to.”
Stephen removed
his hand from the now-warm water to make an offensive gesture,
feeling the burdens of care lift a little. He loved this room. It
was dark, no matter how many candles were lit, with the heavy wood
panelling that the Vaudrey family seemed to have preferred, but it
had a four-poster bed long enough to accommodate Crane’s legs and
sturdy enough to accommodate his desires, and it had become theirs , since they had had removed the family portraits on
their first visit.
Rothwell was
somewhere he felt entirely comfortable. If only Saint could fit in
here too.
“You go first,”
Stephen said, and sat on the bed watching his lover as he sponged
away the travel grime. Crane’s bare skin still unnerved him, now
pale where it should have been black and blue with ink, but the one
remaining magpie tattoo that brooded on his back was as vibrant as
ever. Crane stretched up, and the play of muscles and the flicker
of candlelight made the bird seem to give a shudder, silently
rustling its feathers.
Definitely just
Crane moving, Stephen assured himself. Not the magpie by itself.
Obviously.
Crane went down
first, leaving Stephen with the instruction to dress like a
civilised man. That was reinforced by the fact that only one suit
hung in the wardrobe: his Hawkes and Cheney autumnal tweed.
Which would
make him look as good as was possible, and point up that Jenny
Saint would be wearing her single company dress again, a plain and
elderly muslin that had first belonged to the significantly taller
Esther and been taken up to fit. He wondered why Crane hadn’t
thought of that, and debated putting his scruffy travel-stained
clothing back on to show support, but mentally threw up his hands.
Perhaps Crane had something in mind; if not, he would just have to
observe the girl’s discomfort and deal with it.
Stephen checked
his appearance to be sure it would meet Crane’s exacting standards,
adjusted his amber cufflinks, stepped out into the corridor, and
almost walked into a lovely young woman.
“Who the devil— Saint? ”
She was clad in
a light blue gown that flattered her slim build, modestly
high-necked rather than attempting to pad her very limited bosom,
and yet, somehow, not making her look modest at all. Her fair hair
was twisted up on her head in a way Stephen vaguely recognised from
Esther’s few forays into hair arrangement, there were silver
droplets sparkling at her ears, and she looked taller than
usual.
“Are you
wearing shoes with heels ?” Stephen demanded. “I mean, that
is to say, you look beautiful. Charming. Uh…” He scrabbled for
compliments. “Ladylike.”
“Yeah, alright,
but look.” Saint hoicked up her rustling skirts and stuck out a
foot, revealing very expensive silk slippers with a good inch of
heel. “Is this bloody stupid or what? How d’you run in these?”
“I don’t think
you’re meant to. Where did this finery come from?” As if he didn’t
know.
“His majesty,
innit. Compliments of Lord Crane, Frank says, and there’s frigging loads of it. I mean…” She spread out her skirts and did a
little wobbly pirouette, unsteady on her feet for the first time in
his experience. The gown swished and rippled. “I mean, it’s pretty,
not saying it ain’t pretty, but… I don’t wear this .”
“I don’t wear
this,” Stephen said, indicating his own extremely expensive suit.
“Except that now I do. Look, it’s all right. There are no strings
attached. He’ll do something as, as invasive as telling you
how to dress, provide you with all the finery you could want even
if he knows damned well you don’t want it, and I will grant it is
extremely annoying. But it isn’t about you owing him anything and
he’s not trying to change you. I promise you that.”
“Wardrobe full
of lady clothes but he’s not trying to change me.” Saint folded her
arms. “So what is he doing then?”
Stephen felt a
glow of pride in his wayward pupil. She would, he thought,
Stephen removed
his hand from the now-warm water to make an offensive gesture,
feeling the burdens of care lift a little. He loved this room. It
was dark, no matter how many candles were lit, with the heavy wood
panelling that the Vaudrey family seemed to have preferred, but it
had a four-poster bed long enough to accommodate Crane’s legs and
sturdy enough to accommodate his desires, and it had become theirs , since they had had removed the family portraits on
their first visit.
Rothwell was
somewhere he felt entirely comfortable. If only Saint could fit in
here too.
“You go first,”
Stephen said, and sat on the bed watching his lover as he sponged
away the travel grime. Crane’s bare skin still unnerved him, now
pale where it should have been black and blue with ink, but the one
remaining magpie tattoo that brooded on his back was as vibrant as
ever. Crane stretched up, and the play of muscles and the flicker
of candlelight made the bird seem to give a shudder, silently
rustling its feathers.
Definitely just
Crane moving, Stephen assured himself. Not the magpie by itself.
Obviously.
Crane went down
first, leaving Stephen with the instruction to dress like a
civilised man. That was reinforced by the fact that only one suit
hung in the wardrobe: his Hawkes and Cheney autumnal tweed.
Which would
make him look as good as was possible, and point up that Jenny
Saint would be wearing her single company dress again, a plain and
elderly muslin that had first belonged to the significantly taller
Esther and been taken up to fit. He wondered why Crane hadn’t
thought of that, and debated putting his scruffy travel-stained
clothing back on to show support, but mentally threw up his hands.
Perhaps Crane had something in mind; if not, he would just have to
observe the girl’s discomfort and deal with it.
Stephen checked
his appearance to be sure it would meet Crane’s exacting standards,
adjusted his amber cufflinks, stepped out into the corridor, and
almost walked into a lovely young woman.
“Who the devil— Saint? ”
She was clad in
a light blue gown that flattered her slim build, modestly
high-necked rather than attempting to pad her very limited bosom,
and yet, somehow, not making her look modest at all. Her fair hair
was twisted up on her head in a way Stephen vaguely recognised from
Esther’s few forays into hair arrangement, there were silver
droplets sparkling at her ears, and she looked taller than
usual.
“Are you
wearing shoes with heels ?” Stephen demanded. “I mean, that
is to say, you look beautiful. Charming. Uh…” He scrabbled for
compliments. “Ladylike.”
“Yeah, alright,
but look.” Saint hoicked up her rustling skirts and stuck out a
foot, revealing very expensive silk slippers with a good inch of
heel. “Is this bloody stupid or what? How d’you run in these?”
“I don’t think
you’re meant to. Where did this finery come from?” As if he didn’t
know.
“His majesty,
innit. Compliments of Lord Crane, Frank says, and there’s frigging loads of it. I mean…” She spread out her skirts and did a
little wobbly pirouette, unsteady on her feet for the first time in
his experience. The gown swished and rippled. “I mean, it’s pretty,
not saying it ain’t pretty, but… I don’t wear this .”
“I don’t wear
this,” Stephen said, indicating his own extremely expensive suit.
“Except that now I do. Look, it’s all right. There are no strings
attached. He’ll do something as, as invasive as telling you
how to dress, provide you with all the finery you could want even
if he knows damned well you don’t want it, and I will grant it is
extremely annoying. But it isn’t about you owing him anything and
he’s not trying to change you. I promise you that.”
“Wardrobe full
of lady clothes but he’s not trying to change me.” Saint folded her
arms. “So what is he doing then?”
Stephen felt a
glow of pride in his wayward pupil. She would, he thought,
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