The First Bloom of Winter, page 5
“If you’d like to change anything, you can simply inform Sebastian. Mr. Leslie allows us significant latitude in decorating our rooms as we see fit.” Gardenia looked about thoughtfully as though trying to remember anything important he’d neglected to share. “Ah, I believe one of the maids has already unpacked your luggage and stowed everything away in the wardrobe. Your trunks will be kept up in the attic so as not to be in the way.”
Holden nodded. “Yes, I see. Very well.”
Gardenia smiled, an expression that was obviously his natural state. “If you’d like to rest for a bit, I will let you know when Mrs. Peabody has readied dinner….” Wide-eyed distress altered Gardenia’s jovial countenance when Holden suddenly burst into inconsolable tears. “Oh, my dear! Whatever is the matter?”
The cook’s name was uncomfortably reminiscent of Mrs. Parsons, the woman who had fed Holden for so many years. The similarity immediately brought that kindly lady to mind, and it was all suddenly too much to bear. Holden wanted to yell at Gardenia, to rage against the unfairness of the horrid life he’d been thrust into so unceremoniously, though Gardenia was hardly at fault. He wanted nothing more than to run away, on foot if necessary, and beg his father to take him back. He would do anything his father asked of him so long as he was spared this unbearable punishment. Falling to his knees, Holden curled his fingers into the plush carpet, tugging viciously at the fibers in lieu of tearing out his own hair. Tears ran unhindered down his face as he sobbed, uncomforted by the pleasant environs of his beautifully appointed prison.
“I want to go home,” he managed through the choking tightness in his throat. “Please!” he begged, feeling unbearably like a frightened child than a youth fully grown. “Please let me go home.” Slender arms wrapped around his shoulders, and Holden leaned helplessly into Gardenia’s slight frame.
“There, now,” Gardenia crooned. He knelt at Holden’s side, silently offering comfort. “It’s not as bad as all that. At least the gents who pass through here are clean and unobjectionable. Mr. Leslie goes to great lengths to ensure our clientele is of the highest quality.” He laughed softly. “Believe me, some of the blokes I was with before coming here made the Great Stink seem like a field of daisies by comparison.” A sigh fell gently against Holden’s ear as Gardenia seemed to realize his attempts to soothe his new friend were bearing no fruit. “It will be all right, I promise you. We are well looked after here. It may seem scary at first, but just remember, you are not alone.”
Holden wondered how Gardenia had so quickly gotten to the core of his misery. He could think of nothing but being trapped in this room while some depraved creature used him in every vile manner his admittedly limited imagination could concoct. He was astonished at how reassured he was at the promise that his suffering need not be solitary.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his expression of gratitude broken by a childish hiccup.
Gardenia shook his head. “Think nothing of it. I remember how frightened I was my first time. I supposed being here is no different in many ways than being out on the streets, though having a bed is far better than being buggered in a dirty back alley, I can assure you.”
The horrific implications exposed by the blithe statement turned Holden’s stomach while simultaneously piquing his curiosity about his new companion. Exhaustion, however, overcame any desire he may have had to learn more about Gardenia’s mysterious past. He went unresistingly when Gardenia urged him to his feet and maneuvered him over to the large bed.
“All will seem better in the morning.” Gardenia chuckled. “It sounds funny, doesn’t it? My mother always told me that, and no matter how hungry or cold I was when I went to sleep, I always believed her.” He lifted his shoulders in a self-effacing shrug. “Anyway, I will come and check on you in a while to see if you want to eat.” He watched as Holden collapsed onto the bed, his smile firmly in place as he leaned over and pressed an unexpectedly sensuous kiss to Holden’s slack lips. A giggle escaped him when Holden lifted his fingers to his mouth as though to preserve the sensation and stared at him in speechless astonishment. He gently caressed Holden’s damp cheek. “Good night, my dear Freesia. I look forward to learning your true name.”
Holden stared at the closed door for a long time after Gardenia’s departure. He could still feel the imprint of soft lips against his. Whereas a kiss from Tommy had always left him squirming for more, he could tell the connection had been meant only to calm him, not to arouse. He suspected physical expression was as much a part of Gardenia’s nature as was his easy grin.
The measure of peace Gardenia had imparted vanished almost instantly on his heels. The sounds of the building as it settled on its foundations, the shadows cast by the fading light from the window, all seemed new and frightening. Shock at the unforeseen kiss had momentarily staunched his tears, but now they flowed afresh as the unfamiliar strangeness of the room made itself fully known.
The bed Holden lay upon, though generally soft and forgiving, had lumps in unaccustomed places and only served to increase his agitation as he shifted restlessly in an attempt to find a comfortable position. He shuddered to contemplate what indignities this bed might soon witness, what future debaucheries it might behold. How long would it take until he accepted the unconscionable truth that his body was no longer to be his own?
Never, he wanted to swear. But he had given Leslie his vow that he would stay until he’d cleared his father’s crushing debt. A gentleman’s word is his bond, his father had said, imparting the importance of being a man of honor. If only Franklin Peters had heeded his own advice, Holden mused darkly, he wouldn’t be caught in this horrifying predicament. Even if he never earned his father’s renewed approbation, at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded where his father had so miserably failed. It was merely his misfortune that his victory must be paid for with his flesh. The gloomy thoughts hung over him as he dropped into an emotionally spent slumber, haunting him with visions of a hulking shadow, featureless save for a lecherous sneer and hands that trapped him in a greedy, bruising embrace.
WHEN HOLDEN awoke, his head was pounding fiercely and his throat burned with an irritating scratchiness. He groaned and delved farther into his pillow before realizing it was far thicker and softer than he was accustomed to. Confused, he pried open one eye and tried to focus on his foreign bed companion. The drapes had not been pulled, and light flowed in through the window. Though weak, it was sufficient to enable him to discern his surroundings. The window was on the far right side of the room rather than on the left, and the incorrect placement made him squint in befuddlement. The sight of the unfamiliar green and floral walls merely increased his disconcertment.
His mother had been enamored with the busy “Trellis” design since the fashionable shops had introduced it a few months before her passing. She had indulged herself by spreading it over the entire house. While he had first thought it an affront to his masculine pride to be confronted with the somewhat chaotic display of blue birds and red flowers on the vine every time he retreated to his room, he had come to view the wall covering as a fond reminder of his mother once she was gone. His brain still muddled with sleep, he could not immediately fathom the discrepancy between his expectations and what he was seeing.
The truth crashed in on him when he happened to catch sight of his satchel resting on the floor where he’d carelessly abandoned it the day before while indulging in his shameful display of melancholy. He was not at home. Rather, he was in the abode of Lucifer himself. Or, Mr. Leslie, as the devil seemed to prefer. Remembering the alternative intention for the bed upon which he lay, Holden scrambled to his feet with a mild feeling of nausea before recognizing that his indisposition was as likely due to his aching head as to his sense of moral outrage. He cringed when his stomach abruptly took the opportunity to voice further displeasure at its supreme emptiness.
Until that moment, he had been uncertain of the time, but given how ravenous he felt, he began to suspect he’d slept the entire night through. The angle of the light entering the room confirmed his supposition. Glancing down at himself, he noted the disgracefully wrinkled state of his shirt and trousers, as might be expected from his improper employ of them as bedclothes. He rubbed a hand through his hair and shuffled over to the wardrobe. As promised, his personal effects had been efficiently unpacked and arranged. Holden suspected Sebastian’s hand in the tidy organization.
The inner door of the wardrobe boasted a mirror, and he grimaced as he caught sight of himself. His hair was tousled in an unbecoming nest of tangles, indicating that his slumber had been restless. His complexion appeared sallow, and dark rings smudged the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the latter retaining the redness that betrayed his inconsolable tears. He was uncertain which fact dismayed him more, that he’d cried himself to sleep like a child or that Gardenia had witnessed his disgraceful behavior.
As though the thought of him had served as a summons, a knock sounded on the door immediately followed by a cheery announcement.
“Good morning, Freesia! Are you awake?” Not waiting for an answer, Gardenia opened the door and breezed in. His attire was as unremarkable as it had been the day before—save for his continued bohemian lack of footwear—but his smile was even brighter than Holden remembered. “Oh, good! I thought I would have to drag you from your bed. Breakfast is ready and waiting. The others have already started to tuck in. If you don’t hurry, there won’t be anything left.” Gardenia flung himself atop the four-poster monstrosity, the thick stuffing of down causing him to bounce playfully. A crumb perched at the corner of his mouth revealed he had already partaken of some toast before coming to fetch Holden.
A low growl from his midsection interrupted the excuse Holden had been about to make that he wasn’t particularly hungry. Annoyed at being exposed before the lie could even be told, he sighed. “All right. Give me a moment to freshen up.” He headed for the stand holding the washbasin. A peek inside the matching pitcher showed it had already been filled. He poured out some of the contents into the basin and thrust his hands into the tepid water, cupping them so he could catch a bit to splash on his face. When Gardenia made no signs offering him any privacy by leaving, Holden continued on, scrubbing at his face with his hands until he felt mildly more alert. Considering the next step in his process of making himself presentable, Holden glanced over at the friendly intruder with greater resolve.
“If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll change and then come right down.”
“No need.” Gardenia waved away the suggestion with a surprisingly graceful hand. “I’ll wait.” He grinned when Holden continued to stare at him, his eyebrows raised in consternation. “Don’t be so priggish. It’s not as though you have anything I haven’t seen before.”
Unable to contradict Gardenia’s reasoning, Holden gritted his teeth and moved over to the wardrobe. Apparently, the indignities he was expected to tolerate went beyond his mode of employment. He began removing his clothes, trying to ignore both Gardenia’s presence and his unwavering stare as he watched Holden disrobe. It had been years since he’d undressed in front of another person, having been able to see to the task on his own since he was a lad of ten. His father hadn’t seen the necessity in indulging in a manservant for his son. Holden had not even allowed Tommy to take further liberties than relieving him of his shirt, being too shy to allow more nether explorations except beneath his clothes. He wondered grimly which other of his boundaries would be breached by the day’s end.
Gardenia remained suspiciously silent while Holden exchanged his outer apparel for fresh replacements. Stripping off his undergarments in front of an audience was out of the question. Displaying them to another was quite all he could bear for one morning. The one-piece article of white cotton covered him from shoulder to midthigh, the somewhat baggy fit revealing very little of what lay beneath. He could only imagine what held his usually garrulous companion so engrossed that entire minutes had passed without a peep from the figure lounging on the bed behind him.
When he finished fastening the last button on his shirt, Holden closed the wardrobe door. For the first time, he noticed an odd set of lines carved into the wall immediately to the right of the armoire. The cuts formed an oblong rectangular shape, almost as if it had once been a doorway that had been separately paneled over. Toward the top of the oddity was mounted a nondescript painting of a forest glen graced by a frolicking lad with large eyes. Other than his curly reddish-blond hair and rosy cheeks, he wore nothing save a swath of red cloth draped artfully to shield the more intimate details of his person. The painting was no more risqué than those he’d seen hundred times at the museum, and it was rather uninspired in technique. Shrugging in disinterest at the curious detail, Holden turned in time to catch Gardenia favoring him with an exaggerated facsimile of an innocent smile. He rolled his eyes at the patently false expression.
“Are you feeling any better?”
The abrupt question caught Holden unprepared. Gardenia’s smile had vanished, replaced by a look of genuine concern. Holden briefly considered fabricating the complete reversal of his mood from the night before, but the endeavor seemed pointless. Gardenia had seen him at his worst but was apparently undaunted in his desire to enlarge their budding friendship.
“Enough,” he answered quietly. “My stomach thinks I should eat, at least.” He didn’t bother adding that he was obliging merely out of necessity. Nothing about his circumstances had improved with the passage of night despite Gardenia’s reassurances. He was still a prisoner of his father’s profligacy and his own stubborn sense of honor. The thought of food was off-putting, but the requirements of his body apparently would not be gainsaid. He straightened the cuffs of his shirt and took a deep, fortifying breath. “Let’s go, then,” he urged, eager to regain his footing on more neutral ground. “Lead the way, if you please.”
Fortunately Gardenia declined to tease him further. Hopping off the bed, he skipped over to the door and opened it, glancing back only to be sure Holden followed. Holden supposed the hallway looked less menacing on a second viewing, though most of the doors were closed and the candles ensconced along the walls still provided the only illumination. His stomach rumbled again as he and Gardenia hurried down the stairs, the smaller lad’s bare feet masking any sign of his passage. Clomping along in his boots in Gardenia’s wake, Holden felt decidedly clumsy by comparison.
The main hall, as Leslie had called it, was deserted when they rounded the screen that hid the staircase from view. “I gather we do not take our meals in here,” Holden ventured.
Gardenia shook his head, setting his blond curls into riotous motion. This morning, he had put his hair up with a ribbon high atop his head, leaving the shining locks to swing to and fro with the slightest encouragement. Holden thought the choice of hairstyle rather odd for a male to wear in this day and age.
“No, we take our meals in the breakfast nook-cum-dining room. We only eat in here when we’re entertaining guests.”
Unwilling to request more information on the latter topic, Holden latched on to the former disclosure. “Ah, I see.” He glanced around as Gardenia led him to the far side of the room opposite the staircase. “And how do we reach the dining room? The only door leads to Mr. Leslie’s office.”
Gardenia threw Holden a mischievous grin over his shoulder. “As you’ve already seen, the screens are useful for more than simply decoration.”
Holden took his meaning when Gardenia skirted a screen illustrated with gently falling leaves in autumnal hues. Copying Gardenia’s trajectory, he found himself in a cozy parlor fitted with a pair of tables large enough to seat eight or so and a sideboard that was crowded with platters of food. There were no windows, and Holden surmised the room abutted the adjoining building too closely to allow for any. Even without the benefit of natural light, an overhead fixture provided ample brightness. It too was outfitted with gas lamps, though its appearance was less grand than its counterparts in the main hall. The walls were covered with Mr. Morris’s most recent “Pomegranate” pattern, the stylized fruits against the light blue background providing an agreeable setting to aid in digestion.
As Holden examined his new surroundings, Gardenia abandoned him for the table closest to the door. He took the chair next to Peony, sitting at the half-filled plate he’d obviously been emptying before going to fetch Holden. Leslie and Amaryllis were seated at the other table. The latter was regarding him coldly even as Leslie greeted him with a nod. Holden decided immediately that the nearer table was more to his liking with respect to company.
The as-yet-unknown Mrs. Peabody knew her work well. On offer was toast, arranged next to crystal bowls filled with butter and varying types of jam, cold ham, poached eggs, and a respectable variety of pastries. Holden ladened a plate with a little bit of everything. Ignoring the tea in favor of the less emotionally compromising option of coffee, he gathered his rations and sat in the waiting chair to Gardenia’s left. He tried not to think about whether Peters & Sons had been the source of the tea steeping so innocuously in the beautiful china pot.
“Good morning,” Holden said to Peony, who mumbled a return greeting around whatever he’d just stuffed into his mouth. Holden noted his cheeks were appropriately flushed. Starting simply out of respect for his nervous stomach, Holden nibbled daintily on a piece of toast he’d smeared with butter and some sort of red preserve. The next instant, he’d crammed nearly half of the remainder into his face and was reaching for another slice.
