Passion & Profession: Chapter 16
In which the Rev. St. John effects a Reconciliation, renews his Acquaintanceship with Cpt. Aquilaine, and discovers the Merits of Honesty and Openness.
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Most people, when faced with a seemingly desperate and insurmountable task, focus all their energies on achieving the goal and spare no time or effort thinking on what might come next; should the task come to a happy fruition, more often than not they find themselves pulled up short, as if they were descending a staircase in the dark and miscounted, their foot braced for one last step where there was only landing below. This is often the case for a happy couple on the day after their wedding, when they wake in each other's arms after a first night of hopefully-blissful union, and realise that their lives have been directed at the achievement of matrimony. And what then happens afterwards?
In all the talk of affection, romance, blushing maidens and bashful suitors, strategically-filled dance cards, coy looks over whist and whispered secrets amongst the other young people in their set-has he thought of me? Did he notice my bonnet? Should I ask her to sketch my profile? If I propose, will she refuse?-never once did the subject come up of what happened once the cake is eaten, the weeping mothers comforted, and the chapel swept and locked up for the night. After all, every happy book ends the same way: proposal, acceptance, marriage. If the book is of a more dramatic or lurid nature, the journey to that ending may change, but not by much: proposal, rejection, disaster, rescue, proposal, acceptance, marriage. No one ever talks about how the children are to be named, or what furniture would look best in the summer sitting room, or what to say when Mr. spends too much time at the public house, discussing hunting dogs, or when Mrs. takes an overly-enthusiastic interest in the genealogies of the royal family. And by then it is far too late; the vows cannot be unexchanged, the banns unread. The happy couple must come to learn, in their own time and under their own terms, that if they are to remain happy, they must struggle their own way through.
In this respect St. John and Cpt. Aquilaine could not claim superiority over their fellow man. When the Captain's intimate proposals became too bold, St. John rejected them entirely. Then followed the disastrous meeting in Sonagachi, culminating in a month of utter separation, as definitive as could be imagined; neither held any hope of reconciliation, neither so much as considered it. But then St. John rescued Muniya from the crowds at the kite festival, earning the Captain's favour once more, and when he repented his failures and proposed a renewal of their friendship, Cpt. Aquilaine accepted it with a willing heart. This left only one minor obstacle to be overcome.
Neither man had the faintest idea of what to do next.
St. John sat unmoving with closed eyes, unable to focus on anything more significant than the sensation of Cpt. Aquilaine's lips on his hand. He did not pray, not with formed words or conscious thought, but every fibre of his being thrummed with a gratitude stronger than he had ever experienced before, towards what or whom or Whom he could not say. His head spun; he could not believe all that had just transpired. When finally he opened his eyes again, suddenly aware of how he must look, he was relieved to see the Captain in much the same state. He laughed a little in embarrassment and withdrew his hand.
“Well! I will confess I did not exactly anticipate your acceptance. I was quite braced up for sorrow and refusal, and was half-planning to never see you again. Now I do not know what to do with myself. Part of me wishes to run up and down the streets like a school boy, and part of me wishes to say 'there, we are set to rights', and take a stately walk around the neighbourhood!” A grin spread across his face, foolishly, and he could not seem to stop it, nor quell the liquid heat that now flowed through his veins. “I do not know what to do with myself,” he said once more, wondrously, and then laughed a little harder. It seemed appropriate. “What shall I do? What shall we do?”
Cpt. Aquilaine also began to laugh then, a deeper and richer laugh than St. John's, spilling forth with a great swelling joy. “I could not say! I can think of a hundred things I would be happy to do at this moment, and not all of them are appropriate, and not all are polite. Several of them are altogether impossible. But there is one in particular that I like very much, and it seems the best out of all the ideas I hold at present. Yes, I think it would work.”
“Then you are far more clear-headed than I! Pray share it with me, or I shall simply sit here and stare at the carpeting for wont of a better idea.”
“Would you really do that?”
St. John nodded vigorously, feeling a bit giddy. “My instinct is to have a most serious discussion, right here and now, on what must yet be agreed upon and clarified so there cannot be any misunderstanding. And I suspect that is not the best course. So tell me of your fine idea! I am most curious.”
Cpt. Aquilaine stood swiftly, nearly bounding out of his chair, and hauling the Reverend up by the hand as he did so. St. John had no time to think of anything beyond a swift I had forgotten just how much taller he is than I before the Captain was kissing him, as greedily as if he had been submerged for a month and, having finally broken the surface, was now taking in that first desperate gasp of air. Then St. John noticed that he, in return, was kissing the Captain with the thirst of a man who, adrift at sea and surrounded for 30 days by the torments of salt, comes upon an island with a bubbling spring of sweet water. All too soon, Cpt. Aquilaine broke away, breathing heavily.
“Before anything else happens, I have a request. Everything that you have just said to me, I want you to say it again. And briefly this time, please.” St. John looked so disordered that he repeated himself. “Say it all again; I must hear it from your lips one more time.”
At last the Reverend understood. “Gladly, Marcus, gladly! Here is what I said, in brief: I am sorry. I intend to give Muniya my inheritance. I am not leaving Calcutta. I love you.”
“When you cast me off last month, you said you loved me 'perfect tense: complete'. That has changed entirely, then?” The Captain's eyes still shewed anxiety, and St. John hastened to reassure.
“I am sorry, more than I can ever say. I did not understand the depth of my feelings even slightly, and so I spoke very false in my efforts to convince myself that I did not care for you. But even then it was not perfect tense. Since we first met, I think, it has been nothing but present tense: ongoing, 'I love you', and now there is the future tense, 'I will continue to love you', to add as well.” His voice was tinged with awe. “But what I cannot understand is how you could feel that way about me. I can brood for weeks over things said or unsaid. You are so marvellous, Marcus! You have a wonderful depth of passion, but it does not rule you, and as strongly as you feel your emotions, you can set them aside so lightly!”
“Less lightly than you think sometimes, Reverend. I am still angry and hurt in measure, and I think we will both need time to let old wounds heal and regain a full trust in one another. But I never managed to set aside my affection for you and so, for the moment, knowing that when I say 'I love you' it will be returned in kind makes me almost rapturously happy.”
“I would like to simply be happy for a few minutes, like you. But already I am thinking, and I can hardly ever stop. Make me stop, please.” So Cpt. Aquilaine kissed him again, as it seemed the most pleasurable way either of them could spend their time.
Finally St. John drew away. “This was not quite how I had anticipated spending my afternoon!” Fearing that sounded unfriendly, he added, “Certainly I am not complaining, mind you. This is far finer than a day alone with my books. I am wrung through, however, and am beginning to be famished, as well … I will think much more clearly, on everything, if I could just manage a bite to eat. Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous, St. John, absolutely starving. But I am at such odds and ends today,” he griped, casting his gaze about the disastrous sitting room in despair, “and you are correct in that we must talk, as we have much to set to rights and much to consider. Can you give me a little time to finish a few tasks? I have not yet even made my bed for the day.”
The Reverend's mouth went dry at the mention of the Captain's bed, so he merely gave a terse nod and waited until he could speak calmly once more. “I think that is a fine idea; clearly we will have much to discuss, concerning past conduct and future, and what each of our intentions are. Shall we meet back up in an hour?”
Cpt. Aquilaine agreed willingly. “We can meet at the Elephant & Crown, if you like; it is quieter on Sunday afternoons.”
“You are certain?”
“Oh yes-are you?”
“Quite.” St. John found himself suddenly shy, like an awkward youth who grows bashful in the presence of his heart's desire. “Shall I … see you in an hour then?”
“I hope so, Reverend.”
“You will, Captain.”
Cpt. Aquilaine escorted him to the door, hesitated before turning the knob, and then kissed the Reverend on the cheek before turning back to his sitting room.
“See you in an hour.”
“I will be there.” St. John walked down the corridor in a daze, descending the stairs and exiting the foyer without so much as a glance at the footman. Forever afterwards, when the Captain would ask where he had gone or what he had done with that hour, St. John always gave the same response: “I cannot recall”. He took a stroll-he knew that much-but as to where he travelled, or what he saw, he could not say. Other than an overwhelming sense of joy, and the queer sensation of having feet that did not touch the cobblestones, not a single moment of that hour stayed with him. Some part of his mind-likely the most exacting part-paid attention, enough so that when the hour's end drew to a close he discovered that, rather felicitously, he was only a short distance from the Elephant & Crown.
He hastened in, dreading the crowds of their last visit, but the public house was indeed much less busy than previously. It took but a single glance to spot Cpt. Aquilaine in a far corner, sitting at a small and otherwise-empty table, two tankards in front of him. St. John made every effort not to run over to him like an excitable schoolboy.
“You are already here, Marcus! Am I late?”
The Captain gave him a tight, forced grin, and St. John was pulled up short by the worry in his eyes. A hint of uncertainty washed over him, and it was an effort to keep his voice light and cheery.
“I do hope you have not changed your mind in the past hour,” he joked feebly. “Or am I indeed terribly late?”
“Not at all. I simply finished my business sooner than expected, and wished to take some fresh air. Here, food will be a few minutes and in the mean time, I have got you Indian pale ale rather than small beer. Do you mind?”
“Of course not, thank you.” The Reverend could not help but notice how only the latter of his questions had been answered. He set it aside when the Captain proposed a toast to renewed friendship, and they drank easily to the sentiment; once done, however, neither man spoke. As the silence grew long, they began to sip their beers intently and with great purpose, as if they each had urgent things to say and would be saying them immediately, except that they were even more occupied by the ales.
The taste of St. John's beer carried him back to the Colonel's estate, to the day when he had drunk his first pale ale by the lake and watched the Captain swim. That night, of course, his hidden feelings had begun to make themselves known. It occurred to him then that as their relationship became more established, they could have honest discussions of the past as well as the future, and he began to warm to the thought of telling Cpt. Aquilaine of that day, to see what he might make of the memory-
He was swaying one knee back and forth, and his leg kept brushing against the Captain's, under the table. St. John did not notice they were touching until Cpt. Aquilaine pulled his own legs back with a jerk, muttering an apology for being overly-forward. St. John stared at him, confused, and began to wonder if he had done or said something wrong. The Captain's mood was altered considerably from an hour past; his previous elation had given way to hesitancy and a crestfallen slump in his shoulders.
“Are you well, Marcus? An hour ago you were nearly jubilant, and now you are positively glum.”
The Captain cleared his throat, shook himself off, and took another long sip at his ale. “I must start by telling you that truly, I am happy beyond description that you are staying in Calcutta, and that everything you have said to me today is … well, I cannot describe that either. I do not think I have felt like this since Muniya was born and I first held her in my arms.” He again grinned at the Reverend, quickly, and just as quickly it faded. “But neither shall I pretend everything is fine. You managed to wound me quite deeply, and I made my own rash decisions in consequence. Neither of us behaved well. So I am compelled to say: as much as we may wish to be together, it might very well be impossible.” St. John felt a spark of fear creep into the base of his stomach. All the joy of the afternoon seemed to be slipping through his fingers, and he hastened to convince the Captain that their friendship would succeed.
“Marcus, there is little I want more in this world than to make full and proper reparations to you, and to enjoy our former closeness once more. I shall take as long as necessary to achieve that. And please know this: however reluctant I have been in the past, I am not now. I almost believe God has given me this, as He gave you Muniya, and I dare not reject it a second time. I am a very stubborn man, and I intend to shew you just how resolute I can be.”
The corners of Cpt. Aquilaine's mouth curled up, but so weakly that St. John shivered as the cold fear began to increase in both size and strength.
“What is it, Captain? What worries you so-is it me? I hope you are not concerned about keeping me content. Even if we are never more than mere friends again, I will still wake every day with gratitude in my heart, glad for the chance to talk with you. I cannot tell you how much I have missed your agreeability, listening ear, and warm spirit.”
These words were well-received, but the moment Cpt. Aquilaine opened his mouth to Reply, the bar maid arrived with two plates of toad-in-the-hole. Both men seemed glad for the interruption (St. John, in particular, had eaten nothing but porridge and a few tea cakes that day), and for the next few minutes they focused entirely on their food and drink. As they were scraping the last crumbs off their plates, St. John roused his courage and again asked,
“Please, what disturbs you? I pray, tell me. I want to be content, sitting here with you, but I am uneasy. There is more on your mind, is there not?”
The Captain sighed and gave St. John a rueful look. “I do have much on my mind today, and an empty stomach always makes that situation considerably worse. But now I feel well-braced by the food-little bests toad-in-the-hole for improving my outlook-so thank you for your patience. There is indeed more I must say, two things of critical importance, but first I want to assure you that I also dearly desire a resumption of the happiness we used to share. Please believe me on that.” He strove to look encouraging before he continued, “Now, the two things. First, I cannot possibly accept the funds you wish to give to Muniya.”
St. John sputtered in protest. “You must! I have thought and prayed over it, and it is the best course.”
“No, it is not. It is impossible; even the suggestion shames me. It would be a daily reproach, having my daughter dependent on another man's generosity. And if I had any wealth of my own, you would not feel the need to do such a thing. Reverend, you are kindly but I would accept funds for Muniya from my uncle before I would accept them from you!”
“Has your uncle ever offered?” St. John pointed out (rather reasonably, he thought).
Cpt. Aquilaine squirmed in his chair. “My uncle does not know about her.”
“You have never told him? Good God, Marcus! Why on earth not?” Shock made the Reverend's voice sharp.
“How could I? It would break his heart, to see the way I have repeated all of my father's mistakes. If I can make enough of a name for myself, then-” He clenched his teeth together to keep from finishing the sentence.
St. John pressed ahead with his case, sensing weakness. “If she has no family support back in England, then it is more urgent than ever that she have something to fall back upon. Do not look at it as charity. It is a gift for her future, and she is more than worth it.”
“Reverend, you wonderful daft man, I do not argue with the claim that she is worthy of it. I personally find her to be the best, cleverest, and most pretty girl in the whole of India. But you have only known of her for a little more than a day, and the one time you met her she was reasonably well-behaved. You have not seen her in a temper. Anyhow, you know full well that I am easily as proud as you are, and so I will not allow it, not under any circumstances.”
“Please do not take this away from me, Marcus! Do you not see it?” St. John nearly bit his tongue in frustration. “I do not want to be that hard-hearted man anymore. I want to learn how to be gracious, less fearful and less grasping. I feel I must do this and do it quickly, or I shall miss my chance! Very soon, I will begin to convince myself that I am being impulsive, and I shall keep some for myself, or keep all under the guise that I would be more responsible with it.”
“Give the money to an orphanage, then, if you feel you must rid yourself of it.”
“There are many places worthy of my money, Captain. Orphanages, temperance societies, missions, schools … ” his voice trailed off to a whisper. “I do not wish to give it to any of those places.”
“Why Muniya, then? What could she matter to you?”
“I do not know where this depth of affection comes from, truly. I have no experience with children, and I do not understand it.” St. John spread his hands out helplessly. “It is true, what you say, that I cannot possibly feel so much for her after one hour's meeting. But she chatters on like you do and she laughs like you as well. Perhaps it is because I see so much of you reflected in her that I have this strange fondness for her?” He nodded as the idea solidified in his mind. “Yes, perhaps that is indeed it. I am so sad, when I think of you and the yoke you struggle under every day, being a natural son and never having the claim to a good family name as I do. And I cannot heal that wound, and I cannot sooth over the old hurts of a childhood spent shamed by your parents when you should have been happy and carefree. Possibly I wish to help spare her that, if I cannot spare you. Or it may be much more straightforward! It could be as simple as this: she has your eyes. And I would give dearly to have them smile at me.”
The Captain smiled at him then, and the knot in St. John's chest eased a little. “I think I understand better now. But the idea still sits poorly with me, and I am so disordered over so many things. Let us take it up later, when I am in a better frame of mind, and perhaps we can come to a compromise.”
St. John sighed but agreed. “We can return to it another time, if you like. I understand your concerns, of course, but please do not let your own pride get in the way of her prospects. What is the other thing you speak about?”
Cpt. Aquilaine grimaced and pushed his fork around on his plate. He opened his mouth as if to speak, pinched his lips together tightly, darted out his hand to clasp St. John's across the table-and stopped, fingertips grazing the Reverend's knuckles before he pulled back. “It is a heavy matter, not fit to discuss here. Shall we go? We can talk more on it as we walk, and I begin to feel quite restless.” He lifted the tankard to drink, found it already empty, and lowered it in disappointment.
Downing the last of his own ale, St. John stood to pay the fare. He deeply wanted to be away, to learn what was bothering his friend, to make straight the path for a return to mutual happiness, and to go back to the moment when they had been comfortable in each other's presence. “By all means, let us go then. I too am beginning to fidget. We shall clear the air, once and for all.” Cpt. Aquilaine looked as though he were about to respond, but he simply nodded meekly. The Reverend's heart sank again, and he followed the Captain out blindly, far more sombre than he had entered.
As they started to walk, St. John reached over and gripped Cpt. Aquilaine by the elbow, hoping the gesture would give reassurance to both of them. “So what is this other topic you wish to consider? What is this heaviness hanging over you?”
The Captain gave him a fleeting look of agitation, but he did not reply, or clasp St. John's hand in return, or pull his arm back; he merely turned his face away. Eventually, St. John dropped his hand, fear gnawing at him once more; it was as if they had never reconciled at all. All amiability seemed lost to them; he could not understand it, and the wonder of the day slowly faded.
Cpt. Aquilaine must have known how odd his behaviour had become, because he finally began to speak, sounding confident and casual despite the trouble in his eyes. But they discussed nothing of consequence-merely society gossip and yesterday's kite festival-and even this most flimsy of conversations came in such stiff and stilted phrases that it seemed all normal speech was lost to them entirely. St. John became particularly tongue-tied the moment he realised he was simply following Cpt. Aquilaine wherever he led, assuming that they would both return to the Club, and that he would then be invited up. Such a presumption was foolish in light of how estranged they suddenly seemed to be from one another; furthermore, he wanted to hear from his friend's lips that he was welcome, rather than push himself forward. He kept glancing at the Captain, waiting for him to ask the Reverend to come back with him, or to at least make mention of the 'heavy matter'; the Captain very resolutely said nothing of the sort. Feeling desperate, St. John finally broached the first subject in the most roundabout way he could effect.
“Marcus, perhaps we should talk a little further on our friendship, and how we might like things to be in the time to come.”
Cpt. Aquilaine replied so swiftly that it was clear he had been thinking similarly. “I absolutely agree. It is most necessary that we be plain, and honest, and upfront about what we want. I do not think either of us could easily bear a repeat of previously.” He looked expectantly at St. John, who looked expectantly back at him; both patently hoped the other would initiate the conversation. Neither spoke another word, and the silence loomed between them. They walked on.
The distance from the Elephant & Crown was considerably less than the Reverend had remembered; they quickly reached the Club, paced the entire block encircling it twice, and then stood in front of the door staring awkwardly at the cobblestones. After a time, St. John decided he had suffered quite enough of whatever had come between them; he was torn between want, and fear, and bewilderment, and came to the swift determination that he must speak his mind firmly, and directly, as it was his failings that had been the original cause of all their troubles.
“Very well, then! Here is my plain speech, Captain, and here are my honest words: it is so odd, how at a loss I am around you all of a sudden. If that is the penalty for my sins, I can accept it, but I cannot comprehend it. Everything was so easy between us, and then I left for an hour and now, I feel we are strangers. You have a great and weighty matter you wish to speak on, and yet you will not, not a single word. The cause for your reticence must have been something I said, or did, and I am so sorry for it although I cannot think of what it was … ” He trailed off in utter bafflement. “Tell me what it was, and tell me of this other matter you wished to speak about, I beg you. What have I done? What is eating at you? Please-I have been plain, and honest; will you now be upfront?”
Cpt. Aquilaine stared at his scuffed boots, then raised his head to look St. John in the eye, hesitated, glanced away, glanced back, and abruptly asked, “Do you want to come up with me?” Then he winced.
“Oh yes, Marcus, of course I do!” St. John exclaimed too loudly, drawing questioning looks from several passers-by.
The Captain seemed quite startled by the Reverend's enthusiastic response. “You do?”
“Why would I not?” St. John felt as confused as the Captain appeared.
“Because that was what drove you away, St. John!” He cast his gaze quickly around the street, then dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I was too insistent. Too … carnal. But when you said you-” He broke off with a frustrated noise. “This would be best to discuss inside, do you think?”
The Reverend turned for the door so swiftly that he nearly knocked over the footman intending to open it for them. This near-collision forced him into a more sedate pace, which allowed the Captain to catch up with him, and together they crossed the foyer and ascended the stairs to the first floor, attempting to look like nothing so much as a pair of friends heading off to Sunday afternoon tea.
The pretence lasted until the moment the door to the Captain's rooms was shut firmly behind them.
St. John stood in the middle of the sitting room-he noticed vaguely that the space had been tidied, a bit clumsily-and stared wide-eyed at Cpt. Aquilaine, who stood and stared back. The tension was nearly audible, but neither seemed willing to bend. Then, without warning, the Captain gave way, pulling at his hair and speaking wildly.
“I did not want to ask … I did not want to ask you to come up and stay, as much as I hoped you would, because I did not want you to think I missed only the physical intimacies … whereas in reality I missed them dearly, yes, but I did not miss them half as much as I missed the loss of not having you around-” He paused and St. John could see him parsing the sentence in his mind. “That did not make sense. Let me be more blunt, then: we were kissing, or more to the point I was kissing you, and then you pulled away and began to talk of friendship, and I remembered how I drove you off with my physical passions, so I decided whilst you were out that I would be friendly only, and not aggressive, but I cannot manage it, but I will, because I did not want to ask you to come back with me, until you had said that you wanted what you wanted, because I feared that you would think that I thought that I only wanted you back for … O God, that was considerably worse.” He pressed his hands to the sides of his face, and his fastened his gaze upon the Reverend in a sort of panic. “What exactly did you mean, when you said your body loves me?”
St. John fell upon him with a cry.
“O Christ-I have missed-”
“Not half so much-St. John-O God-”
“Were you-anxious-entire time-over this?”
“Of course-”
“For what possible-reason-blasted buttons-”
“Did not want you to-feel obliged-”
“Are you mad-”
“-pressured-”
“-you are mad-”
“Did not want to-seem base-overeager-oh hell-”
“Pay it no mind-they will mend-”
“Good God! You are most-needful-”
“I have been-chaste-the entire month-”
“Why-how-”
“Your hands are-more clever than mine-and-larger-”
“But an entire month?”
“-oh hurry-”
“I was not-chaste-”
“-more-”
“I could not stop thinking-”
“Marcus-”
“-of those slender hips-”
“-O Marcus-”
“-and thighs-”
“-O Marc-”
Cpt. Aquilaine paused, with tremendous effort. “You are-certain?”
St. John pushed him back against the wall so hard that the oil lamps rattled. “For God's sake!”
“I did not-wish to-presume-”
“-presume-please-now-”
“If you are certain-”
“I am a grown-man-I can say-”
“No?”
“Yes.”
By the time they had spent themselves-it did not take long, for either of them-and collapsed onto the Captain's bed in a tangle of limbs, St. John found himself laughing and weeping simultaneously, out of joy, and relief, and wonderment that this could now truly be his, be his, to claim and to anticipate and to savour.
“O Lord, Father, I thank Thee for shewing me this. I did not know, I did not understand, just how marvellous is this creation which Thou hast given Thy children. Thou art truly-”
“Are you praying? Aloud?” Cpt. Aquilaine, in a similar state of wreckage, recovered himself with an effort, enough to speak lucidly. His eyes had grown unsteady and damp. “That is odd.”
St. John had to pause and catch his breath before he could continue. “Odd? But I pray aloud with regularity.”
“True, but never like that. That was … different.”
“Well, normally I keep my more heartfelt prayers unspoken. I dislike having my sentiments so exposed.” He thought for a minute, and decided his words needed softening. “But if I did not quite manage to keep silent, it is only because I am utterly overthrown. Are you bothered by it?”
Cpt. Aquilaine sniggered happily. “Delighted, rather. I only asked because I am entirely unused to someone doing that after forni-coitus,” he hastily corrected himself.
“Fornicating, Marcus. That was most definitely fornicating.” St. John murmured. “Given its rather carnal nature, and the level of vigour, I might even go so far as to call it … well. Yes.”
“Fucking, Reverend?”
“Quite so, Captain.”
They lay together for a while, reacquainting themselves with one another. When that grew too prosaic, St. John raised himself up on one elbow and began kissing the Captain lightly about the mouth. He noted the emotions still crossing through his friend's eyes, and the disquiet that even the presence of a Reverend, sprawled in toto atop the ruins of a once-orderly coverlet, could not drive away.
“What in the name of all that is holy and good is the second thing you wished to discuss, Marcus? You had best tell me, now that you know I will not be offended if asked to come up to your bedroom.” Cpt. Aquilaine merely sighed and tilted up his chin, allowing St. John better access to the stubble underneath his jaw line. “The first was about Muniya's money; was the second your worry that we would only ever be friends? Come, it is high time you spoke your mind.”
When Cpt. Aquilaine still remained stubbornly mute, St. John left off kissing and began stroking the Captain's bad leg, running his fingers lightly over the scars. He thought of all they represented: the noise and chaos of battle, pain, fear, surgery, a long recovery with no good end in sight, the loss of hope, a life irreparably altered. His friend carried about many other scars-scandalous grandmother, rakish father, tainted family name, the heavy realisation of being more alike to that father than he had ever wished-and now would have to endure the slow healing of a wound caused by no other than St. John himself.
“You are a brave man. I forget it sometimes, because you are so cheerful. But it takes strength and character to be resilient when burdened with problems not of your own making. Some men would turn sour inside, like curdled milk, or grow mean, or diminish. And you remain yourself! I struggled with my impure desires for so many years, hating myself and the God who made me, and I became so much less than I could have been, than I should have been. However, simply by lying next to you-you are so whole, and hale-I feel as if in some small way I am being healed as well. What a gift you possess, Marcus Aquilaine.”
At this the Captain finally bestirred himself to reply, and it was in a voice thick with bitterness. “But when shall I be allowed to use it? O St. John, I would spend a lifetime with you, as we helped each other mend our various faults, but we may not get the chance. That is what else I have been meaning to say: I am still promised to Lord Elphinstone, and Kabul.”
The Reverend groaned aloud. “Of course-I should have considered the possibility. But it cannot be that difficult to break your obligation, can it?”
The Captain rolled onto his stomach, which gave St. John the opportunity to admire him from a new and entirely pleasant vantage. “I have committed myself, and it is frightfully hard to unenlist, once one has signed on to a campaign. We must prepare for the likelihood that in a fortnight, I will have to leave.”
“I am prepared for it.”
“You sound oddly unconcerned! Do you know something I do not?”
St. John shook his head slowly. “I know how upset the very idea should make me, but at present I find I am not afraid. Perhaps the Lord has taken away my fear; He has given me so much, already; why would He snatch it all away at the last moment? Or perhaps I am simply too drained and happy to be frightened. Perhaps we shall come up with a solution. Perhaps I shall accompany you to Kabul … So many paths, but right now I can think of nothing more significant than lying in bed with you, calm and peaceful.”
“That does seem like a good course. Very wise. Here.” He adjusted the coverlet so it was over them, rather than under them, and for a time they lay together in silence, neither sleeping nor thinking, simply marvelling at one another's presence. In the past, St. John had preferred to curl up in the Captain's arms; now, the Captain curled up into his, whilst he ran his pale fingers through the olive-black hair.
At some point he dozed, only to be woken by Cpt. Aquilaine, speaking words he did not quite catch.
“What did you say, Marcus? I must have nodded off.”
“No matter. I just was asking, do you remember our last fight?”
St. John's stomach twisted; the humiliation of the brothel in Sonagachi and what the Captain had said to him afterwards was still too fresh in his mind. He shifted restlessly, hot and uncomfortable with shame, and sat up to hide his embarrassment.
“I can recall every word of it, of course,” he stammered. “But I will confess that the wound has not yet healed over. What you told me was like unto a surgeon's knife-necessary, but nearly agonising at the time. Must we talk about it now?”
Cpt. Aquilaine joined him in sitting, now shoulder to shoulder with the Rev. Rivers, and slipped a warm arm around his waist. “No, Reverend! I do not mean that afternoon. In the morning, before … everything else. We had a fight, and agreed to discuss things when I returned home from the Fort. But we never got the chance. Do you think we should make an attempt at that now? Or does it still cut too close to the quick?”
St. John could indeed recollect the fight, the sharp words slung about so carelessly, and the assurance that his friend had given, that after any disagreement came the much more agreeable opportunity to shew reconciliation. And when he thought back to the reasons behind the original argument …
“Marcus, I can hear it all so clearly in my mind, it is as if we had just fought. But if you are concerned, let me give you confidence: I will no longer call you base for your desires.”
“Then it is settled: we have had our fight, we have come to an agreement-all that is left is to restore harmony.” They looked each other in the eye; the anxiety on the Captain's face had been temporarily pushed aside by roguishness. But as St. John watched, the first strands of worry began to creep back in as he eased his arm out from behind the Reverend's back. “But I am content with simply sitting next to you.”
St. John realised that once again, until Cpt. Aquilaine regained confidence, he would need to be the one who spoke up, who initiated, and who decided. “You were referring to fellating, however, not sitting … were you not?”
The Captain nodded silently, hesitating.
“I will be upfront with you-I shall try, if you like, but it does not sound appealing. If you allow me to wade into these strange new waters gently, as it were, I will admit that being an irrumator might be easier to begin with.”
Cpt. Aquilaine's hand gripped St. John's thigh tightly, fingers pressing into muscle almost to the point of pain. “A pity you did not say so earlier, my dear Reverend. But do you not think it base?” His voice changed to something harder and more amorous.
St. John laughed slightly, and then hid his face in his hands as a terrible blush crept into his cheeks. In a voice both muffled and shy, he whispered, “Is it base, Marcus, and I do not think I shall ever fully move past that position. But that is not what shames me. My shame is how deeply desirous I am of it.”
The fingers that had tightened around the Reverend's leg shifted, reaching out slightly to confirm what the Captain suspected, and what St. John already knew. Cpt. Aquilaine tipped his head down and attempted to kiss his friend on the cheek; as he did, St. John turned his face and caught the Captain's lips firmly between his own. When they broke apart St. John murmured, happily, “How often I have thought of you and dreamt of you, of the smile on your lips and the bristles on your chin before you shave each morning. And now I can say it, I suppose, and you will not think poorly of me.”
“Just so long as you do not think poorly of me, either, when I tell you what I dream of at night. Although you have like as not guessed it already.” And indeed, St. John could scarcely recall when he had last seen the Captain appear so impassioned and yearning, although he did consider-nerves causing him to retreat into objective thinking, but for a moment only-that he may have been merely inscribing his own desires onto another man's countenance.
And then he was unable to effect any action more clever than laying back or pushing aside the coverlet or trailing his hand once more through the Captain's hair; presently he could not even succeed in that, nor anything beyond opening eyes heavy with want. He was overwhelmed by diverse sensations-wet heat, envelopment, and the scrape of stubble along his inner thigh-and simply yielded to them, sinking further and further inward until he was not even ashamed of his sighs and moans. For a time he seemed to float, as if suspended in the air, and the only thing capable of bringing him back to the bed, and to himself, was the rapture that played around the Captain's eyes.
This is him, and I, sharing our most intimate secrets, and it is not driving us apart. We are closer than ever for it.
As content as St. John was to remain in his state of present bliss, he found that every time he peered from under his eyelids at Cpt. Aquilaine's face, the glow within him increased precipitously. Soon no amount of concentration, or effort, or self-discipline could stem the tide. His pulse surged through his veins, tremors shivered up and down his legs-magnifying the sensitivity of skin rubbed almost to soreness by a coarse, unshaven jaw line-and his stomach rose and fell as every part of his body began to rush towards the same happy conclusion. Dimly in the back of his mind, a small portion of rational thought wondered what etiquette might be appropriate next, but then he realised that it did not matter, for he was with the Captain, who would never criticise. Then he stopped thinking altogether, until at last he reached his footstep's long-awaited conclusion and the stars seemed to collapse about him with the roar of the ocean echoing in his ears, as the Captain drew him out in wave after wave of joy.
I am here, Marcus, I am here with you.
He could hear noises, a voice calling to him through the pale, golden light of the afternoon sun streaming in past the wooden window-slats. The voice repeated its request.
“Pardon?”
“You are content, I take it?”
“Oh yes. O my love, more than you know.”
“I suspected you would only object until you experienced it.”
“I think you know me better than I know myself, Marcus.”
Cpt. Aquilaine came over to the Reverend once more, stretching out next to him and resting his head on the smaller man's shoulder; he seemed surprisingly content for a man still needful. Neither spoke; neither felt the need to speak. They lay close and quiet for a time, until finally the Captain whispered,
“I cannot bear the thought of leaving you, even for a day. I can hardly stand the idea of going to work tomorrow. I do not know what to do about Afghanistan.”
“Hush, Marcus. It is easy: we will wait. I will pray, and you may do whatever seems best to you, and we will both improve upon our patience. But please know, I am strangely unafraid, still. God has given me more than I ever imagined, far more than this wretched sinner deserves. And this is despite my determined rejection of every sort of happiness that was offered to me! So know this: if you are not released, we will find a way. But we shall deal with that challenge when it presents itself. For now, let us think on lighter, happier subjects.”
“Such as?” Cpt. Aquilaine glanced up at him out of the corner of one eye; something in the Reverend's tone had piqued his curiosity.
St. John gave a small smile and shifted his hips, just enough to nudge the arousal that jutted up against him, sadly neglected. “I still do not know what I like or dislike, because I have tried so little! And I hate to leave matters unsettled, as it were. Perhaps we ought to concentrate our efforts, for the moment, on broadening my education.”
The Captain ordered dinner up.
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notes:
the banns - The banns are a public declaration, read aloud at the parish church, announcing upcoming marriages and giving any knowledgeable parties a chance to protest. In Jane Eyre, the banns were not read ahead of time due to the hasty nature of the wedding, and only the fortuitous arrival of Mr. Mason, brother to Mr. Rochester's current bride, saved Jane from the sin of bigamy.
sweet water - another term for “fresh water”. After days at sea, surrounded by salt, and especially if one has been nauseous, a glass of fresh water will indeed taste not just refreshing but also sweet.
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Most people, when faced with a seemingly desperate and insurmountable task, focus all their energies on achieving the goal and spare no time or effort thinking on what might come next; should the task come to a happy fruition, more often than not they find themselves pulled up short, as if they were descending a staircase in the dark and miscounted, their foot braced for one last step where there was only landing below. This is often the case for a happy couple on the day after their wedding, when they wake in each other's arms after a first night of hopefully-blissful union, and realise that their lives have been directed at the achievement of matrimony. And what then happens afterwards?
In all the talk of affection, romance, blushing maidens and bashful suitors, strategically-filled dance cards, coy looks over whist and whispered secrets amongst the other young people in their set-has he thought of me? Did he notice my bonnet? Should I ask her to sketch my profile? If I propose, will she refuse?-never once did the subject come up of what happened once the cake is eaten, the weeping mothers comforted, and the chapel swept and locked up for the night. After all, every happy book ends the same way: proposal, acceptance, marriage. If the book is of a more dramatic or lurid nature, the journey to that ending may change, but not by much: proposal, rejection, disaster, rescue, proposal, acceptance, marriage. No one ever talks about how the children are to be named, or what furniture would look best in the summer sitting room, or what to say when Mr. spends too much time at the public house, discussing hunting dogs, or when Mrs. takes an overly-enthusiastic interest in the genealogies of the royal family. And by then it is far too late; the vows cannot be unexchanged, the banns unread. The happy couple must come to learn, in their own time and under their own terms, that if they are to remain happy, they must struggle their own way through.
In this respect St. John and Cpt. Aquilaine could not claim superiority over their fellow man. When the Captain's intimate proposals became too bold, St. John rejected them entirely. Then followed the disastrous meeting in Sonagachi, culminating in a month of utter separation, as definitive as could be imagined; neither held any hope of reconciliation, neither so much as considered it. But then St. John rescued Muniya from the crowds at the kite festival, earning the Captain's favour once more, and when he repented his failures and proposed a renewal of their friendship, Cpt. Aquilaine accepted it with a willing heart. This left only one minor obstacle to be overcome.
Neither man had the faintest idea of what to do next.
St. John sat unmoving with closed eyes, unable to focus on anything more significant than the sensation of Cpt. Aquilaine's lips on his hand. He did not pray, not with formed words or conscious thought, but every fibre of his being thrummed with a gratitude stronger than he had ever experienced before, towards what or whom or Whom he could not say. His head spun; he could not believe all that had just transpired. When finally he opened his eyes again, suddenly aware of how he must look, he was relieved to see the Captain in much the same state. He laughed a little in embarrassment and withdrew his hand.
“Well! I will confess I did not exactly anticipate your acceptance. I was quite braced up for sorrow and refusal, and was half-planning to never see you again. Now I do not know what to do with myself. Part of me wishes to run up and down the streets like a school boy, and part of me wishes to say 'there, we are set to rights', and take a stately walk around the neighbourhood!” A grin spread across his face, foolishly, and he could not seem to stop it, nor quell the liquid heat that now flowed through his veins. “I do not know what to do with myself,” he said once more, wondrously, and then laughed a little harder. It seemed appropriate. “What shall I do? What shall we do?”
Cpt. Aquilaine also began to laugh then, a deeper and richer laugh than St. John's, spilling forth with a great swelling joy. “I could not say! I can think of a hundred things I would be happy to do at this moment, and not all of them are appropriate, and not all are polite. Several of them are altogether impossible. But there is one in particular that I like very much, and it seems the best out of all the ideas I hold at present. Yes, I think it would work.”
“Then you are far more clear-headed than I! Pray share it with me, or I shall simply sit here and stare at the carpeting for wont of a better idea.”
“Would you really do that?”
St. John nodded vigorously, feeling a bit giddy. “My instinct is to have a most serious discussion, right here and now, on what must yet be agreed upon and clarified so there cannot be any misunderstanding. And I suspect that is not the best course. So tell me of your fine idea! I am most curious.”
Cpt. Aquilaine stood swiftly, nearly bounding out of his chair, and hauling the Reverend up by the hand as he did so. St. John had no time to think of anything beyond a swift I had forgotten just how much taller he is than I before the Captain was kissing him, as greedily as if he had been submerged for a month and, having finally broken the surface, was now taking in that first desperate gasp of air. Then St. John noticed that he, in return, was kissing the Captain with the thirst of a man who, adrift at sea and surrounded for 30 days by the torments of salt, comes upon an island with a bubbling spring of sweet water. All too soon, Cpt. Aquilaine broke away, breathing heavily.
“Before anything else happens, I have a request. Everything that you have just said to me, I want you to say it again. And briefly this time, please.” St. John looked so disordered that he repeated himself. “Say it all again; I must hear it from your lips one more time.”
At last the Reverend understood. “Gladly, Marcus, gladly! Here is what I said, in brief: I am sorry. I intend to give Muniya my inheritance. I am not leaving Calcutta. I love you.”
“When you cast me off last month, you said you loved me 'perfect tense: complete'. That has changed entirely, then?” The Captain's eyes still shewed anxiety, and St. John hastened to reassure.
“I am sorry, more than I can ever say. I did not understand the depth of my feelings even slightly, and so I spoke very false in my efforts to convince myself that I did not care for you. But even then it was not perfect tense. Since we first met, I think, it has been nothing but present tense: ongoing, 'I love you', and now there is the future tense, 'I will continue to love you', to add as well.” His voice was tinged with awe. “But what I cannot understand is how you could feel that way about me. I can brood for weeks over things said or unsaid. You are so marvellous, Marcus! You have a wonderful depth of passion, but it does not rule you, and as strongly as you feel your emotions, you can set them aside so lightly!”
“Less lightly than you think sometimes, Reverend. I am still angry and hurt in measure, and I think we will both need time to let old wounds heal and regain a full trust in one another. But I never managed to set aside my affection for you and so, for the moment, knowing that when I say 'I love you' it will be returned in kind makes me almost rapturously happy.”
“I would like to simply be happy for a few minutes, like you. But already I am thinking, and I can hardly ever stop. Make me stop, please.” So Cpt. Aquilaine kissed him again, as it seemed the most pleasurable way either of them could spend their time.
Finally St. John drew away. “This was not quite how I had anticipated spending my afternoon!” Fearing that sounded unfriendly, he added, “Certainly I am not complaining, mind you. This is far finer than a day alone with my books. I am wrung through, however, and am beginning to be famished, as well … I will think much more clearly, on everything, if I could just manage a bite to eat. Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous, St. John, absolutely starving. But I am at such odds and ends today,” he griped, casting his gaze about the disastrous sitting room in despair, “and you are correct in that we must talk, as we have much to set to rights and much to consider. Can you give me a little time to finish a few tasks? I have not yet even made my bed for the day.”
The Reverend's mouth went dry at the mention of the Captain's bed, so he merely gave a terse nod and waited until he could speak calmly once more. “I think that is a fine idea; clearly we will have much to discuss, concerning past conduct and future, and what each of our intentions are. Shall we meet back up in an hour?”
Cpt. Aquilaine agreed willingly. “We can meet at the Elephant & Crown, if you like; it is quieter on Sunday afternoons.”
“You are certain?”
“Oh yes-are you?”
“Quite.” St. John found himself suddenly shy, like an awkward youth who grows bashful in the presence of his heart's desire. “Shall I … see you in an hour then?”
“I hope so, Reverend.”
“You will, Captain.”
Cpt. Aquilaine escorted him to the door, hesitated before turning the knob, and then kissed the Reverend on the cheek before turning back to his sitting room.
“See you in an hour.”
“I will be there.” St. John walked down the corridor in a daze, descending the stairs and exiting the foyer without so much as a glance at the footman. Forever afterwards, when the Captain would ask where he had gone or what he had done with that hour, St. John always gave the same response: “I cannot recall”. He took a stroll-he knew that much-but as to where he travelled, or what he saw, he could not say. Other than an overwhelming sense of joy, and the queer sensation of having feet that did not touch the cobblestones, not a single moment of that hour stayed with him. Some part of his mind-likely the most exacting part-paid attention, enough so that when the hour's end drew to a close he discovered that, rather felicitously, he was only a short distance from the Elephant & Crown.
He hastened in, dreading the crowds of their last visit, but the public house was indeed much less busy than previously. It took but a single glance to spot Cpt. Aquilaine in a far corner, sitting at a small and otherwise-empty table, two tankards in front of him. St. John made every effort not to run over to him like an excitable schoolboy.
“You are already here, Marcus! Am I late?”
The Captain gave him a tight, forced grin, and St. John was pulled up short by the worry in his eyes. A hint of uncertainty washed over him, and it was an effort to keep his voice light and cheery.
“I do hope you have not changed your mind in the past hour,” he joked feebly. “Or am I indeed terribly late?”
“Not at all. I simply finished my business sooner than expected, and wished to take some fresh air. Here, food will be a few minutes and in the mean time, I have got you Indian pale ale rather than small beer. Do you mind?”
“Of course not, thank you.” The Reverend could not help but notice how only the latter of his questions had been answered. He set it aside when the Captain proposed a toast to renewed friendship, and they drank easily to the sentiment; once done, however, neither man spoke. As the silence grew long, they began to sip their beers intently and with great purpose, as if they each had urgent things to say and would be saying them immediately, except that they were even more occupied by the ales.
The taste of St. John's beer carried him back to the Colonel's estate, to the day when he had drunk his first pale ale by the lake and watched the Captain swim. That night, of course, his hidden feelings had begun to make themselves known. It occurred to him then that as their relationship became more established, they could have honest discussions of the past as well as the future, and he began to warm to the thought of telling Cpt. Aquilaine of that day, to see what he might make of the memory-
He was swaying one knee back and forth, and his leg kept brushing against the Captain's, under the table. St. John did not notice they were touching until Cpt. Aquilaine pulled his own legs back with a jerk, muttering an apology for being overly-forward. St. John stared at him, confused, and began to wonder if he had done or said something wrong. The Captain's mood was altered considerably from an hour past; his previous elation had given way to hesitancy and a crestfallen slump in his shoulders.
“Are you well, Marcus? An hour ago you were nearly jubilant, and now you are positively glum.”
The Captain cleared his throat, shook himself off, and took another long sip at his ale. “I must start by telling you that truly, I am happy beyond description that you are staying in Calcutta, and that everything you have said to me today is … well, I cannot describe that either. I do not think I have felt like this since Muniya was born and I first held her in my arms.” He again grinned at the Reverend, quickly, and just as quickly it faded. “But neither shall I pretend everything is fine. You managed to wound me quite deeply, and I made my own rash decisions in consequence. Neither of us behaved well. So I am compelled to say: as much as we may wish to be together, it might very well be impossible.” St. John felt a spark of fear creep into the base of his stomach. All the joy of the afternoon seemed to be slipping through his fingers, and he hastened to convince the Captain that their friendship would succeed.
“Marcus, there is little I want more in this world than to make full and proper reparations to you, and to enjoy our former closeness once more. I shall take as long as necessary to achieve that. And please know this: however reluctant I have been in the past, I am not now. I almost believe God has given me this, as He gave you Muniya, and I dare not reject it a second time. I am a very stubborn man, and I intend to shew you just how resolute I can be.”
The corners of Cpt. Aquilaine's mouth curled up, but so weakly that St. John shivered as the cold fear began to increase in both size and strength.
“What is it, Captain? What worries you so-is it me? I hope you are not concerned about keeping me content. Even if we are never more than mere friends again, I will still wake every day with gratitude in my heart, glad for the chance to talk with you. I cannot tell you how much I have missed your agreeability, listening ear, and warm spirit.”
These words were well-received, but the moment Cpt. Aquilaine opened his mouth to Reply, the bar maid arrived with two plates of toad-in-the-hole. Both men seemed glad for the interruption (St. John, in particular, had eaten nothing but porridge and a few tea cakes that day), and for the next few minutes they focused entirely on their food and drink. As they were scraping the last crumbs off their plates, St. John roused his courage and again asked,
“Please, what disturbs you? I pray, tell me. I want to be content, sitting here with you, but I am uneasy. There is more on your mind, is there not?”
The Captain sighed and gave St. John a rueful look. “I do have much on my mind today, and an empty stomach always makes that situation considerably worse. But now I feel well-braced by the food-little bests toad-in-the-hole for improving my outlook-so thank you for your patience. There is indeed more I must say, two things of critical importance, but first I want to assure you that I also dearly desire a resumption of the happiness we used to share. Please believe me on that.” He strove to look encouraging before he continued, “Now, the two things. First, I cannot possibly accept the funds you wish to give to Muniya.”
St. John sputtered in protest. “You must! I have thought and prayed over it, and it is the best course.”
“No, it is not. It is impossible; even the suggestion shames me. It would be a daily reproach, having my daughter dependent on another man's generosity. And if I had any wealth of my own, you would not feel the need to do such a thing. Reverend, you are kindly but I would accept funds for Muniya from my uncle before I would accept them from you!”
“Has your uncle ever offered?” St. John pointed out (rather reasonably, he thought).
Cpt. Aquilaine squirmed in his chair. “My uncle does not know about her.”
“You have never told him? Good God, Marcus! Why on earth not?” Shock made the Reverend's voice sharp.
“How could I? It would break his heart, to see the way I have repeated all of my father's mistakes. If I can make enough of a name for myself, then-” He clenched his teeth together to keep from finishing the sentence.
St. John pressed ahead with his case, sensing weakness. “If she has no family support back in England, then it is more urgent than ever that she have something to fall back upon. Do not look at it as charity. It is a gift for her future, and she is more than worth it.”
“Reverend, you wonderful daft man, I do not argue with the claim that she is worthy of it. I personally find her to be the best, cleverest, and most pretty girl in the whole of India. But you have only known of her for a little more than a day, and the one time you met her she was reasonably well-behaved. You have not seen her in a temper. Anyhow, you know full well that I am easily as proud as you are, and so I will not allow it, not under any circumstances.”
“Please do not take this away from me, Marcus! Do you not see it?” St. John nearly bit his tongue in frustration. “I do not want to be that hard-hearted man anymore. I want to learn how to be gracious, less fearful and less grasping. I feel I must do this and do it quickly, or I shall miss my chance! Very soon, I will begin to convince myself that I am being impulsive, and I shall keep some for myself, or keep all under the guise that I would be more responsible with it.”
“Give the money to an orphanage, then, if you feel you must rid yourself of it.”
“There are many places worthy of my money, Captain. Orphanages, temperance societies, missions, schools … ” his voice trailed off to a whisper. “I do not wish to give it to any of those places.”
“Why Muniya, then? What could she matter to you?”
“I do not know where this depth of affection comes from, truly. I have no experience with children, and I do not understand it.” St. John spread his hands out helplessly. “It is true, what you say, that I cannot possibly feel so much for her after one hour's meeting. But she chatters on like you do and she laughs like you as well. Perhaps it is because I see so much of you reflected in her that I have this strange fondness for her?” He nodded as the idea solidified in his mind. “Yes, perhaps that is indeed it. I am so sad, when I think of you and the yoke you struggle under every day, being a natural son and never having the claim to a good family name as I do. And I cannot heal that wound, and I cannot sooth over the old hurts of a childhood spent shamed by your parents when you should have been happy and carefree. Possibly I wish to help spare her that, if I cannot spare you. Or it may be much more straightforward! It could be as simple as this: she has your eyes. And I would give dearly to have them smile at me.”
The Captain smiled at him then, and the knot in St. John's chest eased a little. “I think I understand better now. But the idea still sits poorly with me, and I am so disordered over so many things. Let us take it up later, when I am in a better frame of mind, and perhaps we can come to a compromise.”
St. John sighed but agreed. “We can return to it another time, if you like. I understand your concerns, of course, but please do not let your own pride get in the way of her prospects. What is the other thing you speak about?”
Cpt. Aquilaine grimaced and pushed his fork around on his plate. He opened his mouth as if to speak, pinched his lips together tightly, darted out his hand to clasp St. John's across the table-and stopped, fingertips grazing the Reverend's knuckles before he pulled back. “It is a heavy matter, not fit to discuss here. Shall we go? We can talk more on it as we walk, and I begin to feel quite restless.” He lifted the tankard to drink, found it already empty, and lowered it in disappointment.
Downing the last of his own ale, St. John stood to pay the fare. He deeply wanted to be away, to learn what was bothering his friend, to make straight the path for a return to mutual happiness, and to go back to the moment when they had been comfortable in each other's presence. “By all means, let us go then. I too am beginning to fidget. We shall clear the air, once and for all.” Cpt. Aquilaine looked as though he were about to respond, but he simply nodded meekly. The Reverend's heart sank again, and he followed the Captain out blindly, far more sombre than he had entered.
As they started to walk, St. John reached over and gripped Cpt. Aquilaine by the elbow, hoping the gesture would give reassurance to both of them. “So what is this other topic you wish to consider? What is this heaviness hanging over you?”
The Captain gave him a fleeting look of agitation, but he did not reply, or clasp St. John's hand in return, or pull his arm back; he merely turned his face away. Eventually, St. John dropped his hand, fear gnawing at him once more; it was as if they had never reconciled at all. All amiability seemed lost to them; he could not understand it, and the wonder of the day slowly faded.
Cpt. Aquilaine must have known how odd his behaviour had become, because he finally began to speak, sounding confident and casual despite the trouble in his eyes. But they discussed nothing of consequence-merely society gossip and yesterday's kite festival-and even this most flimsy of conversations came in such stiff and stilted phrases that it seemed all normal speech was lost to them entirely. St. John became particularly tongue-tied the moment he realised he was simply following Cpt. Aquilaine wherever he led, assuming that they would both return to the Club, and that he would then be invited up. Such a presumption was foolish in light of how estranged they suddenly seemed to be from one another; furthermore, he wanted to hear from his friend's lips that he was welcome, rather than push himself forward. He kept glancing at the Captain, waiting for him to ask the Reverend to come back with him, or to at least make mention of the 'heavy matter'; the Captain very resolutely said nothing of the sort. Feeling desperate, St. John finally broached the first subject in the most roundabout way he could effect.
“Marcus, perhaps we should talk a little further on our friendship, and how we might like things to be in the time to come.”
Cpt. Aquilaine replied so swiftly that it was clear he had been thinking similarly. “I absolutely agree. It is most necessary that we be plain, and honest, and upfront about what we want. I do not think either of us could easily bear a repeat of previously.” He looked expectantly at St. John, who looked expectantly back at him; both patently hoped the other would initiate the conversation. Neither spoke another word, and the silence loomed between them. They walked on.
The distance from the Elephant & Crown was considerably less than the Reverend had remembered; they quickly reached the Club, paced the entire block encircling it twice, and then stood in front of the door staring awkwardly at the cobblestones. After a time, St. John decided he had suffered quite enough of whatever had come between them; he was torn between want, and fear, and bewilderment, and came to the swift determination that he must speak his mind firmly, and directly, as it was his failings that had been the original cause of all their troubles.
“Very well, then! Here is my plain speech, Captain, and here are my honest words: it is so odd, how at a loss I am around you all of a sudden. If that is the penalty for my sins, I can accept it, but I cannot comprehend it. Everything was so easy between us, and then I left for an hour and now, I feel we are strangers. You have a great and weighty matter you wish to speak on, and yet you will not, not a single word. The cause for your reticence must have been something I said, or did, and I am so sorry for it although I cannot think of what it was … ” He trailed off in utter bafflement. “Tell me what it was, and tell me of this other matter you wished to speak about, I beg you. What have I done? What is eating at you? Please-I have been plain, and honest; will you now be upfront?”
Cpt. Aquilaine stared at his scuffed boots, then raised his head to look St. John in the eye, hesitated, glanced away, glanced back, and abruptly asked, “Do you want to come up with me?” Then he winced.
“Oh yes, Marcus, of course I do!” St. John exclaimed too loudly, drawing questioning looks from several passers-by.
The Captain seemed quite startled by the Reverend's enthusiastic response. “You do?”
“Why would I not?” St. John felt as confused as the Captain appeared.
“Because that was what drove you away, St. John!” He cast his gaze quickly around the street, then dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I was too insistent. Too … carnal. But when you said you-” He broke off with a frustrated noise. “This would be best to discuss inside, do you think?”
The Reverend turned for the door so swiftly that he nearly knocked over the footman intending to open it for them. This near-collision forced him into a more sedate pace, which allowed the Captain to catch up with him, and together they crossed the foyer and ascended the stairs to the first floor, attempting to look like nothing so much as a pair of friends heading off to Sunday afternoon tea.
The pretence lasted until the moment the door to the Captain's rooms was shut firmly behind them.
St. John stood in the middle of the sitting room-he noticed vaguely that the space had been tidied, a bit clumsily-and stared wide-eyed at Cpt. Aquilaine, who stood and stared back. The tension was nearly audible, but neither seemed willing to bend. Then, without warning, the Captain gave way, pulling at his hair and speaking wildly.
“I did not want to ask … I did not want to ask you to come up and stay, as much as I hoped you would, because I did not want you to think I missed only the physical intimacies … whereas in reality I missed them dearly, yes, but I did not miss them half as much as I missed the loss of not having you around-” He paused and St. John could see him parsing the sentence in his mind. “That did not make sense. Let me be more blunt, then: we were kissing, or more to the point I was kissing you, and then you pulled away and began to talk of friendship, and I remembered how I drove you off with my physical passions, so I decided whilst you were out that I would be friendly only, and not aggressive, but I cannot manage it, but I will, because I did not want to ask you to come back with me, until you had said that you wanted what you wanted, because I feared that you would think that I thought that I only wanted you back for … O God, that was considerably worse.” He pressed his hands to the sides of his face, and his fastened his gaze upon the Reverend in a sort of panic. “What exactly did you mean, when you said your body loves me?”
St. John fell upon him with a cry.
“O Christ-I have missed-”
“Not half so much-St. John-O God-”
“Were you-anxious-entire time-over this?”
“Of course-”
“For what possible-reason-blasted buttons-”
“Did not want you to-feel obliged-”
“Are you mad-”
“-pressured-”
“-you are mad-”
“Did not want to-seem base-overeager-oh hell-”
“Pay it no mind-they will mend-”
“Good God! You are most-needful-”
“I have been-chaste-the entire month-”
“Why-how-”
“Your hands are-more clever than mine-and-larger-”
“But an entire month?”
“-oh hurry-”
“I was not-chaste-”
“-more-”
“I could not stop thinking-”
“Marcus-”
“-of those slender hips-”
“-O Marcus-”
“-and thighs-”
“-O Marc-”
Cpt. Aquilaine paused, with tremendous effort. “You are-certain?”
St. John pushed him back against the wall so hard that the oil lamps rattled. “For God's sake!”
“I did not-wish to-presume-”
“-presume-please-now-”
“If you are certain-”
“I am a grown-man-I can say-”
“No?”
“Yes.”
By the time they had spent themselves-it did not take long, for either of them-and collapsed onto the Captain's bed in a tangle of limbs, St. John found himself laughing and weeping simultaneously, out of joy, and relief, and wonderment that this could now truly be his, be his, to claim and to anticipate and to savour.
“O Lord, Father, I thank Thee for shewing me this. I did not know, I did not understand, just how marvellous is this creation which Thou hast given Thy children. Thou art truly-”
“Are you praying? Aloud?” Cpt. Aquilaine, in a similar state of wreckage, recovered himself with an effort, enough to speak lucidly. His eyes had grown unsteady and damp. “That is odd.”
St. John had to pause and catch his breath before he could continue. “Odd? But I pray aloud with regularity.”
“True, but never like that. That was … different.”
“Well, normally I keep my more heartfelt prayers unspoken. I dislike having my sentiments so exposed.” He thought for a minute, and decided his words needed softening. “But if I did not quite manage to keep silent, it is only because I am utterly overthrown. Are you bothered by it?”
Cpt. Aquilaine sniggered happily. “Delighted, rather. I only asked because I am entirely unused to someone doing that after forni-coitus,” he hastily corrected himself.
“Fornicating, Marcus. That was most definitely fornicating.” St. John murmured. “Given its rather carnal nature, and the level of vigour, I might even go so far as to call it … well. Yes.”
“Fucking, Reverend?”
“Quite so, Captain.”
They lay together for a while, reacquainting themselves with one another. When that grew too prosaic, St. John raised himself up on one elbow and began kissing the Captain lightly about the mouth. He noted the emotions still crossing through his friend's eyes, and the disquiet that even the presence of a Reverend, sprawled in toto atop the ruins of a once-orderly coverlet, could not drive away.
“What in the name of all that is holy and good is the second thing you wished to discuss, Marcus? You had best tell me, now that you know I will not be offended if asked to come up to your bedroom.” Cpt. Aquilaine merely sighed and tilted up his chin, allowing St. John better access to the stubble underneath his jaw line. “The first was about Muniya's money; was the second your worry that we would only ever be friends? Come, it is high time you spoke your mind.”
When Cpt. Aquilaine still remained stubbornly mute, St. John left off kissing and began stroking the Captain's bad leg, running his fingers lightly over the scars. He thought of all they represented: the noise and chaos of battle, pain, fear, surgery, a long recovery with no good end in sight, the loss of hope, a life irreparably altered. His friend carried about many other scars-scandalous grandmother, rakish father, tainted family name, the heavy realisation of being more alike to that father than he had ever wished-and now would have to endure the slow healing of a wound caused by no other than St. John himself.
“You are a brave man. I forget it sometimes, because you are so cheerful. But it takes strength and character to be resilient when burdened with problems not of your own making. Some men would turn sour inside, like curdled milk, or grow mean, or diminish. And you remain yourself! I struggled with my impure desires for so many years, hating myself and the God who made me, and I became so much less than I could have been, than I should have been. However, simply by lying next to you-you are so whole, and hale-I feel as if in some small way I am being healed as well. What a gift you possess, Marcus Aquilaine.”
At this the Captain finally bestirred himself to reply, and it was in a voice thick with bitterness. “But when shall I be allowed to use it? O St. John, I would spend a lifetime with you, as we helped each other mend our various faults, but we may not get the chance. That is what else I have been meaning to say: I am still promised to Lord Elphinstone, and Kabul.”
The Reverend groaned aloud. “Of course-I should have considered the possibility. But it cannot be that difficult to break your obligation, can it?”
The Captain rolled onto his stomach, which gave St. John the opportunity to admire him from a new and entirely pleasant vantage. “I have committed myself, and it is frightfully hard to unenlist, once one has signed on to a campaign. We must prepare for the likelihood that in a fortnight, I will have to leave.”
“I am prepared for it.”
“You sound oddly unconcerned! Do you know something I do not?”
St. John shook his head slowly. “I know how upset the very idea should make me, but at present I find I am not afraid. Perhaps the Lord has taken away my fear; He has given me so much, already; why would He snatch it all away at the last moment? Or perhaps I am simply too drained and happy to be frightened. Perhaps we shall come up with a solution. Perhaps I shall accompany you to Kabul … So many paths, but right now I can think of nothing more significant than lying in bed with you, calm and peaceful.”
“That does seem like a good course. Very wise. Here.” He adjusted the coverlet so it was over them, rather than under them, and for a time they lay together in silence, neither sleeping nor thinking, simply marvelling at one another's presence. In the past, St. John had preferred to curl up in the Captain's arms; now, the Captain curled up into his, whilst he ran his pale fingers through the olive-black hair.
At some point he dozed, only to be woken by Cpt. Aquilaine, speaking words he did not quite catch.
“What did you say, Marcus? I must have nodded off.”
“No matter. I just was asking, do you remember our last fight?”
St. John's stomach twisted; the humiliation of the brothel in Sonagachi and what the Captain had said to him afterwards was still too fresh in his mind. He shifted restlessly, hot and uncomfortable with shame, and sat up to hide his embarrassment.
“I can recall every word of it, of course,” he stammered. “But I will confess that the wound has not yet healed over. What you told me was like unto a surgeon's knife-necessary, but nearly agonising at the time. Must we talk about it now?”
Cpt. Aquilaine joined him in sitting, now shoulder to shoulder with the Rev. Rivers, and slipped a warm arm around his waist. “No, Reverend! I do not mean that afternoon. In the morning, before … everything else. We had a fight, and agreed to discuss things when I returned home from the Fort. But we never got the chance. Do you think we should make an attempt at that now? Or does it still cut too close to the quick?”
St. John could indeed recollect the fight, the sharp words slung about so carelessly, and the assurance that his friend had given, that after any disagreement came the much more agreeable opportunity to shew reconciliation. And when he thought back to the reasons behind the original argument …
“Marcus, I can hear it all so clearly in my mind, it is as if we had just fought. But if you are concerned, let me give you confidence: I will no longer call you base for your desires.”
“Then it is settled: we have had our fight, we have come to an agreement-all that is left is to restore harmony.” They looked each other in the eye; the anxiety on the Captain's face had been temporarily pushed aside by roguishness. But as St. John watched, the first strands of worry began to creep back in as he eased his arm out from behind the Reverend's back. “But I am content with simply sitting next to you.”
St. John realised that once again, until Cpt. Aquilaine regained confidence, he would need to be the one who spoke up, who initiated, and who decided. “You were referring to fellating, however, not sitting … were you not?”
The Captain nodded silently, hesitating.
“I will be upfront with you-I shall try, if you like, but it does not sound appealing. If you allow me to wade into these strange new waters gently, as it were, I will admit that being an irrumator might be easier to begin with.”
Cpt. Aquilaine's hand gripped St. John's thigh tightly, fingers pressing into muscle almost to the point of pain. “A pity you did not say so earlier, my dear Reverend. But do you not think it base?” His voice changed to something harder and more amorous.
St. John laughed slightly, and then hid his face in his hands as a terrible blush crept into his cheeks. In a voice both muffled and shy, he whispered, “Is it base, Marcus, and I do not think I shall ever fully move past that position. But that is not what shames me. My shame is how deeply desirous I am of it.”
The fingers that had tightened around the Reverend's leg shifted, reaching out slightly to confirm what the Captain suspected, and what St. John already knew. Cpt. Aquilaine tipped his head down and attempted to kiss his friend on the cheek; as he did, St. John turned his face and caught the Captain's lips firmly between his own. When they broke apart St. John murmured, happily, “How often I have thought of you and dreamt of you, of the smile on your lips and the bristles on your chin before you shave each morning. And now I can say it, I suppose, and you will not think poorly of me.”
“Just so long as you do not think poorly of me, either, when I tell you what I dream of at night. Although you have like as not guessed it already.” And indeed, St. John could scarcely recall when he had last seen the Captain appear so impassioned and yearning, although he did consider-nerves causing him to retreat into objective thinking, but for a moment only-that he may have been merely inscribing his own desires onto another man's countenance.
And then he was unable to effect any action more clever than laying back or pushing aside the coverlet or trailing his hand once more through the Captain's hair; presently he could not even succeed in that, nor anything beyond opening eyes heavy with want. He was overwhelmed by diverse sensations-wet heat, envelopment, and the scrape of stubble along his inner thigh-and simply yielded to them, sinking further and further inward until he was not even ashamed of his sighs and moans. For a time he seemed to float, as if suspended in the air, and the only thing capable of bringing him back to the bed, and to himself, was the rapture that played around the Captain's eyes.
This is him, and I, sharing our most intimate secrets, and it is not driving us apart. We are closer than ever for it.
As content as St. John was to remain in his state of present bliss, he found that every time he peered from under his eyelids at Cpt. Aquilaine's face, the glow within him increased precipitously. Soon no amount of concentration, or effort, or self-discipline could stem the tide. His pulse surged through his veins, tremors shivered up and down his legs-magnifying the sensitivity of skin rubbed almost to soreness by a coarse, unshaven jaw line-and his stomach rose and fell as every part of his body began to rush towards the same happy conclusion. Dimly in the back of his mind, a small portion of rational thought wondered what etiquette might be appropriate next, but then he realised that it did not matter, for he was with the Captain, who would never criticise. Then he stopped thinking altogether, until at last he reached his footstep's long-awaited conclusion and the stars seemed to collapse about him with the roar of the ocean echoing in his ears, as the Captain drew him out in wave after wave of joy.
I am here, Marcus, I am here with you.
He could hear noises, a voice calling to him through the pale, golden light of the afternoon sun streaming in past the wooden window-slats. The voice repeated its request.
“Pardon?”
“You are content, I take it?”
“Oh yes. O my love, more than you know.”
“I suspected you would only object until you experienced it.”
“I think you know me better than I know myself, Marcus.”
Cpt. Aquilaine came over to the Reverend once more, stretching out next to him and resting his head on the smaller man's shoulder; he seemed surprisingly content for a man still needful. Neither spoke; neither felt the need to speak. They lay close and quiet for a time, until finally the Captain whispered,
“I cannot bear the thought of leaving you, even for a day. I can hardly stand the idea of going to work tomorrow. I do not know what to do about Afghanistan.”
“Hush, Marcus. It is easy: we will wait. I will pray, and you may do whatever seems best to you, and we will both improve upon our patience. But please know, I am strangely unafraid, still. God has given me more than I ever imagined, far more than this wretched sinner deserves. And this is despite my determined rejection of every sort of happiness that was offered to me! So know this: if you are not released, we will find a way. But we shall deal with that challenge when it presents itself. For now, let us think on lighter, happier subjects.”
“Such as?” Cpt. Aquilaine glanced up at him out of the corner of one eye; something in the Reverend's tone had piqued his curiosity.
St. John gave a small smile and shifted his hips, just enough to nudge the arousal that jutted up against him, sadly neglected. “I still do not know what I like or dislike, because I have tried so little! And I hate to leave matters unsettled, as it were. Perhaps we ought to concentrate our efforts, for the moment, on broadening my education.”
The Captain ordered dinner up.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
notes:
the banns - The banns are a public declaration, read aloud at the parish church, announcing upcoming marriages and giving any knowledgeable parties a chance to protest. In Jane Eyre, the banns were not read ahead of time due to the hasty nature of the wedding, and only the fortuitous arrival of Mr. Mason, brother to Mr. Rochester's current bride, saved Jane from the sin of bigamy.
sweet water - another term for “fresh water”. After days at sea, surrounded by salt, and especially if one has been nauseous, a glass of fresh water will indeed taste not just refreshing but also sweet.