interior into a shaded coolness, Richard gained the
opposite side, gently smoothed back the mussed sandy hair, grasped the steadying hand which Bertie had extended to him, and kissed him, the scent of the man, the feel of his arms enclosing him in a reciprocal embrace.
As Bertie drew him close, Richard gave himself fully to the embrace, finding in the shelter of those strong arms all he would ever need of love and closeness.
"A pair we are," Bertie whispered.
Richard settled under the sheltering umbrella of Bertie's arm, regretful that they were not making the journey alone, reminding himself that they would have to move with much greater care during the fortnight ahead. In their life at Cambridge they enjoyed a limited freedom, no one mentioning openly that dreaded word, submerging their love in an atmosphere of High Anglican sexlessness. The physical union that they enjoyed within the privacy of their upstairs bedchamber was their business, two highly respected dons merely sharing quarters for economy and convenience.
But now that they had left that secure womb, and particularly at Eden they both would have to exercise great care not to let their glances reveal too much, their whispered conversations, their early retirements.
In defense against the coming deprivation, as though both their minds had been moving on the same track, Richard felt Bertie's arms tighten about him, felt his lips again.
"I love you so much, Richard. How bereft my life would be without you."
Richard closed his eyes, the better to hear the treasured words, and silently thanked God for this richest of blessings He had seen fit to bestow upon his life. . . .
Aslam, grown tall and slim at eighteen, the great-grandson of the last Emperor of the Moghul Empire, but now more English than Indian, stood waiting outside his room at Madingly Hall, some three miles from Cambridge, and searched the road for Richard's carriage.
They were late, though in a way he'd expected it. In all the journeys he'd made back to Eden with Richard and Professor Nichols, not once had they departed at the appointed hour.
Although he'd been standing for over an hour, his valise at his feet, he continued to stand, his back erect, head lifted, paying no at-
tention to the parade of students who entered and departed the hall behind him.
In his two years here he had yet to make one close friend. It suited him, his aloneness, his awareness of his difference, which included the color of his skin, the vast wealth of his adopted father, John Murrey Eden, and the superiority of Aslam's mind, that natural isolation that a brilliant intellect always forces upon its possessor.
As a single bead of perspiration trickled down the bridge of his nose, caused by the high May sun and the heavy fabric of his dark wool suit, he made no move to brush it away.
He should have kept to his room until he'd seen the carriage from his window. But that would have only meant a further delay, another excuse for the boys to torment him, this time about his enforced ride with the "dear old Sodomites of Nevile's Court."
With relief he heard the Hall door slam behind him, the air quiet, and now he tried to concentrate on the days ahead, looking forward to a respite from the loneliness. How he longed to see John again, to try to convince him that he could read law as well in London as he could here, or better still, let Andrew Rhoades tutor him.
But to all his heartfelt entreaties, John had stood firm, insisting on the "respectability" of a Cambridge education.
For the first time since he had been waiting, his head inclined forward as though a weight of confusion had been lowered upon him, the mystery and contradiction that was John Murrey Eden, a man who had turned his back on respectability and who still operated largely with only one set of rules, his own, now foisting the appearance of respectability on Aslam.
The rigid stance maintained for over an hour began to take a toll. A curious
opposite side, gently smoothed back the mussed sandy hair, grasped the steadying hand which Bertie had extended to him, and kissed him, the scent of the man, the feel of his arms enclosing him in a reciprocal embrace.
As Bertie drew him close, Richard gave himself fully to the embrace, finding in the shelter of those strong arms all he would ever need of love and closeness.
"A pair we are," Bertie whispered.
Richard settled under the sheltering umbrella of Bertie's arm, regretful that they were not making the journey alone, reminding himself that they would have to move with much greater care during the fortnight ahead. In their life at Cambridge they enjoyed a limited freedom, no one mentioning openly that dreaded word, submerging their love in an atmosphere of High Anglican sexlessness. The physical union that they enjoyed within the privacy of their upstairs bedchamber was their business, two highly respected dons merely sharing quarters for economy and convenience.
But now that they had left that secure womb, and particularly at Eden they both would have to exercise great care not to let their glances reveal too much, their whispered conversations, their early retirements.
In defense against the coming deprivation, as though both their minds had been moving on the same track, Richard felt Bertie's arms tighten about him, felt his lips again.
"I love you so much, Richard. How bereft my life would be without you."
Richard closed his eyes, the better to hear the treasured words, and silently thanked God for this richest of blessings He had seen fit to bestow upon his life. . . .
Aslam, grown tall and slim at eighteen, the great-grandson of the last Emperor of the Moghul Empire, but now more English than Indian, stood waiting outside his room at Madingly Hall, some three miles from Cambridge, and searched the road for Richard's carriage.
They were late, though in a way he'd expected it. In all the journeys he'd made back to Eden with Richard and Professor Nichols, not once had they departed at the appointed hour.
Although he'd been standing for over an hour, his valise at his feet, he continued to stand, his back erect, head lifted, paying no at-
tention to the parade of students who entered and departed the hall behind him.
In his two years here he had yet to make one close friend. It suited him, his aloneness, his awareness of his difference, which included the color of his skin, the vast wealth of his adopted father, John Murrey Eden, and the superiority of Aslam's mind, that natural isolation that a brilliant intellect always forces upon its possessor.
As a single bead of perspiration trickled down the bridge of his nose, caused by the high May sun and the heavy fabric of his dark wool suit, he made no move to brush it away.
He should have kept to his room until he'd seen the carriage from his window. But that would have only meant a further delay, another excuse for the boys to torment him, this time about his enforced ride with the "dear old Sodomites of Nevile's Court."
With relief he heard the Hall door slam behind him, the air quiet, and now he tried to concentrate on the days ahead, looking forward to a respite from the loneliness. How he longed to see John again, to try to convince him that he could read law as well in London as he could here, or better still, let Andrew Rhoades tutor him.
But to all his heartfelt entreaties, John had stood firm, insisting on the "respectability" of a Cambridge education.
For the first time since he had been waiting, his head inclined forward as though a weight of confusion had been lowered upon him, the mystery and contradiction that was John Murrey Eden, a man who had turned his back on respectability and who still operated largely with only one set of rules, his own, now foisting the appearance of respectability on Aslam.
The rigid stance maintained for over an hour began to take a toll. A curious
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