that I might not return. She knows how things are between us. She guessed, that day at the cottage,” Martin said, recalling how he had felt the previous afternoon when he realized Will could be open around his brother, and understanding that he might have something similar with his aunt.
“Oh,” Will said, pouring the now-boiling water into the pot. “She’s trustworthy?”
“Yes,” Martin said, surprised to feel defensive about his aunt. “And I never actually confirmed her suppositions. I only refrained from denying them.” He didn’t say that it had been rather nice to be known, and to not be reviled. “I hope you know I’d never be reckless with your safety.”
Will nodded. “I do know that. I’m just . . . not exactly overflowing with trust in the aristocracy, present company excluded. While we’re on the topic, Hartley knows, of course. And if Hartley knows, then Sam knows.”
“Mr. Fox kissed Hartley in front of me, so I’m aware of that situation.”
“Did he?” Will poured tea first into Martin’s now-empty cup and then into his own. “There are a handful of safe people here, people who know about Hartley and Sam. And quite a few people involved with the theater know about my, um, amatory habits, who would be safe for us to be ourselves around.”
Martin turned that thought over in his mind. Will had an entire community of people with whom he could be himself. This city that seemed intent on ruining Martin’s health had also provided Will with friends, family, safety, a career. Will’s life was in precisely the place where Martin needed not to be.
Chapter Nineteen
Martin knew he had no particular talent for polite conversation, but before his night with Will he had been getting on tolerably well.
“I’m not entirely certain I can invite them back,” Aunt Bermondsey said mildly after a disastrous lunch. “You know, you can just ask about the weather. Or the latest fashions in hats. Or whether they prefer cats or dogs. You don’t have to sit there sullenly.”
“I’m aware I don’t have to sit there sullenly,” Martin snipped. “But I can’t think of anything to say. If I remark on the weather, and then they remark on the weather, then I’ll just have to say something else, and the very idea makes me want to run screaming out of the house.”
“Running screaming out of the house would have been more engaging than sitting there like a lump,” his aunt remarked. “My word. I’ll concentrate my efforts on balls and musicales and other engagements that don’t require much conversation.”
“I can’t dance.”
Aunt Bermondsey shot him a withering glance. “It is a skill that can be learned.”
He wrinkled his nose, then decided he had spent enough time acting like a petulant child. “I’m afraid I’m not in an agreeable mood.”
“No!” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I never would have guessed. What do you do to amuse yourself in the ordinary course of things? We’ll just have to find similar diversions.”
That question brought him up short. Left up to his own devices, Martin would live out the rest of his years sitting in a comfortable chair, reading anything he could get his hands on. He might have thought that after getting a taste of freedom, he’d want a go at something different than how he’d spent most of his first twenty years. But maybe he found comfort in the familiar, or maybe he just liked books and indolence. “I’m not entirely certain,” he said at length. “I haven’t had much of a chance to find out. There was very little opportunity for me to exercise my own preferences when my father was alive.” He watched his aunt’s face harden. “And after his death, I was preoccupied with caring for a friend who was in difficult circumstances.”
“And then with your own illness, I suppose?”
“I wouldn’t say that my illness preoccupied me. Perhaps it should have. I think I could have spared myself and my friend a good deal of trouble if I had stayed with you last autumn instead of leaving and making myself more ill.”
She regarded him levelly. “I don’t think you regret how it turned out, though.”
“You are correct, ma’am.” He didn’t know why he was being so honest with her. Maybe it was because sometimes when he looked at her he caught an occasional glimpse of a mother he knew only from a portrait. Maybe it was because her unconcealed hatred for his father endeared her to him. Or maybe it was just