THE GRUDGING CONSORT

six

Owen staggered back a step, his face numb. “What — good goddess, what has happened? Tom? Is he—” He couldn’t finish the sentence; he would make it real by speaking it aloud. “No,” Drake said quickly. “He’s alive. Alive and well as of yesterday morning.” Owen felt Drake’s arm around his shoulders as he was half-dragged to one of the settees and pushed into it. He drew in a ragged breath and dropped his head in his hands, his relief almost more shocking than the fear of a moment before. Drake had drawn back, almost as if reluctant to touch Owen for a second longer than he must, and Owen missed the warmth of his hand, fleeting and unwillingly given as it had been. He forced himself to look up, to face whatever it was that he must hear from this man who barely tolerated him. “Tell me, then,” he said. “Something is dreadfully wrong, I can see it. And please don’t try to soften the blow. Suspense is worse than anything.” Drake’s lips pressed together in a thin white line, but he nodded. “Tom is married.” In the space of those three words, Owen’s entire world rearranged itself. He felt the shift like a physical thing, the objects surrounding him resettling themselves to suit his new circumstances. Before, he was happy, in love, with a life to look forward to; now he was abandoned, alone, and heartbroken, with nothing at all. Owen thought he ought to faint, or weep, or scream, or do something to vent the terrible pressure building up within him, behind his eyes, under his sternum, even down to the tips of his toes. No such relief came. He swallowed dryly, tasting bile. “How?” It was all he could manage. Drake closed his eyes for a moment, his lips moving soundlessly. Finally he said, “It hardly matters. He is married, and suddenly, to the daughter of a city merchant. I don’t recognize the name. I had no knowledge of this, I give you my word.” His apologetic tone made it infinitely worse. As if Owen gave a damn for whether Arthur Drake had known of this. “It matters!” He almost shouted it, and then dropped back against the cushions, breathing like a bellows. He panted, and gripped the edge of the settee so tightly his fingers ached. “It matters,” he said, more steadily. “Show me his letter.” “I don’t have it with me,” Drake said, with a slight hesitation. As if his honor rebelled against telling a lie he felt was necessary. Owen looked more closely at Drake’s jacket where it fell open over his waistcoat. “I can see it in your pocket.” “And I’m still not going to show it to you,” Drake snapped. He paced to the window, and then back, his fists clenched. “Do you really think it’s fit for you to see? Do you believe that the man who could treat you so cavalierly writes in a more respectful manner than he behaves?” “I have the right to see it. No matter what style it’s written in.” Owen was desperate to have his hands on that letter. Not because he thought it would soothe him, or accomplish anything — but just to hold it, the last time he would ever read anything written in Tom’s cramped hand, touch anything of Tom’s. “I’m begging you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I need to know the truth. Why would he say he — say — he loved —” And at last the tears came, in a flood Owen couldn’t hope to control. The humiliation of losing his composure in front of a man like Arthur Drake only increased the force of the sobs forcing their way out of his chest. He felt small, and pitiful, and unmanned, and he curled into himself and choked and gasped out his misery. He thought he heard Drake’s voice, low and angry, and he buried his head deeper into his arms and shook with fury and blind, animal despair. Big hands gripped his upper arms, and Owen wrenched himself away. “Leave me alone!” Drake said something in reply that Owen couldn’t hear over the rushing in his ears, and he touched Owen’s shoulder again. “Leave me!” he all but howled. A moment later, he heard the door open and shut, and he collapsed onto the settee. Blankness settled over him, and he drifted. Some time later, it could have been minutes or hours, the door opened again. Owen lifted his head a little. His bleary vision showed him Arthur Drake, back again, and with something in his hand. Owen sat up, his head pounding with the motion. Drake looked about him and found an ottoman, which he pulled over just by Owen’s feet; he settled himself there, his long legs open so that his knees bracketed Owen’s. It felt more intimate than even the position warranted. All of Owen’s senses were heightened, scratched raw by the turmoil in his mind, and his own breaths sounded echoingly loud. He could feel the heat of Drake’s body blazing against the coldness of his own. He thought he might never be warm again, and the contrast made him shiver all the more. Owen blinked away the film of tears and could finally see what Drake held in his hands. It was a cup of tea, steaming hot, and from the looks of it, with just the right amount of milk already added. “Is that for me?” His voice came out faint and rough. Drake nodded and held it out, balancing the saucer on his palm so that Owen could use his hand as a makeshift table. His face showed very little; his dark brows had a slight furrow between them, and his eyes held nothing but understanding. Owen swallowed hard, and took the teacup. After a few cautious sips, he set it back in the saucer, his throat too sore for more. Drake put it on the floor, and then, to Owen’s shock, took both of his hands in his and began to gently chafe his wrists. His fingers were long, and strong, and bore the calluses of a man who enjoyed outdoor pursuits. Owen had never been touched this way by anyone outside his family, with tenderness, and with no intent but to comfort. The distant sound of laughter drifted through the open window; Martha was passing the time of day with the butcher’s boy on the side of the house. A bumblebee droned past. “Do you still want to know more than I have told you?” Drake’s voice, though quiet, made Owen start a little. At the moment, he hardly cared — about Tom’s marriage, or anything else. But he needed to know. And once the numbness wore off, he would be desperate to know. This might be his only opportunity to hear it. He would never have the courage to seek out Drake and ask him again. He cleared his throat, and he managed a brief nod. Meeting Drake’s eyes or speaking was impossible. Drake’s hands tensed around Owen’s wrists. “I wish to all the gods I wasn’t the one responsible for telling you this,” he muttered. “Damn Tom to hell for this. I’m sorry. Excuse my language.” Owen tried to laugh, but only a sad, scratchy sound came out. “I’m not a lady.” “I know. Forgive me. It’s force of habit. My mother used to box my ears whenever she overheard me say anything like that. She still would if I saw her more than twice a year.” Drake resumed the movement of his fingers, caressing lightly over Owen’s pulse. “If your hands were free, no doubt you’d be boxing my ears for not getting on with it.” That gentle touch began to fill Owen’s thoughts to the exclusion of anything else; the faint frisson of excitement it generated was too much, too strange under the circumstances to be borne. But he couldn’t just pull away for no reason. That would be insulting. “Could I have that tea? And then — I won’t box your ears, but I need to know what was in that letter. I need to understand.” Drake’s answering smile was tinged with sadness. “I’m afraid there’s not much to know, nor will you feel particularly edified by the details. Tom was never a man one could rely on.” Thankfully, he released Owen then, and handed back the cup and saucer. Drake sighed. “There’s no gentle way to tell you this.” Owen nodded his understanding, and he braced himself as best he could. “The facts are these,” Drake went on, in a matter-of-fact way that Owen appreciated more than he could begin to express. “Tom had a liaison with a young woman, who then found herself increasing. When he returned to town this time, her father tracked him down and threatened him with legal action if he did not marry her at once. Tom was unable to deny that he was responsible, as there were multiple witnesses who had seen the two of them in compromising proximity, and the lady was quite definite in her story and is generally honest. Her father acquired a special license, and they were wed the day before yesterday.” Owen stared down into the surface of his tea, letting Drake’s words sink in. Tom wasn’t just married. He was going to be a father. He would never wish ill on an unborn child, nor on its mother, but Tom’s marriage was not just some impulsive act, a quick wedding that could perhaps be annulled. He had made a lifetime’s commitment, to both this woman — goddess, his wife, and that word twisted like a knife in Owen’s chest — and to a child. He was forever out of Owen’s reach now. Even if the opportunity arose, Owen would never, never wish to interfere. He looked up at Drake, who sat examining him with a strange expression on his harsh-featured face. Compassion, perhaps. It didn’t seem to be an emotion that sat easily there. He found he minded it less after a few minutes in Drake’s attentive company. “I understand.” Drake opened his mouth, and Owen thought to head him off. “I won’t cause any trouble over it.” “Trouble?” Drake’s dark, straight brows drew together in a ferocious frown, while his eyes flashed fury. “Trouble? You think that’s my concern? That you’ll bring a scandal down on my family?” “I wouldn’t blame you if—” “Not another word,” Drake growled, so commandingly that Owen stuttered into silence. “You would have every right to tell anyone you please how badly Tom has treated you, and I would be the first to agree you are the wronged party, my brother or no. I think you ought to keep it quiet, though, just as I will, because if anyone’s reputation suffers, it will be yours.” With no thought of publicizing the events of his brief engagement, and all his attention still focused on his immediate grief and betrayal, Owen hadn’t even begun to consider the broader consequences. Now, with Drake’s words, they hit him like a thunderbolt. He would be a laughingstock. Goddess-blessed Owen Honeyfield, already a bit of an oddity in Trewebury, jilted by a rake and all but left at the altar-stone. Good goddess. He cringed, imagining what the local gossip would be. And not just local, either. An announcement had been sent to the major newspapers in the capital, all Tom’s doing. Not that Owen knew anyone in society, but they would know of him. And they would jeer at him. “You are right,” Owen said slowly, all the humiliating horrors soon to crash down upon him seeming to loom, seething, like one of Mirreith’s deadly tidal surges sent to cleanse the shore. “Goddess. Until you said that I hadn’t even begun to think of what people will say.” Another aspect to his social downfall dawned on him then. “And they will all assume that if his — his wife was with child before their marriage, then he and I would also have — also have —” Drake nodded, clearly comprehending precisely what Owen could not say. And then he hesitated. His mouth opened, and then closed again; the strangest expression passed across his features. “There might be a way to avert all of that,” he said at last. “Or at least distract from it.” After a long pause, during which Owen’s nerves ratcheted up nearly to the breaking point, he said, “You could marry me instead.”