Page 43

I STEPPED out of the law offices of Hughes they did not care about my background as much as the Garretty cohort had, and my education was enough for me to stand on.

I had moved from my small flat to a nicer two-bedroom home on a quiet tree-lined street, only fifteen minutes by cab from the offices even during the crush of traffic that came with the workday ending.

I had been in the paper a handful of times, was well-liked, well-paid, well-adjusted by nearly every measure, and yet I was possibly more miserable in this new life than I had ever been before.

I had not spoken a word to Arthur or Charles since that terrible September night.

There had been moments over the last three years when I had heard, through some avenue or another, that Charles was in London, frequenting one of the places he liked most, and yet I had never sought him out.

He had also never come to visit me, even though my change of address was well known to those friends we had in common.

I combed the papers every day for any word of an engagement between himself and Ida Nelson, finding none; in fact, for the past three years, there had been hardly any news in the papers regarding the friends I had made that summer.

The most I had been able to glean was that Rudolph Nelson had returned to France for a short time but quickly made his way back to England, and that was hardly newsworthy.

No letters were exchanged, no surreptitious meetings.

I had hoped, foolishly hoped, that I had severed my affection for Arthur with my cruelty, and yet I had only seemed to intensify it.

There were nights I would wake up in tears recalling the look in his eyes when I had delivered that final blow, and I could only ease my pain through a mad desire that my words had at least salvaged his relationship with his brother, that Charles had not come for him with the same malice he had shown me on that dreadful night.

To put things in the simplest of terms: I was a man who was still in love and without recourse.

I knew that Arthur would have been a perfect match for me, had I allowed myself to see that he loved me before I convinced myself he did not, and it was this loss that continued to consume me even now.

Growth had taken place at some point, and in hindsight I could see every misstep I had taken, yet I could not even begin to understand how to rectify what I had done.

The hansom driver clucked his tongue and shook his reins, the horses coming to a stop in front of my handsome little house.

“Here, sir,” he said, and I paid him from my coin purse and stepped down onto the cobblestone.

I knew that I owed my current affluence to Arthur, that by some grace he had allowed me to work with Hughes despite the way I’d treated him, and that made it all so much more bitter.

My house lay behind a wrought-iron gate, and I let myself through, greeting the small black kitten that had taken up rat-catching duties in my garden over the summer with a pat on his little head.

I had barely made it up the front steps when Elke, the German woman I employed as a housekeeper, threw the door open.

“Herr Whitmore!” she exclaimed, her English still not perfect, although it was improving all the time. “There is a man!”

I blinked, thoroughly startled, and pulled my planner from my pocket to check I had not forgotten some meeting. The evening was blank, and I turned my attention back to Elke. “A man? Where?”

“I have put him in the parlor,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the room in question. “He comes here around one this afternoon, insists he must speak with you. I say again and again, you are at work! Does not matter. Rude gentleman, most rude.”

“I’m sorry, Elke,” I said, too bewildered to do much else except apologize.

“Perhaps he’s looking to hire me.” Even as I said it, I knew it couldn’t be the truth; any client would have naturally come to the office.

I removed my traveling hat and hung it from a peg at the front door, contemplating who the stranger could be.

My friends all knew I would be at work, and there was no one I could imagine would burst into my house so suddenly.

“What does he look like, if you don’t mind me asking? ”

“Short,” she said without hesitation. “Red hair, very red.”

A chill went through me and I looked at her. “Red hair?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “And freckles.”

Something close to hope flashed through me and I had to force myself to exhibit composure; after all, there had to be thousands of short red-headed men in England.

“I see. I may have some idea of who it is, then. You’re free to leave as soon as you’ve done your work, Elke.

Your payment is in the kitchen as always, and feel free to take home the rest of the bread on the counter.

I doubt I’ll be able to finish it all before it goes moldy in this heat. ”

She gave me a suspicious look when I admitted knowing the stranger but relaxed at the offer of the bread; I knew she had several small children at home and did my best to “accidentally” purchase too much food to help her feed them in turn.

“Very well,” she said. “If he tries to murder you, Herr Whitmore, just scream.”

“I will,” I promised, turning up the cuffs of my shirt and stepping into the parlor.

Felix was sitting on the loveseat, reading a translated version of Candide I had been lucky enough to purchase, and despite how our farewell had gone, when he looked up at me I could see the same soaring joy at being reunited that I was currently experiencing.

He set the novel aside and lurched to his feet, and I grabbed him by the torso, pulling him into the tightest hug I feel I have ever given someone.

He hugged back with gusto, and when we pulled apart he didn’t let go right away, looking up into my face.

“You’re going gray,” he said, touching the dark hair at my temple that was admittedly beginning to streak with silver, and I swatted his hand away gently, too pleased with his appearance to fuss over his comment.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, so caught off guard I could hardly believe what I was seeing. “I can’t imagine what business you have in London.”

“Business?” Felix repeated, letting go of me in order to settle back down on the loveseat. I took a seat on the armchair across from him, my body thrumming with happiness. “You’re my business, Tom. Did you not see the news in the paper today?”

“News?” I repeated, frowning and picking up the Times I’d left discarded on a side table that morning after having my breakfast. “I check the announcements every day and saw nothing.”

“It wouldn’t have been in the announcements,” he said. “Check the obituaries.”

My joy was replaced by fear, tempered only by the recognition that he would not be in such a bright mood if someone we cared for had died.

I quickly leafed through the paper for the obituary section, scanning the page before my eyes settled on a short section near the very bottom, abutted on either side by other military obituaries.

JAMES EDWARD WRIGHT, 1817-1854, killed in combat in Crimea.

I had not seen it during my cursory scan of the page earlier in the day, and as I read it now, I was struck by a sensation of strange sorrow.

James had not been a good man, had not been kind, but to die so far from home in the dreadful war being carried out in Crimea at the time was not something I would have wished on even him.

I looked up from the newsprint, locking eyes with Felix. “He’s dead?”

“Yes,” Felix said. “As soon as we received word, Charles dispatched me to fetch you.”

“Charles sent you?” I asked, setting the newspaper down on the table again and marveling at the chain of events that had led to this point. “What possible reason would Charles have to send for me? He’s the one who sent me away to begin with, and it had hardly anything to do with James.”