Page 24 of By Marsh and By Moor (Marsh and Moor #1)

At that time, Solomon’s life consisted of working long, irregular hours and then throwing himself into the pleasures that London had to offer.

If he ever stopped to think about the people among whom he had grown up, it was only to delight in how furious they’d be if they could see him now.

Besides that, he never gave them a moment’s thought.

Or, at least, that was the lie he told himself.

Winter came and went. Easter arrived, and then Whitsun and Bow Fair. The Crown overflowed with traders, hawkers and bagmen in town for the fair. Every Londoner who could contrive it had the day off work. Not the ostlers, though—this was one of the busiest weeks of the year at the Crown.

Solomon didn’t mind; he looked forward to the day at the end of the week when he could visit the tail-end of the fair, pocket full of tips he’d picked up during the week.

He and Wallace walked out to Bow and wandered over the fair green, where trampled mud and flattened grass marked the places where tents and stalls had stood.

A few stragglers remained, clustered along the road from London.

Solomon and Wallace bought nuts and oranges, then wandered towards Bow Church, where they had arranged to meet some other ostlers of their acquaintance. They sat on the grass to wait.

“When I was a child, Epping Fair seemed like the largest fair in the world,” Wallace said in a tone of reminiscence.

“Grow up in that town, did you?”

“No, in a little village on the edge of Epping Forest.” He dug his nails into the skin of an orange.

“I never thought I’d leave. But the Squire died and his house was shut up, his horses all sold.

So I decided to walk into London and see what I could find.

It’s not that far—five or six hours’ walk. ”

“There was nothing to keep you there?”

“I’ve no family. But there was—” Here he blushed. With his fair skin, it was something he could never hide, poor fellow. “There was one of the Squire’s housemaids I was very taken with. But she married the head groom.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. She must have had prodigiously poor taste.”

“It was entirely my own fault. I’d never dared so much as speak to her.” He smiled ruefully and held out half an orange to Solomon. “What about you?”

“If you’re asking about my marriage prospects, I can’t say I ever met a woman as caught my eye. I’m not like you in that respect.”

“No, I mean, how did you end up here? You en’t a Londoner, are you?”

“Oh. No. But, like you, I thought it would be a good place to come when I left home.” He’d wandered for several months, working at odd jobs.

But after being taken up by the warden of two different parishes and whipped for vagrancy, he’d decided there must be less chance of that up in London. “Look, there’s Henshaw.”

Henshaw was one of the men they were waiting for. He was accompanied by two other ostlers from the same inn, along with their wives.

“You lazy buggers,” he called jovially as soon as he saw Solomon and Wallace. “Where’s the rum and ale? You’ve already drunk it all.”

Solomon laughed. “Lazy bugger yourself. I see your hands are empty.”

Someone was dispatched to fetch jugs of watered rum, and they spent the rest of the afternoon drinking on the fair green, lighting a fire as evening approached.

Wallace, with his powerful bass voice, was persuaded to sing. Some of the others joined in. Solomon lay on his back in the grass, watching sparks drift up into the sky and letting the songs wash over him.

Life was good. Better than he had ever thought it would be when he first ran away.

One of the other men elbowed him, offering him the jug of rum, and he sat up to hold out his mug.

On the opposite side of the fire, a young ostler had pulled his wife onto his lap and she was giggling, loud and joyful, in his ear.

Solomon took a swallow of his drink, wondering idly what that felt like: being in love.

By the time Wallace had been in London a year, Solomon knew him pretty well. He’d bedded him twice, before they both agreed that the spark wasn’t there. They’d spent many happy hours drinking and talking together, or wandering around town on their rare days off.

By the time Wallace had been in London two years, he and Solomon were talking about going into business together, supplying post-horses. It was a pipe-dream—between them, they barely had six shillings to their names—but a pleasant one to talk through over a pint of porter.

But then came the evening that changed everything, though at the time it seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary.

They were at the Bermondsey alehouse they still frequented, deep in conversation with two other friends, when Solomon noticed a man watching them.

There was something vaguely familiar about his face, but it took Solomon a moment to place it.

Then it clicked into place: the man had bought Solomon a drink once and then sucked him off under a tree in Moorfields, perhaps two years earlier.

He had said he was a Naval officer, about to leave the country.

That was all Solomon could remember about him.

Seeing that he’d been noticed, the man rose and came to join them at their table.

“Well met, friend,” he said to Solomon, who gave him an answering nod.

“Sit down, why don’t you?”

“Wasn’t sure if you’d remember me,” the man said.

“I don’t remember your name, I’m afraid—if you even gave it to me.”

“It’s Hugo.”

“I’m Solomon.”

The man acknowledged this with a half-bow. “Going to introduce me to your friends?”

He was looking particularly at Wallace as he said this, and Wallace was returning his interest whole-heartedly, as Solomon noted with amusement.

Introductions performed, the man took a seat at their table.

“You were in the Navy, I mind?” Solomon said.

“Yes. My ship’s been paid off. I find myself at liberty for the moment—and cannot conceive of a greater pleasure than to be at liberty in this fair town.” He was well spoken, with rather more of the gentleman’s polish than was usually heard in this place. But lust was the great leveller, after all.

Solomon liked him immediately: he was an entertaining fellow, with self-deprecating wit and a ready laugh. And it was entertaining to watch him and Wallace shift gradually closer as the evening went on.

Solomon soon left them to it. He had his eye on a man who seemed to have been trying to catch his attention for the past twenty minutes. And he wasn’t wrong—ten minutes later they were in the bushes behind the alehouse and the fellow was treating him to a very enjoyable cocksucking.

The next day at the Crown, Solomon saw off the Brighton stagecoach, then turned to see the Naval officer, Hugo, standing at the entrance to the yard. He caught Solomon’s eye and raised a hand in greeting.

Solomon made a wait there gesture, then ducked into the stables to find Wallace. “You’ve a gentleman caller,” he murmured into Wallace’s ear. “That Naval fellow from last night.”

Wallace’s face lit up.

“Go on.” Solomon jerked his head at the door to the yard. “I’ll cover for you here.”

Wallace came back five minutes later, face wreathed in smiles. “We’re meeting at the Rope Walks at ten o’clock tomorrow night.”

That cheerfulness persisted over the following weeks, but Solomon didn’t have a chance to quiz him about it until they were both sent to fetch two horses from the Arbour Inn in Kensington.

Wallace whistled to himself as they set off on foot from the Crown.

“You’re in a good temper,” Solomon remarked.

Wallace beamed at him. “I think I’m in love.”

“With that Naval fellow? You’ve certainly been seeing a deal of him recently.”

“As much as possible.” His eyes glazed over with a dreamy cast. “Have you ever been in love, Solomon?”

Solomon laughed. “No.”

“It’s a most pleasurable sensation. I like it.” Then his voice took on a more serious, thoughtful tone as he went on. “I like… steadiness. Stability. Not change. I’ve always wanted to… settle down with someone, you know.”

“There’s something to be said for that,” Solomon agreed, thinking it would be untactful to point out that Wallace had only known the man a few weeks.

He was, moreover, honest enough to admit to himself that a spark of envy had kindled in his breast. Not that he wanted or expected to ever fall head over heels, as Wallace seemed to believe himself to be.

But it would not be unpleasant to have some steady companion, someone he knew and trusted.

For a start, it might allow him to indulge those tastes that, with strangers, he generally preferred to suppress.

“Well, I wish you joy of him,” he said out loud.

After that, Hugo Vaughan was often to be found at the little Bermondsey alehouse on the same evenings as Wallace and Solomon.

Solomon liked him very much. At first, he’d been inclined to be wary of him. Vaughan was a gentleman, or close to one. Being sucked off by an anonymous gentleman in a dark alley was one thing; keeping company with him was another. But there was nothing supercilious about Vaughan’s manner.

He came from a little village south of London, son of an impoverished clergyman, and had been at sea for most of the past ten years. It was a great trial to him, he said, to find himself on land and on half pay.

“I’m between ships.” His lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “That’s the Navy for you. Not enough men and too many officers, even in war-time.”

He had not wished to return to his family—“I don’t like to be a burden,” he said—but preferred to remain in London, close to the Admiralty and to those captains who might soon get a ship of their own and offer him a berth.

“I do wish London life were not so ruinous, however. The Admiralty would have us believe that one may live modestly but comfortably on a lieutenant’s half-pay, but that has not been my experience.”