or by horse) long before the EIC arrived. The British made improvements to existing systems when they first arrived, but in 1837 passed the Post Office Act stating that only the Governor-General had the right to authorise a paid postal system within EIC territory. The service was open to everyone and relatively reliable; even more remarkable, the British developed an express mail route that cut across the isthmus of Suez (which would become the Suez Canal in 1869). The distance the letter had to travel was reduced from 16,000 miles sailing around the Cape of Good Hope, to only 6,000 miles steaming through the Red Sea, and travel time dropped from 90 days to 40. Everyone marvelled at the swiftness with which information could now speed its way across the globe.
Col. Fitzpatrick, Bt., Esq - “Bt.” indicates that the Colonel was also a Baronet.
semper sub rosa - always/ever confidentially.
-μι verbs - a particular category of verbs in the Athenian dialect of Ancient Greek. -μι verbs are extremely archaic (they are found in the reconstructed proto-Indo-European language), extremely irregular, and only tangentially follow the conjugation patterns of normal Greek verbs. Naturally, because they are so archaic, and so difficult to form, they also comprise many of the most common and necessary words in Athenian (to be, to give, to say, to know, to see). -μι verbs are the bane of the Greek student's existence.
γλαυκώπις Αθηνά - glaukopis Athena. In Homer's Odyssey, the Greek goddess Athena was given the epithet glaukopis, “grey-eyed”. Interestingly, the Greek for grey, “γλαύκος”, is closely related to the Greek for owl, “γλαύξ”, possibly because owls have such distinctive eyes. Athena, considered the wisest of the goddesses (and the gods, frankly), was also often represented by an owl; the earliest coins of her patron city, Athens, have an owl stamped into them.
Arma virumque cano - These are the opening lines to Virgil's Aeneid: “I sing of arms and a man, who first came from the shores of Troy.”
supper - Traditionally, in many parts of England, the three daily meals are named breakfast, luncheon, and dinner, for the morning, noon, and evening meals respectively. Supper is a light snack or small meal before retiring to bed, if one is feeling peckish.