that name as a child, surely?”
Alfie knelt to dry his feet, and looking down at that bent back, at the top of his round head and the tendrils of sunny bright hair in springy damp curls about his face, John wished with a panic that he had another cloth to wrap about his hips. He was not normally a particularly modest man, but at this moment he felt excruciatingly self-conscious and exposed, particularly when Alfie looked up, cheek so close to John’s thigh he could feel the heat of it like a minor sun.
But Alfie, thank God, after looking in his eyes and perhaps seeing the terror there, for once refrained from saying anything suggestive. “‘Aelfstan,’” he said, with a sigh. “My parents were antiquarians. I believe they met over some fossil or fascinating bone somewhere. ‘Aelfstan Petyt Donwell,’ to make it worse— ‘Petyt’ after the author of Jus Parliamentarium, you know. A book which I may proudly say I have never opened.”
He maneuvered John back across the floor to the newly made bed, and after examining the wound and declaring it would do well for a bit of fresh air, he helped him on with a clean nightshirt and lowered him gently back down to the pillow. “And so you have your revenge for my embarrassing you,” Alfie said. His eyes as he looked down were full of warmth, though John thought he saw lingering sadness also. It dismayed him.
“I should have known better than to try. Go back to sleep, sir. Soon you’ll be well, and I won’t have the chance again.”
Embarrassment? Was that what it was? John closed his eyes, ashamed of his recent thoughts. A little gentle ribbing at his “holier than thou” behavior? A mild and friendly dig at John’s prudishness? Oh dear Lord, I almost…almost suspected him of something unthinkable. Ungrateful wretch that he was! What kind of a reward was that for the man’s days of patient care? Well, he would not entertain such thoughts ever again.
He wanted to find some way to apologize without actually admitting to his suspicions. Wanted to say, “Never have the chance to embarrass me again? No, please do. Your needling enlivens my rather dull life,” but the effort of the bath had been too much for him. His determination to do battle against the shadow of regret in Alfie’s eyes slithered away like an unhitched cable into the depths of the sea, and he fell asleep at once.
The following week, John felt recovered enough to take short walks about town, and they sat at a table outside a cafe, soaking up the reviving sunlight, the hot wind blowing the scent of olives and oranges down on them from the hills. Coffee steamed in a tall pot before them, and fresh fruit attempted to vie with the plate of custard-filled ensaimades for their attention. Vainly, as it proved, because they were too busy looking down at the waterfront and the harbor beyond to care about either.
Alfie leaned forward and tapped John on the arm, then pointed to the mouth of the bay, into which a Second Rate was sweeping like a stately queen. “I wonder who that is?”
Cicadas droned unnoticed. John took a sip of his coffee then brought his eyeglass out of his pocket, unfolding it. He watched in admiration as the ship drew closer. The prompt and even stylish way she handled her sails, the exactness of her slowing and furling, and the way she anchored with barely a splash formed a large part of his appreciation of her beauty. Though that was fine enough—her sails white, her hull red and canary yellow, her gingerbread work and cannons glittering in the sun. It was a joy to see so fine a ship handled with a smartness that befitted her.
He watched as the sailors lowered a gilded barge into the sea, and poured aboard it like a rush of white foam down the side. The oars raised like wings as the last man came aboard and sat down in singular glory—a king—in the stern. Only when the oarsmen began their stroke did John notice that they too must have been picked for their beauty. Golden light
Alfie knelt to dry his feet, and looking down at that bent back, at the top of his round head and the tendrils of sunny bright hair in springy damp curls about his face, John wished with a panic that he had another cloth to wrap about his hips. He was not normally a particularly modest man, but at this moment he felt excruciatingly self-conscious and exposed, particularly when Alfie looked up, cheek so close to John’s thigh he could feel the heat of it like a minor sun.
But Alfie, thank God, after looking in his eyes and perhaps seeing the terror there, for once refrained from saying anything suggestive. “‘Aelfstan,’” he said, with a sigh. “My parents were antiquarians. I believe they met over some fossil or fascinating bone somewhere. ‘Aelfstan Petyt Donwell,’ to make it worse— ‘Petyt’ after the author of Jus Parliamentarium, you know. A book which I may proudly say I have never opened.”
He maneuvered John back across the floor to the newly made bed, and after examining the wound and declaring it would do well for a bit of fresh air, he helped him on with a clean nightshirt and lowered him gently back down to the pillow. “And so you have your revenge for my embarrassing you,” Alfie said. His eyes as he looked down were full of warmth, though John thought he saw lingering sadness also. It dismayed him.
“I should have known better than to try. Go back to sleep, sir. Soon you’ll be well, and I won’t have the chance again.”
Embarrassment? Was that what it was? John closed his eyes, ashamed of his recent thoughts. A little gentle ribbing at his “holier than thou” behavior? A mild and friendly dig at John’s prudishness? Oh dear Lord, I almost…almost suspected him of something unthinkable. Ungrateful wretch that he was! What kind of a reward was that for the man’s days of patient care? Well, he would not entertain such thoughts ever again.
He wanted to find some way to apologize without actually admitting to his suspicions. Wanted to say, “Never have the chance to embarrass me again? No, please do. Your needling enlivens my rather dull life,” but the effort of the bath had been too much for him. His determination to do battle against the shadow of regret in Alfie’s eyes slithered away like an unhitched cable into the depths of the sea, and he fell asleep at once.
The following week, John felt recovered enough to take short walks about town, and they sat at a table outside a cafe, soaking up the reviving sunlight, the hot wind blowing the scent of olives and oranges down on them from the hills. Coffee steamed in a tall pot before them, and fresh fruit attempted to vie with the plate of custard-filled ensaimades for their attention. Vainly, as it proved, because they were too busy looking down at the waterfront and the harbor beyond to care about either.
Alfie leaned forward and tapped John on the arm, then pointed to the mouth of the bay, into which a Second Rate was sweeping like a stately queen. “I wonder who that is?”
Cicadas droned unnoticed. John took a sip of his coffee then brought his eyeglass out of his pocket, unfolding it. He watched in admiration as the ship drew closer. The prompt and even stylish way she handled her sails, the exactness of her slowing and furling, and the way she anchored with barely a splash formed a large part of his appreciation of her beauty. Though that was fine enough—her sails white, her hull red and canary yellow, her gingerbread work and cannons glittering in the sun. It was a joy to see so fine a ship handled with a smartness that befitted her.
He watched as the sailors lowered a gilded barge into the sea, and poured aboard it like a rush of white foam down the side. The oars raised like wings as the last man came aboard and sat down in singular glory—a king—in the stern. Only when the oarsmen began their stroke did John notice that they too must have been picked for their beauty. Golden light
Similar Books
