Page 21 of Enlightened
Once David was out of Chalmers’s house, he set to walking, needing the distraction of physical exercise. He walked east, out past Waterloo Place and up to the broad summit of the Calton Hill, where he sat for a long time, letting the wind rip through his hair, growing so cold he felt almost numb. He probably looked like a statue, sitting on his boulder, unmoving, but inside he was all agitation and grief.
Perhaps if he’d been his old self, he’d have set off running or climbed some rocks. Done something that cost him physically, relishing the burn in his muscles, even a few bruises or cuts. But he wasn’t his old self. Even after this relatively short walk, his knee and his hip griped at him.
For once, he was glad of the cane that spared his knee on the descent from the hill. He remembered too vividly each torturous step he’d made on that ill-judged walk back to Laverock House from McNally’s, the agonising jolt in his knee each time his right leg had to take his weight. He still felt a shadow of that pain today, but thankfully the cane did the brunt of the work.
It seemed he was learning to be careful after all.
For some reason, that thought depressed him, and when he reached the bottom of the hill, he set off in a new direction, unwilling to return to the house yet. The North Bridge took him up to his old hunting grounds at St. Giles on the High Street. He paused outside Parliament House and debated going in to the advocates’ library to see who was around, perhaps to catch up with the latest faculty gossip. In the end, though, he couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face answering questions about his accident, his recuperation, the reason he was in Edinburgh. Instead, he sloped off to the Tolbooth Tavern and, despite the hour, ordered himself a gill of the hard stuff.
It was gloomy in the tavern. The day was grey and overcast. Even if it had been bright, the tiny windows with their thick, warped glass let in little sun. The only other source of light in the room was the fire in the grate, and that gave off little illumination—it must have been going for a few hours at least, as it was naught but glowing embers now.
Chilled to the bone, David sat himself near the fire. The landlord brought his gill of whisky over, setting down beside it a small metal cup. He acknowledged David’s murmured thanks with a nod and tossed a couple of logs onto the fire on his way back to the bar. Soon, yellow tongues of flame were licking over the fresh fuel. Brownish smoke billowed out of the fireplace as the damp, resiny bark was consumed, making David cough and shift his stool back till the logs began burning properly.
He watched as the logs were gradually consumed, first turning black, then glowing orange, then finally going white at the edges, till there was nothing left of them but two ghosts that still somehow held their old shapes—at least until the landlord stirred the fire with a poker and turned them to ash.
It was only then that David blinked himself out of his daze and realised how much time had passed. Realised too that he hadn’t so much as poured himself a single dram. His whisky sat, untouched, in the pot jug the landlord had set down in front of him, and the drinking cup was dry.
For a moment he considered sinking the lot in one big gulp. Then he remembered Murdo’s hand on his arm, his voice tight with frustration.
“Whenever you’re confronted with something you don’t like, this is your answer…”
Cursing inwardly, he grabbed his cane and stood, gritting his teeth against the inevitable twinge of pain as he rose. Even with the cane, the long walk had taken its toll on him—in some ways, the hard, uneven cobbles of the city’s streets were more punishing than even the worst of country paths.
It wasn’t much more than a mile back to Murdo’s house, but it felt ten times longer. By the time he crossed the threshold, his limp had returned. The housekeeper came into the hall while the footman was taking his hat and cane. She asked if David would like some luncheon, or perhaps some tea and cake. He smiled politely and declined. Between the emotional encounter with Chalmers and the pain in his hip and knee, he had no appetite at all. He wanted nothing more than to lie down.
At last he was able to excuse himself, escaping to his appointed bedchamber. He near groaned with relief when he finally closed the door behind him, crossing the room to pull the drapes closed. Once his privacy was assured, he stripped his clothes away and sat on the bed to examine his throbbing knee. It was faintly swollen and tender, the pain beginning to worsen now that the constant movement of walking had come to an end and the limb had begun to cool. Sighing, he fetched his jar of liniment from the armoire and began to rub his leg down, reflecting all the while on how much better Murdo was at this, how much more soothing his hands were than David’s own.
When he was done, he lay back, grimacing as he arched his stiff hips up so he could drag the top bedcover out from under him and pull it over his exhausted body. Despite his physical tiredness, his mind kept running on, a strange, anxious misery twisting inside him as he considered Chalmers’s parting advice to him and his own depressing vision of what his future held.
Months ago, before David’s accident, Murdo had alluded to some kind of arrangement whereby they might see each other once a year or so, with Murdo’s other life—the one that would have a wife and family in it—kept carefully separate. David didn’t need to try that arrangement out to know it wasn’t one that he could live with. Everything in him protested at the very thought. When Murdo married, he would make a promise to his wife to cleave only to her. How could David give himself to Murdo after that? It would be wrong in every way. Unfair to Murdo’s wife and, yes, unfair to himself too.
He could just imagine Murdo’s response to that protest. He’d say that any woman he married would go into the marriage accepting—indeed expecting—that Murdo would have lovers. And that she could take lovers of her own. He would say, in that slightly weary tone he used when talking about the aristocratic world he inhabited,it’s the way of the world…David had heard it before— It hadn’t been enough to allay his objections then, and it wasn’t now.
At some point, he fell into an uneasy sleep, drifting into a garbled maze of dreams. He dreamt he was with his first love, Will Lennox, swimming in the river at Midlauder, gooseflesh rising on his skin. Will was young and beautiful, his brown hair sleek from the water, green eyes twinkling with mischief. They came together in a kiss, laughing.
The kiss was innocent at first, but soon it grew more feverish and the body under David’s hands grew harder and more demanding. He realised he was no longer with Will but with Murdo.
Murdo’s jet gaze met his own, dark and pleading.
David broke the kiss and asked him what was wrong, but Murdo didn’t answer him, just gazed at him with mute pain. Then David glanced down and saw that Murdo was bleeding, his long fingers spread over a gaping wound in his chest. David yelled Murdo’s name and pressed his own hands over the wound too, crying out helplessly as dark blood slugged out over their interlaced fingers.
He woke himself with his own shouting, his heart thundering with panic and fear, tears wet on his face. At the same moment, his bedchamber door flew open, the handle banging against the wall as Murdo ran in.
“What’s wrong?”
David sat up. “Nothing—I just had a dream—a nightmare.” He dashed the tears away, mortified. “I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”
Murdo’s shoulders relaxed, and he closed the door quietly behind himself. “I thought you were being murdered!” he joked as he approached the bed, giving a short, awkward laugh.
Settling himself on the mattress beside David, he added more gently, “Are you all right?”
“In truth, I feel quite shaky,” David replied, forcing a laugh. He wanted to ask Murdo to hold him but couldn’t find a form of words he could utter.Will you hold mewas impossible.
It turned out, though, that he didn’t need to turn his need into a spoken plea. Murdo reached for him without being asked, his arms sliding round David’s slim body, gathering him close.
“Christ, you’re freezing,” he muttered into David’s ear and began chafing David’s cold skin with his big, warm hands. “Were you sleeping like that? With just that thin cover over you?”
“I only meant to doze for a few minutes,” David said. “But I think I ended up sleeping for quite a while. What time is it?”