Two Rogues Make a Right Page 2
“If you’re going to sit there,” Martin said, his voice rusty with disuse and weak from lack of air, “at least tell me a story.”
Will almost dropped the cloth. That was the first thing Martin had asked for in the last week, unless one counted “fuck off” and “let me die” as requests. “What, you’re not going to ask nicely?” he murmured.
Martin opened his eyes long enough to raise an eyebrow and cast Will a baleful glance. “William,” he sighed. “Really.” And just the sight of Martin looking scornful and bored warmed Will’s heart a little bit. Maybe everything would be fine.
Never in his entire life had Will been able to refuse anything Martin requested, so he launched into a tale of evil wizards and kindhearted ogres, of princesses who carried swords and merchants with enchanted ships. It was nonsense, and likely would only pass muster with a highly feverish audience. But as the sun crept higher in the sky, Martin dozed, and when he woke his fever was gone.
Chapter Two
Martin didn’t know if it was the sound of Will’s voice or the fact that it meant Will was nearby, but listening to him read aloud was soothing in a way no tinctures or balms had ever been. Even now, when Will was reading a thoroughly mad novel about villainous doctors hell-bent on grave robbing and vivisection, his voice acted like a snake charmer’s flute.
As Martin listened, he looked out the window at this landscape that was neither strange nor quite familiar in its gentle near-flatness. Martin could, he supposed, ask Will where they were. But what mattered more was where they weren’t: not near anyone who would try to browbeat or control Martin—for his own good, of course—nor anyone who thought Martin’s illness was an excellent excuse to politely take away his choices and his freedom, to delicately turn the key in the lock.
And yet. He didn’t think he had come willingly to—to wherever they were. He wanted to know where they were, but more importantly he wanted to know how they had gotten there, but he was afraid he wasn’t ready for the answer to that quite yet.
He became aware that Will had left off reading. “Don’t stop,” he said. “At least not on my account.”
“Your eyes were shut,” Will said. He sat in the chair beside Martin’s bed, his booted feet a heavy weight on the mattress. Martin could almost sense the heat pouring off Will’s body. Will had always run hot. “I thought you might have fallen asleep.”
“I’m paying perfect attention,” Martin lied. His fever may have broken, but his mind was the hollowed-out husk it always was after a fever. It had been two years since he showed the first signs of consumption, which he had acquired in circumstances he strongly preferred not to think about, but before that he had a lifetime of frail health and weak lungs and ill humors and whatever else the physicians and apothecaries decided to call it. By now Martin knew the lay of the land. “I want to know what happens to the poor man.” When Will didn’t answer, Martin opened his eyes and found Will looking at him curiously, his hair tumbled across his forehead in a way that made Martin’s fingers itch to brush it back.
“Which poor man?” Will asked carefully.
“The man who—he lives in the Alps and has an overbearing father.”
Will closed the book. “I think we’ll leave the rest of this novel for when you’re more lucid,” he said, his mouth twitching in a badly suppressed smile, “but I will always cherish the description of Victor Frankenstein as an overbearing parent.”
“You’re mocking an invalid. Shame on you.” But just that short conversation had drained Martin and he already felt his eyelids drooping. “Later,” he said.
“Wait,” Will said. “Let me give you more medicine before you’re asleep. Getting willow bark tincture down your throat while you’re sleeping is a harrowing experience.”
As Will brought the little bottle over, Martin noticed that it was nearly empty. He had the distinct sense that he ought to get better before that stuff ran out or Will would start committing highway robbery. And Will would be a terrible highwayman—all flustered apologies and not a bit of bloodlust—so he mustn’t let that happen.
“What are you smiling about?” Will asked.
Martin shook his head and opened his mouth for the spoonful of tincture, his hands still too shaky to manage the job on his own. Almost as soon as he swallowed, he felt sleep overtake him. “That’s it, love,” Will said, kissing the top of his head.
This was going to be the death of him. He had survived this latest illness only to be murdered by casual affection. Will was the sort of person who could kiss your head and call you love and have it mean nothing other than friendship. Martin knew perfectly well that Will spoke that way to dogs and old ladies. The problem was that Martin was the sort of person who could go a twelvemonth without touching anyone besides the physicians who came to do his bloodlettings. The conversion rate was terribly unequal, like pounds to francs, which led to Martin cherishing all those touches, all that blasted sweetness, hoarding it all in his heart like a dragon jealously guarding its treasure. Which was fine, perfectly fine, God knew he had been doing that for years upon years, but he didn’t want Will to actually notice. That was a degree of awkwardness that Martin didn’t think he could face, and he didn’t think Will could either.
Just before sunrise on their eighth day at the cottage, Will got up from the chair where he had been trying and failing to sleep, shrugged on his coat, and slipped out the door. His breath clouded the air and the ground beneath his boots was crisp with frost. The sliver of moon was barely visible beyond the clouds in the night sky, and Will thought nothing had ever been so still or so dark.
Purely for the sake of doing something, he split a few logs and gathered kindling, then paced a couple of times around the perimeter of the cottage. There was a flat piece of earth that looked like it had once been a potato patch, and where, if he allowed himself to think more than a few days into the future, he might think to plant carrots or turnips.
“And who might you be?” said a woman’s voice. Will looked up to see a plump woman standing on the other side of the garden gate, her head covered in a scarf and a basket looped over her arm. On the way here, Will hadn’t seen any houses between the London road and the cottage, and he hadn’t been able to leave Martin long enough to explore. He was almost startled to discover that they were near human habitation, that they weren’t on a desert isle, just him and Martin, marooned, alone.
“Will Sedgwick,” he said. His voice was hoarse with fatigue. He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think he had slept since the previous morning.
“Are you the new gamekeeper?” she asked, more an accusation than a question. “The manor has been shut up for years. Can’t say I know what the new owner wants with a gamekeeper, unless they mean to catch poachers, and that won’t go over too well, let me tell you.”
“No,” said Will, startled. “Nothing like that. The cottage is being let by an invalid who needs the country air. As far as I know, the manor is still unoccupied,” he added, which was true, if not precisely honest.
The woman gave him a long look, but something in her posture eased. “Hmph. And you’re tending this invalid yourself?”
“Yes,” Will said, with the sense that he was walking into a trap, although he couldn’t guess what the trap might be.
“You look like you’re ready to keel over. It’s not men’s work. Is he your brother or your gentleman?”
Will blinked. “Pardon?”
“Are you his manservant? I’m trying to figure out how a man your age finds himself looking after an invalid.”
“He’s a friend.” When she continued to regard him levelly, he bristled. “I know what I’m doing, all right? I’ve done it before. I nursed my mother, and she had the same illness he has.” It was true—he did know how to nurse a consumptive, and he also knew that there wasn’t much to be done beyond getting food and water into them, keeping them warm, and hoping for the best.
“And what would that be?” the woman asked, stepping closer.
Now that the woman was nearer and the sun higher in the sky, Will could see she wasn’t as old as he had previously thought. Certainly not forty, for all she was swathed in shawls and scarves like a village witch. “You’ve been nursing a consumptive on your own for how long?”
Will needed a moment to add up the days. “A bit over a week. But he’s doing much better now,” he protested.
“And what are you eating?”
“Tea and porridge,” Will said, trying to keep up with the interrogation. “He can’t really eat much more than that.”
“But you can, you daft child. Daisy!” she called, cupping her hands to her mouth to make a funnel. “Get over here!”
A minute later a girl appeared from behind a hedgerow. In one hand she carried a brace of hares, and Will now understood why her mother had been worried about poachers being caught. “Mum?” she asked.
“This fellow here, Mister—”
“Sedgwick,” Will supplied.
“Mr. Sedgwick is staying here, at the old gamekeeper’s cottage, and he needs a maid of all work. You start tomorrow.”
“But Mum!” she cried, imbuing the single syllable with all the outrage a girl of about fifteen is capable of.
“Off with you. Tomorrow morning. Be there before dawn. Now take those—” she gestured at the hares “—and dress them for supper.”
The girl sulked off.
“I’m afraid I can’t pay a maid’s wages,” Will admitted, his face flushing.
“Didn’t think you could. The fact is that I need a man around the house, fixing the roof, splitting logs, helping Daisy catch the pig when it gets loose. Can you mend walls and fix barrels and that sort of thing?”
“Yes,” Will said. After a childhood spent in a house that seemed always on the verge of collapse, followed by his years at sea, he could fix almost anything.
“Good. And,” she said, lowering her voice to an ominous tone and leaning in, “the girl has too much time on her hands. The ostler’s been making eyes.”
“I see,” Will said, unconsciously imitating her tone and her posture, so they were effectively whispering in one another’s ears.
“Keep her busy a few hours a day, and she can come back in the afternoon with a loaf of bread and a pot of whatever I’m making for supper. You look like you could use feeding up,” she said, casting a critical eye over Will’s form. “You or your friend touch her, I will kill you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Will said, startled.
“Good.” She nodded and left in the direction her daughter had gone.
Will was very aware that he had just been manipulated, but he was also aware of something like relief. For a week, he had felt like the only person in the world who wanted to drag Martin back from the brink of death. Even Martin—especially Martin—seemed disinterested in his own fate. Having someone to help, even an obstreperous child, would be worth something.
Chapter Three
“I swear to God I will not let another spoonful of that putrid nastiness pass my lips,” Martin said, and, really, it was good to hear him sound like his old self. After two weeks in the cottage, Martin could shuffle around on unsteady feet and wasn’t coughing half as much as he had been when they arrived. “I haven’t had a fever in over a week and I’m hardly coughing up any blood at all. No more medicine.”
That was just as well, because they had run out of the paregoric the day before. “How about some potato soup?” Will asked. He had already ladled some into the cup on the hopes that Martin would want it.
“Promise it’s not gruel,” Martin said, but Will saw him eying the mug greedily.
“On my honor.” Will sat on the edge of the bed and held the cup to Martin’s lips.
“I’m not a baby,” Martin protested.
“Only acting like one,” Will murmured, earning himself a glare. “Is your hand steady enough to hold the cup?”
With a roll of his eyes, Martin held up a mostly steady hand. Will helped him wrap it around the cup, keeping his own hand around Martin’s just in case. It was slow going: Martin’s grip was shaky, and Will needed to brace a hand at the back of Martin’s neck in order to get the job done. Finally, though, Martin took a sip of the broth and swallowed, then groaned. “That was—well, if it’s possible for potato soup to be ambrosial, it just was.” He looked up at Will with a rusty, familiar smile and Will knew he ought to be glad to see it—Christ he was glad, he was so glad he could hardly believe it—but the sight of that grin on Martin’s face suddenly made him want to take Martin by the collar and shake him. For the past two weeks, after finding Martin and dragging him off to the country, Will had tried not to be angry. But the healthier Martin became—healthiness being measured in relative terms—the harder it was for Will not to be furious with him. How dare Martin let himself get to death’s door, how dare he let Will think he was dead? How dare he act like his life didn’t matter, not to himself, not even to Will?
Martin, however, was utterly dependent on him; now wasn’t the time for a fight. But Martin Easterbrook had been able to detect Will’s less gentlemanly turns of mind for well over a decade, and when Will saw Martin’s eyes narrow, he knew he was caught out.
“Out with it, William.”
“No. I’m going to be a good friend,” Will said virtuously.
Martin lifted the cup to his mouth again, this time by himself, and regarded Will over the brim. “You’ll feel better if you get it out. Like lancing a boil.”
“No, that’s you. You’re the one who feels better after saying every wicked thing that pops into your mind.”
“Which is because it’s an excellent practice,” Martin said. “Come now. Either tell me why you’re cross or we’re going to spend the rest of the evening in terrible awkwardness.”
The worst part of it was that he was right. “I was going to mention that you could have been gorging yourself on soup if you had come to me in the autumn, rather than camping in my brother’s attic like a madman,” Will said, the words out of his mouth before he could think better of it.
“So I was living in Hartley’s attic,” Martin said in tones of academic curiosity. “I half thought I dreamed the whole thing up.”
Will had to concede that Hartley’s attic wasn’t the most bizarre place Martin could have chosen as a refuge. The house had once belonged to Martin’s father, and Will could see how a feverish man might retreat to a place that had once been his home. But to choose an unheated attic over Will’s rooms seemed like courting a death wish.
“A hair shirt would have been more to the point,” Martin added thoughtfully, absently handing the cup to Will.
Will put the teacup down so he didn’t accidentally crush it in his hand. “Imagine how he would have felt to find your body in his attic,” he said.
“Imagine how you’d have felt to find my body in this bed one fine morning,” Martin retorted. “We both know it’s only by chance that you didn’t. Kind of you to spare Hartley the drama, though.”
Will drew in a sharp breath, because that’s precisely what he had expected every time he turned his back that first week. Every time he opened his eyes, every time he walked through the door, the first thing he did was check for the rise and fall of Martin’s chest. He still did.
Perhaps sensing an advantage, Martin pressed on. “You can’t stop me from dying, you know. I have consumption. I’m going to die.”
“Some people are cured,” Will protested. “And even those who aren’t can live for decades. My mother—” As soon as he spoke, though, he knew it had been a mistake.
“Indeed, tell me more about how I can look forward to decades of increasingly severe illness. It’s utterly unclear what you hope to accomplish here. As far as I know you’re neither a necromancer nor a miracle worker. You could have let me die in peace.”
“This again,” Will said, throwing his hands up. “You really are a bastard.”
“Well spotted.�
�� Martin picked up the cup and raised it in a mock toast.
“You’re my friend,” Will said. “If you think I was going to leave you to die alone, you—” He really meant to say something like you’re sadly mistaken or you never knew me but what came out was, “You can go get fucked. Not everyone is as unrepentant an arsehole as you. You’re my friend, even if you seem to be intent on getting rid of me.”
“Seem? You haven’t been paying attention at all. I’ve been trying to shake you loose for months. Why did you think I wouldn’t answer your letters?”
Will knew from years of experience that Martin Easterbrook was a thoroughgoing lout when he didn’t feel well (which was often enough to make loutishness his basic personality, Will sometimes thought) and was even more of a git when he suspected that he was being treated like an invalid. Will knew this. But that didn’t stop it from hurting.
Will clenched his fists. He didn’t want to fight—he hated it as much as Martin seemed to thrive on it. The middle of five sons, and raised in a house filled with quarrelsome adults, even a hint of disagreement made his skin crawl. Other people might like to linger on their differences, poking and prodding until they had aired all their grievances, but Will wanted nothing more than to smooth things over, bandage the wounds, and move on. He had to get out of the cottage before he said something regrettable. “I’m going for a walk,” Will said, reaching for his coat. “I’ll be back before dusk.”
By the time he reached the village, his fury had subsided into a more familiar sorrow. He posted a letter for Hartley, drank a pint of ale at the pub, and then bought a loaf of bread and some cheese to take home as a weak effort at reconciliation.