a marriage of convenience: iv. the country
iv. the country
One morning at breakfast Jon received a message from his country estate. "I'll have to go down for a week," he told Tom, who came down to breakfast these days if they hadn't been out terribly late the night before. "Will you be all right here on your own? I'll tell William and Andy to come by if you like."
"I'll be fine," Tom said automatically. He played with his teacup for a minute, and by now Jon had seen him do it often enough that he had a napkin ready even before Tom spilled his tea. "Do you think I could come with you?" Tom said as he took Jon's napkin and scrubbed diligently at the tablecloth.
Jon was quiet for a minute.
"It's all right," Tom said. "I'll be fine here."
Jon tried to remember if Tom had ever asked him for anything before. He couldn't think of anything. "Of course you can," Jon said. "You should pack tonight though - I want to leave tomorrow first thing."
On their way down to the country Jon rode beside the carriage, as much to give himself time to think as anything else. Cadence was where he grew up, where he'd spent his school vacations and where his father had died. The London house was where Jon spent most of his time lately, but if selling that house instead of the estate would have saved his fortune he would have done it without a second thought. Cadence was his home.
It was old and crumbling, practically falling down, and one of the reasons he'd been summoned was to direct some of the repairs that Tom's father's money would make possible. It wasn't, perhaps, what one thought of as a classic English country home, but it was Jon's, and he found he was rather sensitive about it. Tom was a city boy, it was easy to see, and brought up in luxury. Jon was a little worried that Tom would be disappointed by Cadence.
As they made their way further from the city, though, Tom grew more and more excited. It was a fine day and the carriage was open, and Jon almost laughed to see Tom looking around him like a child. He rode closer to ask, "Have you been to the country before? I wouldn't have thought your father was much for the quiet life."
Tom laughed and said, "No, he hates it, he says it's dirty and smells bad and that anyone with any sense has already left for the city. I like it, though, I like being outside all day and riding and not worrying about what I look like or if anyone is watching. And swimming! I love swimming, do you think it's warm enough? Is there anywhere to swim there, I didn't ask, is there a pond or anything?"
This was possibly the longest speech Jon had ever heard Tom make, and it was certainly the most enthusiastic. He grinned wider and said, "You sound like a country boy. But if your father disliked it, when were you in the country?"
"I was at school in the country," Tom said. "My father didn't like it, he didn't like me being away from London but it was where the school was."
"Your school was more liberal than mine," Jon said, "if they let you ride and swim and stay outside all day."
Tom looked away for a minute, then said quietly, "I went on a visit once, too, to the country."
"Oh," Jon said, and then because he couldn't stand the fact that Tom was no longer smiling, went on to tell him about the swimming hole, even though he was fairly sure it was too cold to go in.
By the time they arrived Tom had recovered his good spirits. At the gate Jon had to laughingly forbid him from jumping down from the carriage to examine a particularly odd-looking cow, and even then only a promise to visit the stables once they'd dined kept Tom in the carriage to ride up to the front door as good manners dictated. Jon was a little worried about delivering Tom into the hands of the housekeeper, who'd been in charge since long before Jon was born and had a reputation as a bit of a Tartar, but he needn't have been concerned. Tom was at his best when they arrived, smiling with the sun in his hair, gazing around him with approval at everything, looking young and wide-eyed as he shook hands with her. Besides, Jon realized, Tom had the one quality Mrs. Beaton was sure to adore: he had absolutely no desire to take charge of the domestic arrangements. As Tom followed her obediently up to his room, Jon thought Mrs. Beaton might be in love.
Jon trailed after them upstairs to make sure Tom wasn't overwhelmed. He was surprised when Mrs. Beaton led them to his mother's old room, which had been closed up for years, since Jon was a child, but he didn't say anything. The last time he'd been to Cadence, right after his father's death, she'd had his things moved into his father's room and he'd been surprised then, too. Of course this would be Tom's room.
Jon was pleased to see how pleased Tom was with the room, admiring even the somewhat shabby wallpaper and curtains, exclaiming over the wide windows and the view. "This was the mistress's room," Mrs. Beaton said proudly. "She loved the view too, at the end she loved to lie in bed and look out over the countryside."
"Oh," Tom said, glancing at Jon. "Are you sure - maybe there's another room -"
"Don't be silly," Jon said. "It's your room."
"Well, I'll leave you on your own now," Mrs. Beaton said. "Lunch will be in an hour, but I'm sure you'd like to freshen up -"
"Oh, I'm fine," Tom said, and Jon bit back a smile at Mrs. Beaton's face. "If lunch isn't for an hour, maybe we could ride -"
"Perhaps you'd like a tour, then," Mrs. Beaton said grandly. "I'm sure you'd like to see the house, and make sure everything is to your liking."
"Oh, yes," Tom said uncertainly. This time Jon had to cover his grin with his hand as Tom shot a sharp glance at him. "I mean, I'm sure everything is to my liking, but I would very much like a tour."
Jon tagged along on the tour too. Mrs. Beaton was at her most officious, pointing out the features in each room, repeating all the old family stories and describing the historical significance of the estate. Tom listened carefully and made polite admiring noises at the right times, and even asked a few shy, respectful questions. After fifteen minutes of this Jon took pity on him and said, "He can see the rest some other time, I'll take you out to the stables now, Tom," but Mrs. Beaton looked at him like he'd suggested setting Cadence on fire and Tom said firmly,
"No, we haven't even seen the Elizabethan wing yet, Mrs. Beaton said that was of particular architectural interest," and Mrs. Beaton smiled warmly at him.
"Suck-up," Jon whispered in Tom's ear as they went up the steps, but Tom just smiled and asked about the detail on the cornice in the hallway.
Mrs. Beaton always saved the portrait gallery for last, Jon remembered, and he also remembered what a bore family portraits were for anyone not in the family. He tried again to hurry them through, but Mrs. Beaton could not be hurried and Tom actually seemed to linger longer than she did, looking up at the tall portraits and asking questions about the artists and about the men and women in old-fashioned dress. Jon answered before Mrs. Beaton could, but she didn't seem to mind, drawing away a little and murmuring something about checking on luncheon. Jon had spent hours in the portrait gallery when he was small, running up and down the long room on rainy days, listening to the stories his father told him about his ancestors. Tom listened gravely to the tales Jon had loved when he was young, about the soldiers and explorers, and laughed at the stories Jon hadn't appreciated until he was older, about the various shenanigans Walkers were given to in pursuit of love. At the far end of the gallery Tom looked at the last portrait and said, "Who is that? He looks like you."
"That's my father," Jon said quietly. "It was painted when he was about my age."
Tom looked up at the picture for a minute and then said, "I wish I had known him."
"Yes," Jon said, and then stopped abruptly. It occurred to him that his father would have hated the idea of Tom standing here in Cadence as if he belonged. His father would have hated, had hated the idea that Jon had been driven to a marriage like this. It had been one of his last and greatest regrets, his attorney had told Jon after his father's death. His father had never known Tom, but he'd hated the idea of him. The unfairness of it struck him suddenly, as he watched Tom examine the portrait, his head tilted back, sunlight glowing along the line of this throat and his hair like a halo. Jon almost said aloud, "It's not his fault," but instead he took Tom's elbow and led him firmly out of the gallery, mumbling something about lunch. Tom looked at him in surprise but didn't argue.
After lunch they finally escaped Mrs. Beaton and Jon took Tom out to the stables. He was cautious at first; Tom said he loved to ride but Jon wasn't sure if Tom loved to ride or if he loved the idea of riding. He was reluctant to mount him on one of his own horses, which were one of his luxuries, high-blooded and hard to manage. He tried to start Tom out with one of the fat old nags he kept in case a cousin or aunt came for a visit and wanted to ride, but Tom's fury was so comical that Jon couldn't stop laughing long enough to insist. Instead he stuck close to Tom, keeping an eye on him to be sure he didn't get hurt, but soon it was obvious that Tom knew what he was doing and could even give Jon a run for his money.
It was such a pleasure to ride with someone so evenly matched that Jon took Tom out every day at least once, and sometimes twice if the weather was fine. They rode all over the estate, Jon pointing out his favorite places to hunt and fish, and promising to take Tom along in season. Sometimes they raced, and when Tom won he tumbled off his horse and stood grinning up at Jon, squinting in the sun with his hair windblown. Sometimes Jon had to turn away for a moment, pretending to fix his horse's bridle, until he could compose himself. When they weren't riding they went for long walks, while Jon pretended to inspect the fences and Tom told Jon about how he used to get in trouble at school for wandering out of bounds with his sketchpad looking for flowers or trees to draw. When Jon asked, Tom tried to explain how he knew what he wanted to capture in a picture, how he composed it in his mind, and then grew exasperated with words and took Jon's wrists in his hands to shape imaginary frames in the air when Jon seemed slow to understand.
One afternoon they walked far into the woods and then stopped to rest in a clearing, so far away from any sign of human life that all they could hear was the chirping of birds and the rush of a stream in the distance. From his pocket Jon took a pipe and some of the special tobacco Andy brought back from his travels. Tom sat on the ground, heedless of his pants, and watched in fascination as Jon took a long drag and then passed the pipe to Tom.
The smoke made Jon talkative but it took Tom the opposite way. He lay on his back, looking up at the sky with heavy-lidded eyes, and smiled as Jon talked to him. He stretched slowly, his arms above his head in the long grass, and Jon struggled up on one arm to watch him. Tom's hair was in his eyes but he couldn't be bothered to reach up to push it away. Instead he blew at it ineffectually until Jon laughed at the way it lifted and then fell back further onto his face. He leaned over and pushed it back for Tom, but when Tom smiled at him again he couldn't help it.
Jon kissed him.
It wasn't like the first time, when Tom surged up against him, lifting himself up to reach for him. Jon wasn't sure if it was the drug or just how Tom was, how Tom had always been and Jon never knew, but Tom was slow and relaxed, opening his mouth with a soft sigh under Jon's as if he'd been waiting for it. Tom seemed content to lie there and be kissed, and at first Jon thought he was content too, to lie there and kiss Tom, to kiss him forever. But soon he was sliding a hand over Tom's waist, pulling his shirt loose to feel the warm skin underneath. Tom was just as content with that too, stretching again so his shirt slipped up over his stomach, spreading his legs around Jon when Jon rolled on top of him.
When Jon kissed his throat and Tom mumbled, "oh, finally," the words were slow and slurred, like he was caught in a dream. Jon pulled away a little and this time Tom reached for him, but his hand moved slowly and he didn't grab at Jon's arm, just brushed against it like he thought Jon was closer, like he couldn't quite judge the distance between them.
"Wait," Jon said, and Tom mumbled something and shook his head.
"No, wait," Jon said, and shook his own head to clear it. "We're not, we're not thinking straight," Jon said, and Tom smiled up at him, his eyes still half-closed, and brushed his hand over Jon's arm again.
"No," he said, and slipped two fingers under Jon's sleeve.
Jon sat up and said, "No," pulling his hand away. He shouldn't do this, he knew that though he couldn't quite remember the reason why. He just remembered that he had decided, he remembered that it was for a good reason, and then Tom shifted on his back, his shirt slipping higher while he moved restlessly like he had that first night, and suddenly Jon remembered why. "It's me," he said, the words thick and hard to find through the fog of the drug. But he knew he owed it to Tom to try. "I'm not - Tom, it's me," he said, and Tom said, still smiling,
"All right."
"No," Jon said. "It's not all right, you don't want - we can't do this. Don't you remember?" he said, and for a moment Tom looked at him, his head thrown back lazily, his mouth a little open. For a moment Jon looked down at him, wondering if this was how Tom had looked for - for other people, if this was how Tom was and Jon would never know. Then Jon's words seemed to reach him and Tom sat up, pulling his shirt down and tucking it in.
"Yes," he said. He fumbled with his shirt but his words were crisp. "I remember."
Jon got up and Tom followed clumsily, ignoring Jon's hand when it was offered. "I can go back myself," he said, but Jon wouldn't let him go alone. It was getting dark, and the way wasn't easy to find if you hadn't grown up on the land, and Tom was still moving slowly. He stayed next to Tom all the way back to the house and then back to Tom's room. The house was big, after all, and Tom might not remember the way.
When they reached Tom's room Jon said, "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking," and Tom nodded and waited for Jon to turn away before he shut the door.
At dinner Tom was pale but he answered politely when Jon spoke to him. He had a headache, he said, and suffered the housekeeper's fussing around him with potions and handkerchiefs soaked in lavender water. He went to bed early. Jon didn't object.
[v. the dog]