The Lady of Misrule by Suzannah Dunn Page B

‘Work hard, play hard, eh, lads?’ and to the rest of us, ‘Out in the stables there’s a lot of …’ he paused for effect, ‘horsing around .’
    Everyone obliged with the predictable collective groan, at which he giggled, losing his composure before changing tack and calling ringingly through the room, ‘But who’s going to be my lady of misrule, eh?’ Arms flung wide, codpiece on its way to his knees. ‘Where’s my lady? What’s the point of being a lord if I don’t have a lady?’ and suddenly his eyes were on mine simply because I was nearest, at the front, just because that was where I’d been when the music had stopped,and how hadn’t I seen it coming? Why hadn’t I realised how exposed I was, there? Why hadn’t I stepped back to lose myself in the crowd?
    â€˜You,’ he implored me.
    Instinct had me take a backwards step, by chance into Harry – I knew it was him from his laughter in my hair, wine-scented – and he put a hand on my shoulder, possibly just to stop me from treading on his toes but it was enough, it was all that was needed to claim me from the Lord of Misrule.
    Later that evening, on a dash outside to the jakes, I was sufficiently stoked on indoor warmth to be able to take a moment on the way back to appreciate the sky, which held most of a moon amid a pack of stars. The midwinter sourness was gratifyingly bracing and I left the courtyard for the rose garden. Just a minute more, I decided, but then I glimpsed a figure ahead, sitting on a wall, and the figure turned and it was Harry. Harry, here in the dark. Harry, who was never to be found anywhere but in the thick of things.
    â€˜Fresh air,’ he offered in explanation when I approached, although I hadn’t actually asked and if fresh air was all he’d wanted, he could’ve kept to the steps by the door. So, I checked, asked if he was all right, and he said he was.
    Not cold?
    No, ‘But you are,’ and there was no denying that, my breath seething with shivers.
    Nodding towards the house, he gave me his blessing: ‘Off you go.’
    But Shelley Place, across the garden from us like a giantlantern, was suddenly not where I wanted to be. And anyway I balked at being ordered; I’d go in my own time. Which perhaps he detected, because then he got to his feet, saying, ‘You’re right, it is cold,’ and although he had my interests at heart, it rankled; I was quite able to look after myself. I didn’t need saving from myself. But then he made me smile by adding, ‘Back to the fun,’ making clear that he regarded it as anything but. He was right: it was unconvincing, that fun in there. Good-natured and well intentioned, definitely, but I’d had enough of it. I’d had what I wanted of it and there were so many people who were better at that kind of thing than I was. But we were already in step on our way back, even though we didn’t believe in it. We were going back indoors because we had to, and perhaps in recognition of that, we were holding hands: a conciliatory gesture. Who had taken whose hand first, I hadn’t noticed, but it didn’t matter because they were a good fit, our hands, and the warmth was welcome. There we were, walking along with our linked hands swinging between us as if this were something we regularly did, although in truth no one had held my hand since before I could remember.
    And just as we were reaching the door, just as we were about to step into the light of the bracketed torch to be reclaimed by Christmas, just as we needed to release each other, I stopped but didn’t let go. Perhaps I wanted a little more of what we’d had – the easy companionship, the sly solidarity – and possibly I’d have been satisfied with a smile, an acknowledgement of what we’d shared; but halted, Harryturned, surprised and quizzical and unbalanced, and then it was not