gleamed on tight white trousers and glistening muscles, on faces shaved to beardless perfection, and long hair curled loose on broad shoulders.
John’s admiration altered to a kind of horrified glee. He passed the telescope to Alfie, wanting to share the joke. “Whoever he is, he must be an excellent backgammon player.”
Alfie gave him a quizzical smile, as though he either had not understood the cant term for a sodomite, or simply did not believe John capable of making such a joke. Dusting icing sugar from his fingertips, he took the glass and looked.
Only a month ago, John might have missed the change that came over Alfie as he focused on the brightly braided gentleman John had pointed out. The lieutenant covered both the wince and the sudden drain of color from his face by ducking his head into the shadow of his hat. But after this past week, John could read Alfie’s expression from the turn of his tensed back, the white knuckles of fists he had never seen so tightly clenched.
“What is it?” he asked, taken aback. Reaching out, he curled his hand protectively about the other man’s wrist, and yes, it was trembling.
“Nothing at all, sir,” Alfie looked up, in what was clearly supposed to be a gesture of reassurance. It revealed his suddenly terrified look to John’s waiting gaze. Not quite meeting John’s eyes, Alfie wiped sweat from his upper lip, scrubbing both hands over it, one after another. This having given him no apparent relief, he launched himself to his feet, his back held as rigid as if it had been lashed. “I think it must be time for you to get back inside. You don’t want to overstrain yourself.”
“Nonsense! I feel better than I have for months. I could climb the rigging, even.”
“Well….” The terrace was ringed with planters full of trailing flowers. Alfie fled to the nearest one, and returned, in a pointless dance of agitation that made John’s stomach clench. “Well…I’ve had enough of the sun. It gives me a headache. Wish you good day, sir, but I must…I want to go inside.”
Returning to their rooms, John watched with concern as Alfie faded before his eyes; from a vibrant presence with a luscious, deep brown voice—a sharp witted, sharp tongued, fiercely intense presence—to something not far from nothingness. He fell into the seat in front of all John’s paperwork; the chitties and reports, logbooks and lists that made up a captain’s day to day work, on ship or off. The table had been placed close to the window, to have the light for longest, but after a moment’s sitting with his head bent, Alfie moved it back into the shadows, complaining about the heat.
“Alfie,” John began, a hollowness inside him worse than the axe wound, “what’s wrong? Tell me!”
“Is that a command, sir?” Terrified guilt met his gaze as Alfie looked up.
“No. No, of course it isn’t—”
“Then please leave me be.”
A knot of rage drove John out of the room, leaving Alfie alone in their shared quarters with the shutters closed. Returning to the café to settle the account, John glared down at the Second Rate. The captain’s barge now nodded against the dock. The man himself stood on the wharf like a beau at a ball, ready to be admired. From the diamond cockade of his hat light lanced out in a shameless star.
John clenched his fists and turned away, setting off downhill towards the Admiralty offices, determined to discover the truth at once.
“We’re friends, Mr. Donwell, aren’t we?” John asked. Returning to their lodgings with the twilight, after an afternoon of discreet enquiry brought him the kind of news that made his blood curdle in his veins, he found Alfie watching the door, with a book lying closed on his lap and his hand on his small-sword.
Under that threatened, tense regard, John wondered if it was true. This...whatever it was...they’d been engaged in over the past few months, so intimate, so skirting the bounds of propriety— was it really friendship?
John’s admiration altered to a kind of horrified glee. He passed the telescope to Alfie, wanting to share the joke. “Whoever he is, he must be an excellent backgammon player.”
Alfie gave him a quizzical smile, as though he either had not understood the cant term for a sodomite, or simply did not believe John capable of making such a joke. Dusting icing sugar from his fingertips, he took the glass and looked.
Only a month ago, John might have missed the change that came over Alfie as he focused on the brightly braided gentleman John had pointed out. The lieutenant covered both the wince and the sudden drain of color from his face by ducking his head into the shadow of his hat. But after this past week, John could read Alfie’s expression from the turn of his tensed back, the white knuckles of fists he had never seen so tightly clenched.
“What is it?” he asked, taken aback. Reaching out, he curled his hand protectively about the other man’s wrist, and yes, it was trembling.
“Nothing at all, sir,” Alfie looked up, in what was clearly supposed to be a gesture of reassurance. It revealed his suddenly terrified look to John’s waiting gaze. Not quite meeting John’s eyes, Alfie wiped sweat from his upper lip, scrubbing both hands over it, one after another. This having given him no apparent relief, he launched himself to his feet, his back held as rigid as if it had been lashed. “I think it must be time for you to get back inside. You don’t want to overstrain yourself.”
“Nonsense! I feel better than I have for months. I could climb the rigging, even.”
“Well….” The terrace was ringed with planters full of trailing flowers. Alfie fled to the nearest one, and returned, in a pointless dance of agitation that made John’s stomach clench. “Well…I’ve had enough of the sun. It gives me a headache. Wish you good day, sir, but I must…I want to go inside.”
Returning to their rooms, John watched with concern as Alfie faded before his eyes; from a vibrant presence with a luscious, deep brown voice—a sharp witted, sharp tongued, fiercely intense presence—to something not far from nothingness. He fell into the seat in front of all John’s paperwork; the chitties and reports, logbooks and lists that made up a captain’s day to day work, on ship or off. The table had been placed close to the window, to have the light for longest, but after a moment’s sitting with his head bent, Alfie moved it back into the shadows, complaining about the heat.
“Alfie,” John began, a hollowness inside him worse than the axe wound, “what’s wrong? Tell me!”
“Is that a command, sir?” Terrified guilt met his gaze as Alfie looked up.
“No. No, of course it isn’t—”
“Then please leave me be.”
A knot of rage drove John out of the room, leaving Alfie alone in their shared quarters with the shutters closed. Returning to the café to settle the account, John glared down at the Second Rate. The captain’s barge now nodded against the dock. The man himself stood on the wharf like a beau at a ball, ready to be admired. From the diamond cockade of his hat light lanced out in a shameless star.
John clenched his fists and turned away, setting off downhill towards the Admiralty offices, determined to discover the truth at once.
“We’re friends, Mr. Donwell, aren’t we?” John asked. Returning to their lodgings with the twilight, after an afternoon of discreet enquiry brought him the kind of news that made his blood curdle in his veins, he found Alfie watching the door, with a book lying closed on his lap and his hand on his small-sword.
Under that threatened, tense regard, John wondered if it was true. This...whatever it was...they’d been engaged in over the past few months, so intimate, so skirting the bounds of propriety— was it really friendship?
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