a marriage of convenience: x. the race
x. the race
While Jon grew more careful, he did not think he was required to stop talking to Ryan at all. After all, the parties were deadly dull, and Ryan seemed to seek him out even more frequently, and there was a difference between taking care and being uncivil. Besides, Tom certainly had no thought of restricting his activities to spare Jon's feelings.
One morning at breakfast, after a series of nights spent out at parties, Jon remarked on the fact that they had a rare evening to themselves. "I would like to dine in, if you have no objection," Jon said. "I'm a little tired of the social round."
"Oh," Tom said. "Well, of course, but since we had nothing planned, Pete said he might stop by, and I invited him for dinner, but if you don't like it -"
"It's not that I don't like it," Jon said. "But must you have people over every single night? Can I have no peace in my own house?"
Tom seemed stung by what Jon would admit was the clear unfairness of this statement. "You told me I should invite him, whenever I liked, you said -"
"I didn't know it would be every day. Doesn't the man have his own house - I know he does, I've seen it."
"You have your friends over all the time, and I never say anything, not even the time when William was sick all over the stairs -"
"Oh, so this is what marriage will be like," Jon said. "Nag, nag, nag."
"Fine," Tom said. "Fine, if you don't want Pete to come over -"
"Oh, it's Pete now, is it?"
"I've always called him Pete," Tom said, enraged. "I've known him since I was thirteen, you've heard me call him that before, you never said anything about it before."
Seeing the sense in this line of argument, Jon bowed and said with dignity, "I won't stand here with you shouting like a fishwife," and fled to his club. He was repaid when he returned to the house. Wentz was not dining with him, but neither, it seemed, was Tom. His butler told him with a blank expression that Tom had said he would dine out that evening, as he understood that Jon was otherwise engaged. Jon was not amused.
He had just finished his own dinner when William arrived, a little out of breath. "I'm glad I caught you," he said when he was shown in, "aren't you ready to leave yet? We'll miss it."
"What are you talking about?" Jon said. He was in no mood for William's babbling this evening.
"The race, the race!" William said. When Jon looked at him blankly, he said, "Wentz has organized a race through the countryside by moonlight - several miles, they're leaving from outside the city and racing along the T--- road and back, it's the talk of the town, I thought you would be there already."
"Why would I be at a race that Wentz - oh no, don't tell me," he said, but there was no stopping William. He wanted to be told, anyway.
"They were saying Tom would ride with Wentz, I assumed you would be there -"
"Yes, of course, because that's my job, isn't it? To stand about looking like an idiot every time Wentz chooses to flout convention - to flout my marriage -" William looked stricken and Jon said, "Never mind, go on without me, I'll meet you there," and went out to order his racing carriage.
Perhaps the one pleasure Jon took in the whole benighted enterprise was the look of complete surprise on Tom's face when he drove up, just before the race was about to start. Even that pleasure fell away, though, when Wentz laughed and said, "Walker, I'm glad you made it! Tom and I had a wager as to whether you would come or not, but I said, did I not, that you had a competitive streak, even if one had to dig deep to find it. But I warn you, I have every intention of besting you, don't think I don't."
"Oh, I know your intentions exactly," Jon said bitterly, and Wentz waved his hand in a sort of salute. Before he could call the race to a start, Tom stood up and said something to him softly, and then got down from the carriage. As Jon watched, Tom walked over to him and said,
"Let me up."
Jon looked at him and then held out a hand before he thought about it. When Tom swung himself up Jon said, "You don't have to be - go with Wentz, I'd rather, anyway - you only make the carriage slower and heavier."
"Are you telling me to get out," Tom said, settling down beside him and not looking at him, "here in front of everyone?"
He had a point, Jon had to admit. That would not serve to stop any gossip. So he just shrugged and picked up the reins. "Do as you like," he said, "you always do." Tom looked over at him, but before he could say anything, Wentz called over,
"Have you stolen my good luck charm?"
"We shall see," Jon said. Then Wentz called out to start the race, and they were off.
Jon was skilled enough at driving, but he had had no time to prepare, and his mind was elsewhere, and besides, Wentz always drove hell for leather. In a short time he had fallen far behind, but he tried his best to keep his mind on the race. Beside him Tom sat silently, leaning into him as they rounded a corner, his hair blown wild by the wind and his face still and pale as a statue. Jon took another corner even faster, and when Tom almost slid off the seat Jon grabbed his arm roughly and pulled him close, then let his arm fall around his waist. "Be careful," he said.
Tom looked at him, biting his lip, and then said, "Why did you come tonight?"
"Enough people are talking as it is," Jon said shortly, glancing over at him and then back at the road. "I would prefer that they not talk about you more than absolutely necessary. What did you expect to happen when you came out with Wentz tonight?"
"I thought - I'm married," Tom said. "What more do they want? What else is there that they can say?"
Jon didn't answer, but looked at Tom until Tom flushed, dully, up to his hairline and then down his neck. "I didn't - " he said, "I don't -" and Jon continued to look at him, wondering how Tom would finish his sentence, until Tom said, "Look out!"
That was not how Jon thought the sentence would end at all, but when he turned back to the road in time to see the dark ditch looming before them, it made perfect sense. He wrenched at the reins but it was too late, and all he could do was try to keep the carriage from overturning. He failed at that too, he thought desperately, and then he didn't think of anything, anything except the darkness of the ditch and the night that surrounded him and swallowed him.
He woke to Tom leaning over him, panting a little, his hair curling at the corners of his temples. Jon reached up to touch him there and Tom said, "Jon, are you all right?" Jon remembered himself and pulled his hand down.
"Yes," he said, sitting up and clutching his head. "Yes - the horses?"
"They're fine," Tom said, "I don't know how but they are, I unhitched them and tied them up. Are you all right? You didn't answer, I think you passed out -"
"I'm fine," Jon said, though he had a miserable headache and, he realized, he was sitting in the mud in quite a good pair of pants. "I'm fine," he said, pushing Tom's hands away, and then he looked more closely. "What did you do to your hand?" he said.
"Nothing, I'm fine," Tom said crossly, but when Jon grabbed his arm he winced, and then let Jon examine his hand. Tom had wrapped it in a handkerchief, which was already bloody, and when Jon unwrapped the makeshift bandage he could see that the cut was quite deep.
"The hell you're fine," Jon said, "you look like a ghost, sit down before you fall down and hold your hand up - no, higher." Tom sat down obediently and held his arm above his head. "What did you do to it, anyway?" Jon said as he stood up to survey the rest of the damage.
"The carriage wheel came off, I thought I could -"
"You thought you could what?" Jon said, kicking at the wheel uselessly. "There's nothing you can do here, we need a wheelwright, and probably someone to look at the carriage, I think it's off the axle." He turned away from the carriage, which was one of the first things he'd purchased after the wedding, and sighed. Then he sat back down in the dirt next to Tom and said, "Don't worry, someone will realize we haven't come back and come to find us."
"No, they won't," Tom said. He was speaking slowly. Jon couldn't tell if he was feeling the loss of blood, or if he just didn't want to tell Jon what he had to say. "They'll think - Pete will think you just took me home, that you were angry about the race and you made me go home."
"Ah," Jon said. Tom was right, he knew; even William would probably make the same assumption. "Well, we can't stay here all night, and I don't think we can ride all the way back to town, even if the horses will do it - not me with my head, and you with your hand. But if I remember correctly, there's a small inn not far from here, very countrified of course, but they should have a doctor, or at least some whiskey and a couple of beds. Do you think you can ride with just one hand, if I help you up?"
"Of course I can," Tom said, "you don't need to help me," but he leaned heavily on Jon as he got to his feet. His hand had started bleeding again, and he was very pale. Jon didn't like the look of him at all.
"All right," Jon said as Tom stumbled over nothing, "that settles it, you can't ride." Tom didn't even protest much, which was how Jon knew he felt as badly as he looked, as Jon mounted one of the horses and then pulled Tom up behind him. "Hold on," he said, as he wrapped Tom's uninjured arm around his own waist. He could feel Tom breathing heavily against the back of his neck as he rode as quickly as he dared, leading the second horse behind him, in search of the inn he only vaguely remembered. "You all right there?" he said, and after a moment Tom nodded behind him. Jon kept up a steady stream of ridiculous chatter, pausing every so often so that Tom had to answer him and Jon knew he was all right.
The inn was worse than he remembered, very small and full of country folk, not the type of place he would ever have set foot in, unless for a drunken lark. But the innkeeper was a good sort, clearing out a space near the fire and helping him get Tom inside, directing the stableboys to take care of the horses and then to go look after the wreck of the carriage. Once inside the inn the man's wife bustled around Tom with smelling salts and clean bandages, and then said over her shoulder, "He should have the doctor, I don't like the look of this cut at all."
Tom protested and tried to stand up, but Jon said, "Yes, of course, please send for the doctor at once. Tom, sit down and stop fidgeting, you're making it hard for this lady to look after you properly." Tom looked over at him, then sat still and mumbled "sorry" to the innkeeper's wife, who brushed it aside and continued to fuss over him. Leaving Tom to her ministrations, Jon went over to the bar and treated his own headache and his nerves with a quick whiskey.
When he finished, he said to the innkeeper - Babish, he said his name was, with a clumsy bow and a tug at his forehead - "We'll need two rooms. Can you or your men help me get him upstairs? I think he's fine to move, even before the doctor gets here, and he'll be more comfortable in bed."
"Yes, my lord," Babish said uncomfortably, "but we're uncommon full tonight, for market day tomorrow. I have only the one room free, but I could wake someone, have them sleep down here in the coffee room -"
"No," Jon said. "No, of course not, one room will be fine. Can you help me move him?"
Tom resisted the idea of being carried upstairs, of course, or even of being helped, but when he stood up because "I can walk myself," he sat back down in a hurry, looking so pale he was almost green.
"He needs stitches," Mrs. Babish said. "I can't stop the bleeding, and he's lost a bit of blood."
Between them Jon and the innkeeper got Tom up to the empty room, half-carrying him up the stairs and letting him walk, supported by both of them, down the hallway. Mrs. Babish ran ahead of them to prepare the room, and by the time Tom reached the bed he looked very glad to be there. He bent down to take off his shoes and nearly fainted, Jon saw him. He sent the innkeeper and his wife out of the room, to bring up water and some food and a bottle of whiskey, and then knelt on the floor and took Tom's shoes off himself. He opened Tom's cravat and unbuttoned his shirt a little, and made sure he was lying comfortably on the bed. "Just lie still," he said, patting Tom's leg gently. "Don't close your eyes though, just lie still."
"I'm sorry," Tom said quietly.
"Don't be silly," Jon said, "it's my own fault for driving off the road."
"Not for that," Tom said, but just then the doctor came in, followed by the innkeeper and his wife.
The doctor agreed with Mrs. Babish's assessment of the need for stitches, and laid out his materials as Tom watched him, wide-eyed and even paler, if possible, from the bed. Jon sat down on Tom's other side, on the edge of the bed, and handed him a glass of whiskey. "Here," he said, supporting Tom's head, "drink this, as fast as you can," and Tom choked a little but he got it all down. "No, don't look over there," Jon said as the doctor threaded his needle, "here, look at me," and kept talking, nonsense mostly, while the doctor did his work. Tom kept his eyes on him the whole time, chewing at his lip but not saying a word until the doctor was done. "Good man," Jon said, and patted Tom's leg again, before the doctor beckoned him.
"He'll be fine, my lord, just a nasty cut," the doctor said at the door. "Get some food in him, if he can keep it down, and give him as much of the whiskey as he needs to get to sleep, and in the morning he should be right as rain. Just keep the cut clean, and have him be careful the next few days."
Jon thanked everyone and herded them out into the hallway in a hail of advice and well wishes, then closed the door firmly behind them. Alone in the room with Tom he felt a little strange, almost shy. "You should eat," he said loudly as he turned around. "Doctor's orders, they brought some bread and cheese up for you, Mrs. Babish said she made the cheese herself, so that should be good, don't you think?"
Tom ate a little of the bread when Jon pressed it on him, then made a face and said, "I can't, I feel sick."
"A little more whiskey, then," Jon said, bustling about as heartily as Mrs. Babish had, but feeling much more artificial than he was sure that good woman ever had in her life. "It'll help you sleep, doctor's orders -"
Tom shook his head, but then took the glass when Jon put it in his hand. He sipped at it and then put it down. "I'll be fine," he said. He reached down with his one good hand and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, then said, "It's okay, I'll sleep like this."
"No," Jon said, "don't be silly, I can help you," but he fumbled a little with the buttons too until Tom pulled away.
"It's fine," Tom said, "leave it."
Jon left it. He walked over to the window and stood looking out at the moon for a few minutes. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and drank it down. Then he walked over to the foot of the bed. "Tom," he said. "We can't go on like this."
Tom looked at him, wide-eyed and pale from the bed, and bit his lip without saying anything.
"It's no good," Jon said. "I'm not happy with my own actions, and I don't - I don't think you're happy, either, though you don't say so."
"I'm trying," Tom said, struggling to sit up. "I'm trying, I try to do what you ask, I don't do anything if you don't say -"
"No, no," Jon said soothingly. He sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand on the quilt, near Tom's ankle but not touching him. "I'm not - God knows I'm not blaming you, Tom, but I think - I think things might be better if we could talk about it, just once. Don't you think so?"
Tom closed his eyes for a minute. "All right," he said finally. "If you like."
"I have not - I have not been fair to you," Jon said. It was a relief to finally say it. "I have been - I know that I have not been treating you as I should lately, I have been short and impatient with you, when all you have done is what I have encouraged you to do. This is my fault, I admit it freely, and I ask your pardon." Tom just looked at him from the bed, and Jon took a deep breath and continued. "I have been - recently I have been in the grip of strong feelings, feelings that I myself have not been anxious to acknowledge. It is not your fault, and if I could I would keep them to myself and not bother you with them, but I - I have not been acting as I would hope, so I thought it better … Well, I thought it better to let you know, that I am not quite myself these days. I must confess, to my chagrin, that my feelings are somewhat beyond my control, and I am afraid that I have been taking it out on you. It is not right, and unfair, and I will do my best not to do it anymore. And I am sure - I am sure that soon enough, these feelings will pass, or, if not pass," Jon said, because he could not imagine them passing, and he wanted to be honest with Tom, "then at least I will have myself under better control, sometime soon. Either way, it is nothing for you to concern yourself over, except that I will mend my behavior toward you. We can go about our separate lives, but treat each other civilly. I would like you to be happy, Tom, if you can be."
"Yes," Tom said after a minute, his voice a little tight. He must be fading, Jon thought, after the excitement of the evening and then his injury. Jon would not keep him up much longer. "Yes, I know you would."
"You are tired," Jon said, "and I will let you sleep, but there is one thing." Tom looked at him expectantly. "I said before - I would have your pardon, for my behavior these past few weeks, if you would give it me."
"You don't need to ask my pardon. It's not your fault, you can't help having whatever feelings you have."
"I can help how I act," Jon said, "and I would like your pardon."
Tom was quiet for a moment and then he said, "Of course, of course you have it." Then he sat up a little and said, "And I am - I am sorry, that you cannot - that you cannot act on your feelings, as you might like. I am sorry if it makes you unhappy."
For a moment, when Tom had watched him as he spoke, Jon had wondered if Tom knew the full import of what he was saying. Now, seeing the way Tom looked at him, with pity and sadness, he knew he was wrong to doubt it for a moment. With his fineness of feeling, of course Tom knew, and knowing Tom he also felt guilt that he could not return Jon's feelings. So Jon smiled at him and said, "I am not so unhappy, and I hope to be happier soon."
"Yes," Tom said, and then he said, "I think I will sleep now, if you don't mind."
"Of course," Jon said, pulling the blanket up around him. "I will sleep in the chair, you mustn't worry -"
Tom looked at him and then closed his eyes, falling back into the pillow. "Yes, if you like," he said quietly.
Jon gathered up a pillow and another blanket and curled up in the chair. "Good night," he called, but Tom didn't answer. He must have been already asleep, Jon thought. He went to blow out the candle but then drew back. Instead he let the candle burn down as he lay awake and watched Tom sleep, pale and still against the rough sheets. He lay awake and watched Tom sleep, so that when they returned home and he lay awake in his own room, in his own bed, he would have something to remember.
[xi. the escape]