The First Bloom of Winter, page 4
Holden fell heavily into the chair he’d abandoned, welcoming the creeping sense of numbness that overcame him as he slowly came to appreciate the efficacy of the neat trap Leslie had set for him. Somehow even before their meeting the odious man had rightly discerned that Holden would succumb to the filial obligation owing from a son to his father. But there was one last thing he had to ask, lest it eat forever at his very soul.
“Is my father aware of the true nature of your occupation?” His tremulous voice sounded as broken as he felt. He stared down at his clenched hands and steeled himself for the answer.
“No. He has not the slightest clue.”
Holden squeezed his eyes against the sting of tears. His heart lightened, albeit only minutely, with the knowledge he had not been completely forsaken even as his stomach twisted with excruciating apprehension as he contemplated his uncertain future.
HOLDEN SPENT the remainder of the meeting in a daze, though his sharp mind would later provide him with perfect recollection of the event. He stirred from his self-imposed stupor only when Leslie informed him he’d have no more than a few days to adjust before being expected to take on his first customer.
“This is a business, my dear lad, not a charity home for wayward boys.”
Holden’s breath caught in his throat as he struggled to accept he would soon be forced to perform acts he could scarcely contemplate with complete strangers. Even with Tommy his fantasies had not stretched much beyond the exploration in which they’d engaged. He simply lacked the frame of reference for anything more prurient. Not for the first time, Holden wished he’d never laid eyes on his missing would-be lover. While his regard for Tommy had seemed genuine at the time, in retrospect he feared he’d simply been caught up in the mad lust of youth. Though he supposed none of it mattered now. He’d dug his own grave, and the time had come to lie in it.
“You’ll be given full room and board,” Leslie intoned on, “as well as a new wardro—”
Leslie paused as a knock sounded at the gold-painted door leading farther into the building’s interior. It opened at an angle that hid the speaker from Holden while being clearly visible to his new employer.
“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Leslie. Sebastian said you wanted to see me.”
“Yes, Richard,” Leslie replied. “Come in. In fact, your timing is impeccable. Holden, there is someone I’d like you to meet.”
Initially Holden tried to ignore the newcomer, preferring to wallow in the layers of apathy in which he’d endeavored to cloak himself. Being the subject of Leslie’s direct address, however, forced him from his mental refuge.
“Is this the new one?” the man asked, betraying his awareness of both Holden’s identity and his purpose for being there.
The man’s voice lacked the deep resonance of Leslie’s, but was a pleasing baritone far lower than Holden’s own midtenor range. An apathetic glance toward the stranger afforded him an impression of youth at the apex of its power. The length of the legs encased in plain brown trousers indicated the man boasted a height nearly on a par with Leslie’s. His clothes were clean, but when Holden caught sight of the man’s hands, which were clutching a cap with unwarranted ferocity, he saw blunt fingers with nails bordering on ragged, traces of dirt clinging to their undersides. Whoever this man was, he obviously made his living with his own strength. Lifting his gaze farther, Holden noted the man’s slim hips and V-shaped torso clad in a blue cotton shirt, though he acknowledged the spectacular breadth of the man’s shoulders with merely distracted interest. When he finally reached piercing blue eyes set in a ruggedly masculine face, Holden noted only vaguely that the phrase “finis boni” would not be misplaced in describing their striking aspect.
The man—Richard—nodded briefly in greeting, followed by a thorough once-over of Holden’s seated form, and then turned his attention back to Leslie. “Do you still want me to go now, or should I wait?”
“No,” Leslie replied, his gaze never straying from Holden. “I suppose in-depth introductions can wait for a more opportune moment, but our need for coal will not.” Finally he tilted his head to look at Richard. “I want you to find that slimy bastard and make him understand I will not tolerate being cheated. He will charge me the same as he does his other regular customers, no matter that I choose to use gas as well as coal for heating.”
“Yes, Mr. Leslie.”
With another nod, Richard strode through the office, his booted feet treading heavily on the wood hidden beneath the fine carpet. A door opening and closing told Holden his newest acquaintance had completed his departure, leaving him once again alone with his adversary. Or, perhaps, not completely so. Richard had left the door he’d entered through slightly ajar, and the muted buzz of voices engaged in conversation invaded the sanctum of Leslie’s office. Holden was still trying to decide whether he should bother being curious about what awaited him beyond the door when Leslie rose from his chair.
“Now, then. It’s high time you met the others, don’t you think?”
Holden didn’t particularly want to think of anything at all. He preferred simply to turn around and follow the path Richard had taken, leaving this unconscionable turn of events firmly behind him. But there was nothing to be done except to obey Leslie’s veiled command. He stood, but had to reach out and grab a corner of the desk when his legs suddenly appeared disinclined to support his weight. Holden glared at Leslie, daring him to comment on the betraying show of weakness. Disappointingly, Leslie merely watched him for a moment with indifference before heading for the opened door. Feeling as though he were being led to the gallows, Holden dragged his feet as he followed in Leslie’s wake.
All hints of his affected disinterest vanished, however, upon his entry into what seemed another world far removed from the mundane environs of central London. It was as though, in moving between the last room and this one, he’d traveled halfway around the world and had ended up in some chinoiserie-inspired dream. Rich silks draped the walls in luscious hues, the intimacy of burgundy and black juxtaposed with bright gold and deep indigo. Where the walls had been left bare, ivory carvings of dragons and stylized lions continued the Far East motif. Chinese screens were set at the room’s four corners, each displaying a different season of the year. As a final decorative touch, innumerable planters overflowing with fragrant bundles of lily of the valley filled whatever space remained.
“What is this place?” Holden said in a whisper, unconsciously striving not to disturb the room’s enchanting mystique.
“We call it the main hall for lack of a better term,” Leslie explained. “This is where you will entertain guests along with your cohorts until you are specifically engaged.”
Disregarding the unpleasant reminder of the reason Leslie had agreed to take him on, Holden latched on to a seemingly safer topic. “Cohorts?”
“Indeed.” Leslie gestured around the room, and Holden noticed they were not the sole occupants as the source of the voices he’d heard became apparent.
The room’s furnishings consisted of black, low-to-the-ground tables set amid divans and chaise longues in a vague arrangement that seemed to lack any discernible pattern. On some of the seats and several of the overstuffed pillows, likewise covered in silks matching those that adorned the walls, lounged four young men, each of whom was regarding the new arrivals with varying degrees of interest.
“Allow me to introduce my flowers. This is Peony,” he began, nodding toward a diminutive lad with curly strawberry blond hair and remarkably pale blue eyes. The slightest hint of pink tinted his pale skin, making him look rather young, though his gaze was steady as he returned Holden’s regard.
“Hello,” the lad said with a gentle smile, the light, hesitant tone of his voice reinforcing Holden’s initial impression of youthfulness, though his measured speech was indicative of good breeding.
“Next, we have Hibiscus.” A young man stretched out on one of the chaise lounges returned Holden’s fascinated stare with a shuttered gaze, his thick, sooty lashes all but hiding the startling amber of his eyes. The lashes brushing the lad’s olive-toned cheek were as dark as the coal black hair tumbling over his shoulders nearly to his hips. “His father was an English officer,” Leslie added, “but his mother, as you might have guessed, was from more exotic stock.”
“H-how do you do?” Holden stammered, feeling as though he were being measured by the swarthy lad. He swallowed in relief when he received a slight dip of the dark head in return.
“Over there is the lovely Amaryllis. Now, my dear, don’t pout. I told you we were getting a new addition to our little family.”
“You mean you’ve taken in another stray.”
The lad’s tone was as haughty as the glare he unleashed on Holden. Though his first instinct was to take offense, Holden’s ire was forced to compete with his desire to simply stare at the gorgeous creature who had offered such a rude greeting. “Lovely” was far too tame a word to justify the young man’s stunning beauty. Deep auburn hair shone like barely tamed fire in the gaslight from the overhead chandeliers. It was held back in a queue, but he had pulled it over his shoulder to toy with, and Holden thought it might be nearly as long as his raven-haired companion’s. Fair skin and elegant bone structure added to his perfection. But the pièces de résistance were the incredible violet eyes disdainfully regarding Holden as though he were something Leslie had tracked in on the bottom of his shoe.
“Where did you find this one,” the redhead asked with a bored yawn, “in a rubbish bin at Billingsgate Market?”
“Aww, feeling homesick, are we, ducks? I always thought to meself: Self, what our Amaryllis doesn’t know about rotten fish doesn’t need knowin’.”
The glint in the redhead’s eyes grew venomous as he speared the irreverent speaker with a dagger-like gaze. He made as though to stir from the divan he’d been resting on, but Leslie forestalled him with a raised hand.
“Now, now, you two. That’s no way to welcome your new colleague.” Leslie smiled indulgently toward the last lad, who was grinning unrepentantly after blowing Amaryllis an exaggerated kiss. “Last, but certainly not least, allow me to introduce Gardenia, our resident comedian.”
“Resident gutter rat, more like,” Amaryllis muttered.
If Gardenia heard the taunt, he ignored it, apparently finding Holden a far more intriguing proposition than exchanging barbs with Amaryllis. Holden froze as the lad popped up from the pillow he’d been kneeling on and rushed toward him with his arms outstretched. Grabbing one of Holden’s hands between both of his, Gardenia’s smile grew impossibly wider as he pumped the hand he’d captured. A mop of ash-blond hair that hung slightly below his shoulders swayed from the vigor of the handshake. The lad’s gray eyes flashed with humor rather than the lighting of the storm clouds they resembled. Surrendering in the face of Gardenia’s infectious cheerfulness, Holden felt obliged to offer an anemic response.
“How do you do?” Holden said politely, his relief at Gardenia’s outgoing friendliness overcoming any temptation he might have had to mock the lad’s lower-class dialect. “I’m Ho—”
“Ah, ah,” Gardenia said, waving a finger as he interrupted Holden’s self-introduction. “We don’t use our real names here, only the names of flowers such as Mr. Leslie gives us.”
The marked improvement in Gardenia’s speech, as though his prior use of low slang were merely an affectation, took Holden aback so that the tidbit of information nearly went unheeded. “Flowers?” he repeated, glancing at Leslie for confirmation that he’d misheard. “What do you mean?” He’d, of course, heard how Leslie had introduced the others, but he’d thought the man was merely employing some trick to tease him.
Gardenia nodded energetically. “Just what I said! Mr. Leslie chooses the names of flowers that suit our personalities. For instance, Peony is shy. See? He’s always blushing.” A glance at the lad in question verified the characterization. “As for Hibiscus, well, it means erotic… but it should also mean scary, if you ask me,” Gardenia added in a not-so-quiet whisper.
Confused at the implication, Holden looked over at Hibiscus, who simply returned his gaze evenly. His lips, however, curved in an enigmatic smile that made Holden shiver with both nervousness and a touch of arousal. He supposed the name was accurate at that. “What about—”
“Amaryllis?” Gardenia said, anticipating Holden.
“It means elegant,” the redhead piped up, his striking features arranged in an incongruent expression of aloof smugness.
Gardenia shrugged. “I always figured it was simply the first word Mr. Leslie’s finger landed on when he was consulting the book he uses to determine our names.” He smiled when Holden let out a shocked bark of laughter at his naughty jibe. “And Gardenia means—”
“Let me guess,” Holden said. “Manic glee?”
Leslie chuckled, reminding them he was still present. “Close enough. Well done.”
Still holding on to Holden’s hands, Gardenia swung the two of them around to face Leslie. “So, what will his name be?”
“Hmm,” Leslie hummed, tapping on his lip with a thoughtful finger. He stood with his elbow braced upon his free hand. “I think I shall decide after he’s revealed more of his true nature to us.” He studied Holden with the corner of his lips barely lifted. “In the meantime, you may call him ‘Freesia,’ for he is without question the embodiment of innocence.”
Everyone’s gaze seemed to turn upon him at once, and Holden was certain Peony would envy the blush that heated his face. He was mortified to have his status made evident to these worldly lads, but it was undoubtedly true. How many men had the others known during their scandalous careers, he wondered. Holden could only speculate as to how long Leslie had been operating his unusual brothel, but it had surely been long enough for his new comrades to have gained significant experience in the art of illicit amours. As though sensing Holden’s acute discomfort, Gardenia once again came to his aid.
“You must be completely fagged,” Gardenia said, his kind, muted smile lacking the overexcited air Holden had already come to associate with him. “I imagine this is a lot for you to take in so quickly.” He had yet to loosen his grip on Holden’s hand, so when he began to move toward the far side of the hall, Holden had no choice but to follow. “I’ll take him up to his room, sir, so he can get settled in.”
Leslie nodded. “An excellent idea, Gardenia. You will find his things in the room across from yours.”
Hauling his captive along behind him, Gardenia hurried toward a screen depicting a flock of birds taking flight among the lush growth of trees in high summer. It was situated at the corner of the room farthest from the door leading to Leslie’s office. Though the tread of his own footsteps was apparent, the odd lack of noise from his companion’s passage caught Holden’s attention. Looking down, he noticed for the first time that Gardenia was not wearing any shoes. Given the otherwise mundane nature of his attire—gray wool trousers and a cotton shirt in a light shade of peach—the discrepancy was all the more unexpected. Holden encountered yet another surprise when Gardenia pulled him around the screen and he saw that it hid a narrow staircase. Holden guessed it had once served as a passage for servants to move between floors, but its location made it ideal for Leslie’s purposes.
“Our rooms are up this way,” Gardenia explained as he flitted up the steps ahead of Holden. “We each have one all to ourselves for entertaining guests or simply to sleep on those rare nights we spend without company.”
The information was relayed so matter-of-factly, it took Holden a moment to process Gardenia’s full meaning. On those rare nights we spend without company. Did Leslie truly expect them to… offer themselves so frequently? Holden fretted over the notion as he and his guide reached the upper landing. It opened onto a corridor subtly lit by candles placed in sconces spaced at precise intervals. The dark wood of the stairs matched the paneling that ran down the length of the walls and the floor, the latter partially hidden by another beautiful Turkish carpet. The entire arrangement appeared nothing but sinister to Holden’s agitated mind.
Nine doors opened off the corridor, five on the left and four offset on the right. Gardenia paused before the second door on the left side of the hall. “This is my room, and the one across the way is to be yours.” He pointed to the door a few feet beyond on Holden’s right. “Go on, then. It’s not locked.”
Holden found himself extremely reluctant to open the door. He could conceive of it in no other manner than as a portal into Hell. Once he passed through it, there would be no escape. Still, it wasn’t as though he could stay in the hallway forever. He took an unsteady breath and seized the knob with a tentative hand. A slight twist was all it took for the door to swing open. Holden was disappointed at the lacking accompaniment of an ominous creak, silently cursing whoever’s duty it was to ensure the hinges were well-oiled.
“There we are,” Gardenia chirped. “It’s quite nice, isn’t it?”
Despite his aversion to his present circumstances, Holden had to agree. The room was rather large, nearly as commodious as his former bedroom. A fire had already been set in the hearth, alleviating the need for the stand of candles resting atop the mantle. The heavy curtains were pulled back, revealing white linen that muted the light from the rapidly setting winter sun. He imagined that, in the warmer months, they would flutter pleasantly in the breeze when the window sashes were raised. Shying away from the possibility he would be there long enough to enjoy such a sight, Holden slowly took in the rest of his new accommodations.
William Morris’s ubiquitous influence had pervaded this domain as well. The walls were covered with the floral and green “Daisy” pattern that been all the rage upon its introduction to the wives of the wealthy and middle class. The restful green of the wallpaper was reflected in the thick carpet and the down-stuffed comforter spread over the large four-poster bed. Unwilling to dwell on that particular piece of furniture and its implications, Holden instead carefully noted the large cedar wardrobe set against the far wall and the nearby vanity waiting to display his personal grooming implements. A stand bearing a porcelain washbasin and matching pitcher sat near the wardrobe, a comb and a conveniently placed hand mirror arranged nearby. Against the wall adjacent to the door was another table, its function implicated by the delicate tea service that rested upon the polished surface. Finally, a writing desk was situated along the opposite wall closest to the window to take advantage of the natural light. A lamp sat atop the upper ledge of the desk for use in the hours following dusk when it was too warm for a fire.
