Wild Bells: The Shade on a Fine Day & The Angel in the Window, page 7
“There’s been no fresh snow these past twelve hours and the village is seeing the start of a thaw. Unless it turns again, you should be able to make your way home by tomorrow. You’ll take our carriage, of course.” Benjamin settled himself by the fire, flexing icy fingers and trying not to think of two nights spent in front of the curate’s hearth, nights of unbelievable bliss.
“Thank you. Is Mr. Church settled in to his new abode? Beatrice says you found shelter with him.”
Benjamin rapidly found the fire to be in need to rearrangement, attacking a couple of ill-balanced logs with the poker as he spoke. “Mrs. Hawthorne and her friend have made sure he’s got every comfort. We had bread, cheese and some of the late apples. What more could a man want? Oh, and,” he added hastily, remembering the tales of what had been borne to the door, “some delicious scones and jam. We dined like kings.”
“I hope that was our greengage.” Beatrice, eyebrow raised, clearly knew the red on her brother’s face wasn’t really caused by the fierceness of the fire.
“I think it was strawberry. Mr. Church’s favourite, I believe.”
“Is it?” Madeleine’s eyes brightened. “I must remember. I always wonder what he would prefer.”
“I’m sure Benjamin would be able to tell you.” Beatrice said, sweetly, while Benjamin wished the ground would swallow him.
***
“Mr. Church seemed aglow tonight.” Jane Newington slipped her arm through her husband’s as they wandered home from evensong through the melting snow. “Such a wonderful sermon on Corinthians.”
“One of his best, my dear.”
Jane’s throaty laugh bubbled up. “If the number of sighs from the ladies was any measure it would outstrip all his past offerings. I’ve never heard such simpering or seen so many longing looks.”
The canon paused before replying. “My father had a mare, once, a fine creature, who wouldn’t look at any of the stallions who were offered her. She seemed to have a fancy for the gelding in the next field and wouldn’t entertain another suitor.”
“I thought it was Mr. Swann who’d gelded himself?”
“Jane! Language!”
“I’m sorry, my dear, it’s your strange idiom. Isn’t the same word used for men as for horses? You know my grandfather had a gelded slave, a ‘wife attender’ it would translate as, to look after his wives, it was always the tradition.” Jane laughed again. “I’ve always been a bit surprised the same system wasn’t used here.”
Canon Newington held back his response. This conversation might last an hour and, knowing his wife’s curiosity, wander off into castrati and Persian harems. Safer to stay within the parish. “I wasn’t referring to Mr. Swann per se, although the same might apply; young women fretting over that which they can never possess. I mean Mr. Church and his vow of celibacy.”
“Ah. Gelding in name if not reality.”
“My dear, whatever has possessed you tonight?” Newington couldn’t help laughing, imagining his parishioners’ faces if they heard such stuff.
“Maybe Toomhai Gamali has.” She clasped his arm tighter. “What makes a young man take such a step? Do you think he’s turning papist?”
Newington shuddered. “He assures me not. He mentioned your friend Toomhai, though. Said he’d been mulling over our spectral visitor’s words and decided the only way forward was to eschew the comforts of the fair sex entirely. It has certainly inspired his preaching.”
“Something has.” Jane looked sidelong at him. “Those gelded wife-attenders were said to be very insipid men, as if all their spirit had gone along with—I shan’t say the words, dear, I’ve learned how easily embarrassed folk are on this poor backward isle. You may have given us cricket and Jesus, for both of which we’re very grateful, but we could teach you a thing or two about enjoying the good things God has given the world.”
“So you keep reminding me.” Newington kissed his wife’s brow. “And what was the point you were trying to make this time?”
Jane took her time to answer. “Just how the situation here so closely resembles many of the things which happened at home. Did I ever tell you about the wife-attender assigned to my great aunt? It seems…” she launched into an amusing story of the trials faced by handsome men who were not quite as masculine as they once were but still managed to stir up the affections of the women they looked after. “I could say more, of matters in which my people appear to be more enlightened, but your ears aren’t ready for it.”
“Really?”
“Really. My poor, innocent British boy.”
***
“Very nice.”
William Church jumped in his seat, then turned round, grinning as soon as he realised who had spoken. “I’m glad to see you again.”
He’d have known where to turn, even if the distinctive voice hadn’t come from the direction of the hearth. Toomhai Gamali loved his fireside. The apparition sat primly in the chair which was closest the door, Benjamin’s favourite place to seat himself.
“And I you. I believe I won’t be seeing you again, this side of your taking the last journey, so I am pleased to find the satisfaction is mutual.” As William had expected, the ghost took off his spectacles and began to polish them. Spectral visiting must be an extremely mucky occupation.
“Might I ask you what you think is very nice? The arrangement of this room?”
The ghost looked around, nodding steadily. “It is an exemplary sitting room; you have your desk in the best place to catch the light and the various objets d’art are tasteful and well chosen. You have taste, Mr. Church. But that is not the thing I alluded to.”
William wondered if Toomhai’s fellow ghosts found him rather hard work to make conversation with. “I’d be grateful if you’d tell me what is was. It’s most pleasurable to have things praised although puzzling if one’s struggling to know what’s being lauded.”
“I’m sorry. I meant the arrangement you have set up here. Very elegant; very sensible.”
William let out a huge sigh. “I’m so pleased to hear you say that. We…I…we’ve been so worried that we’d got it all wrong. It’s not easy to do when you’re a mere mortal and have to work these things out.”
“We have things to work out too, Mr. Church. Heaven’s no place for slackers.” The ghost put his head to one side and produced a disarming smile.
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m not looking forward to being bored in eternity.”
“You won’t be. But before that you will have work enough. Your vocation and your life; that will be challenge enough to fulfil both of them with diligence and sense. Especially now you have more than one person to consider.”
“You sound like Mr. Newington talking to those wastrel husbands who expect their wives to work like slaves even when they’re with child.” They sat and watched the fire together companionably, curate and spectre, like two old shipmates taking leave at an inn with no need of talk between them, the understanding running so deep. Finally, William broke the silence. “I’ll always consider him.”
“Quite right.” The ghost’s voice sounded reedy and thin, but that was to be expected as he was already nothing more than a vague outline, a reflection seen in a glass and darkly.
Chapter Eight
“Is Beatrice enjoying Bath?” William poured two glasses of hock, placing them on the little table where the weak afternoon sun could illuminate them best through the leaded cottage windows. Spring had come but an unnaturally cold snap had arrived to blight the blossom and pinch tender shoots.
“She thinks it heavenly. She’s found someone even more full of herself than Lady O’Neill and has been absorbed into the woman’s retinue. A retinue seemingly awash with nephews and second cousins who have chosen to serve the king.” Benjamin picked up his glass, inclining it to make a toast. “Soldiers and sailors.”
“I’ll drink to them, too. And to her success with them.” William savoured the excellent vintage. “I’ve always liked your sister. Had my inclinations run otherwise…”
“She’d have had you like a shot. I suspect that’s half the reason she disapproves; not just our attachment but the fact that I got you, not her.” Benjamin’s voice was mellow, with wine and affection. “Mind you, I always imagined it would be Miss Ardleigh who’d win your heart. Or perhaps I hoped that.”
“Why?” William sipped the hock; he didn’t want to over imbibe and risk any dulling of events later on.
“Can’t you guess? Because it would have been agony to have you so close—a guest at my table, living in my house, perhaps—and have burned with desire. Better to have you half the parish away.”
“I’ve always suspected the easiest way not to be led into temptation is to keep the wretched thing at arm’s length.” The gentle crackling of the fire created an atmosphere conducive to thought and confession. “Shall I tell you my greatest fear? That you’d propose to Miss Ardleigh and then ask me to perform the ceremony. The thought of joining your hands over the prayer book makes my blood run cold.”
“Colder than when we first saw Toomhai?” Benjamin laid down his glass, rose then took his place in his favourite seat—on the rug at William’s feet, with his head resting on his knee.
“By far. All the ghost brought was the unknown; seeing you married off would have been all too familiar.” William caressed his lover’s neck. “Will we finish this bottle now or later?”
“Later?”
“Afterwards.” William leaned down, turning Benjamin’s face up for a kiss. His lips felt cool and tasted of wine; it was a heady combination.
“There’ll be no ‘afterwards’ until you’ve told me if Toomhai returned. Something’s happened to make you even happier than you were the night of the snow and that’s the only thing I can put it down to. Unless you’ve been offered a post as bishop’s chaplain?”
“That wouldn’t please me at all. Too far from here to the cathedral close.” William’s long, elegant fingers stroked his friend’s temples. “Yes, he came back. And he gave me—gave us—a marvellous report. Top of the class.”
“No wonder you’re smiling like a cat that’s got into the dairy. Or Beatrice when Lady O’Neill’s praised her.” Benjamin took William’s hands, bringing them to his mouth for a kiss. “Would he have come to that dinner if the Hawthornes had been well? Ten at the Newingtons’ table instead of eight?”
“I’ve no doubt that if it had not been then it would have been another time. He seemed quite determined to make his point.” William outlined Benjamin’s lips with his fingers, tracing the little lines and crevices of his handsome face. “I’ll speculate all my life why we were chosen for such instruction, although I’ll not complain about it.”
“Quite right.” Benjamin stroked William’s palms as those same palms stroked the bell ropes. “Will we make the most of the sunlight pouring into your bedroom? It’s been long enough since we were last here together, so it would be pleasant to make love under natural light and not the lamp or the fire’s glow.”
“Long enough?” William leaned down and kissed the lips he’d been caressing. “A fortnight, that’s all.”
“Too long for me.” Benjamin returned the kiss with interest. “A few days is too long, to be honest. How Beatrice will cope when her boy in blue or red is away for months on end, I have no idea.”
“Many women do. And not all of their husbands or sweethearts will obey the maxim about there being no married men south of Gibraltar.” William leaned down again, tongue savouring the sweet, soft recesses of his lover’s mouth. If kissing like this was a gentler, more innocent version of what was to happen later in their bed, then it was no less satisfying, at least for the present. They’d not taken the final steps yet, content with touch of hands alone, but the moment would come. Soon.
“I never thought I would object to the days growing longer, but it makes things so awkward.” Benjamin broke the contact, drew himself up onto his feet and pulled William with him. “It’s time to hide ourselves from the eyes of the world, and hope no-one will come knocking for the curate’s services.”
“I’d slip the bolt on the door but that would make it obvious I was in. Best leave it and just trust that Toomhai’s on watch.” William took Benjamin’s hand, scribing messages on it with his fingers as they mounted the stairs. The bedroom caught the full force of the afternoon sun, golden shafts turning to green as they forced through the beeches and gilded the old half-tester bed. “Look at that. As fine a bridal bed as you could wish for. And the nearest I’ll have to one.”
Time had come to dispense with words; William wound his arms around Benjamin’s waist, pressing his lips to the man’s cheek. A trail of kisses followed, along jaw, neck, ear, onto his hair—while William’s stock was loosed and his buttons assailed. They’d seen each other naked before, by half light or the moon’s silver glow, but never in the piercing beam of the sun, where nothing could remain hidden.
“I love you, William.” Benjamin’s words were hurried, almost feverish, reflecting his body’s evident eagerness for naked flesh and soft sheets. The rate at which his hands were working, the first would be achieved very soon, William’s shirt already discarded and the fine woollen vest under it soon following suit. “I cannot imagine a circumstance in which I would love anyone more.”
“Neither can I.” William loosed his friend’s breeches, found the places which gave them both such bliss to stroke and be stroked. “Now hush, let me see you in the light.” He turned Benjamin—by now mother naked—to one side and the other, letting the sun play on his long, lean frame. “Perfect.”
“I can’t be. That would leave no superlative with which to describe you.”
Laughing, William traced the peaks and troughs of light, admiring the golden glow on the downy chest hair, his rosy nipples before pushing his lover towards the bed, slipping back the covers and nudging him onto the clean linen sheets.
Benjamin had strong, lithe hands, using them expertly to excite William just enough, yet not to the point where control would be lost. There was plenty more to be done before then; barriers to be overcome, taboos to be broken. They may have pushed back the boundaries from that first night, when they’d been so eager and so inexperienced that barely a few firm strokes had achieved climax, and had learned to take their time. Pleasure lengthened was pleasure amplified.
“This evening,” William’s voice was hoarse, unsteady with emotion, “will the stallion come to…I was going to say to the mare, but I’m not sure the analogy is suitable. Will the stallion serve?”
A wood pigeon sounded out among the beeches, its soft call the only sound audible in the little room apart from the pounding of blood in ears, the fierce drumbeat of passion. Benjamin burst into a smile which out shone the afternoon sun “Aye. The stallion will serve or be served, whatever suits the mount.”
“The mount,” William confided, “would like to be mounted.”
***
Benjamin lay in contentment, echoes of pleasure sounding through his body, William’s soft breath filling the air with a sweeter carillon than even his precious tenor bell could sound. A bright splash of colour caught his eye, yellow flowers in an elegant vase on the dressing table. “Do you have another admirer? Who sends you late winter jasmine?”
“The sprays of blossom? They came from the rectory garden, from Mrs. Newington, with a note wishing me success in my choices, whatever hurdles I have to overcome on the way.”
“She said that?” Benjamin watched the last rays of sunlight catch the top of the copper beech. They’d finish the wine later, then return to this soft bed when it was pitch dark, perhaps to couple again or just to lie abed and listen to the owls. Either would be wonderful. “I always felt she was the most perceptive woman I’ve met. The canon is luckier than most men in his choice of wife.”
“Maybe I have been more fortunate than even Mr. Newington. He had to travel to the far side of the world and across the whole social divide to find someone to entwine his life with.” William laid his head against Benjamin’s. “I have found mine just the other side of the parish.”
The Angel in the Window
Hampshire, England, 1803
December 25th, one bell in the middle watch, weather clear and dry
“The bells, listen to the bells, Alexander!” Tom Anderson’s eyes shone with reflected starlight and snow as he and his captain made their way back from the church to the Anderson family home.
The midnight service had been enchanting, the Andersons full of goodwill to all men, even a sombre heathen like Alexander Porterfield. Although he couldn’t really be sombre when he had his first lieutenant at his side, like now.
He looks just like the dark-haired angel in the stained glass window. Beautiful and pure.
An especially wicked grin from Tom broke the illusion, recalling to mind all the occasions when his behaviour—their behaviour—would have made the most broad-minded of angels blush.
“I still don’t know how you can believe in God.”
“Oh, that old chestnut again.” Tom waved away the comment with a flick of his hand.
Alexander snorted. “It’s an old chestnut because you never give me an answer I can accept.”
“Maybe that’s because you don’t want to accept it.” Tom smiled. “Try this one. Perhaps I believe because God sent me my very own angel to deliver me from prison.”
Alexander reserved his answer. There’d been no stone walls, nor iron bars, just a cage of Tom’s own self doubts. Releasing him from those had been a pleasure.
“I think the last thing I resemble is an angel, but I’m glad you believe I was sent especially for your own service.” Alexander immediately regretted using the words, the lascivious grin on Tom’s face conjuring up thoughts of beds and hammocks they had known. And used. “So how do you reconcile our particular relationship with what you are taught in church? Is not what we do against God’s laws?”
