“No,” Henry said. “In point of fact, no one did—only you.” He smiled. “I can’t tell how proud I am of you for that.”
Freddy flushed, his mouth curving briefly into a smile before he cleared his throat and said, “May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Henry said.
“How do you know Mr. Redford?”
Henry had been expecting this, and he’d had time to consider his answer on the way home. Even so, it was not easy to speak the words.
“We knew each other a long time ago,” he said. “But until very recently I hadn’t seen him for many years.”
“So you’re… friends?” Freddy asked.
Henry set down his cutlery. “Freddy—”
Freddy blurted, “Are you like George?”
“Like George,” Henry repeated slowly. “Your brother George?”
Freddy swallowed. He nodded.
Henry frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Freddy paled. “Don’t you—?” He broke off. “I thought you knew. George did too.”
“Knew what?”
Freddy’s eyes widened, his gaze horrified. “I—nothing, I—”
Henry had never seen him so flustered.
“Tell me,” Henry insisted. When Freddy just stared at him, he added, “Freddy, please. I know George has been unhappy for a while. If you know why—” He broke off then, remembering what Freddy had just said before panic set in.
“Are you like George?”
Faintly, almost disbelievingly, Henry said, “Are you telling me that George—that he prefers men?”
Freddy swallowed and nodded. “I thought you knew,” he whispered. “I would never have mentioned it otherwise.”
“How would I know?” Henry said helplessly. His heart was racing, his gut in turmoil. The thought of George suffering in silence the way Henry had suffered for so many years made him hurt all over.
“Fletch’s father caught them together at Dinsford Park, when George was there for the holidays.” Freddy said. “Don’t you remember when George was sent back in disgrace? We were sure Fletch’s father had told you what happened.”
Henry did vaguely remember an occasion when George had been sent back early from his friend’s house—he would have been sixteen or so. Back then, he’d spent most of the holidays with his best friend, Oliver Fletcher, sometimes at Avesbury House and sometimes at Fletch’s family estate in Surrey. On that last occasion, George had been sent home with a terse but vague note from Sir Joseph Fletcher alluding to unacceptable behaviour and suggesting that Henry ask George for an explanation.
After reading the note, Henry had taken one look at George standing on the other side of his desk, his expression miserable and defeated, and had thrown the note on the fire. Henry had always liked Oliver Fletcher, a scamp of a lad who was the one person who seemed to have the power to bring out George’s more frivolous side.
Henry had decided then and there that George had been punished enough. Instead of asking George to explain himself, he’d dismissed him, saying only, “Take yourself off—just don’t do it again.”
“Don’t do it again.”
Hearing the words again in his mind, he wanted to weep. He hadn’t even known what he was telling George not to do.
“I didn’t know,” Henry said, his tone agonised. “God, if I’d known…”
It all made a horrible kind of sense. George’s low moods had begun a year or two before the incident at Dinsford Park, and they only seemed to have got worse since then. Henry ought to have recognised them for what they were, given he’d suffered from the same malaise.
“Papa?”
Henry looked up, meeting Freddy’s worried gaze.
What if George had known that Henry was like him? God knew this world did not make life easy for their kind. Would that knowledge have helped?
“Yes,” Henry said hoarsely.
Freddy just waited silently for him to go on.
“Yes, I am like George,” Henry said. “And, yes, that is how I know Christopher Redford.”
There was a moment of profound silence, then Freddy said, “Was he your…” He trailed off, seeming unsure how to finish the sentence.
Henry nodded, watching his younger son carefully. “He was, yes.” Henry’s stomach hollowed with fear and dread, but he made himself continue, made himself say the next words. “I loved him. I still do.”
Freddy closed his eyes for a moment, taking that in.
When he opened them again, he said quietly, “When were you and he together?”
“A very long time ago.” Henry paused then added, “And I’m afraid that’s all I’m going to say about Kit for now, Freddy.”
“All right,” Freddy said quietly, but his brows were drawn together in a frown and he stared down at the table as though he couldn’t bear to look at Henry.
“Are you disgusted?” Henry whispered. That was an unbearable thought, but