geoviki | They say Sunday is the worst day to post fic

So I've written fic. Before you get all excited, please note it isn't Potter-fic (stop crying,

painless_j). I don't know why I needed to write this, but I did. It's not as though there is a fandom for it. The source is the book by E.M. Forster, Maurice, also a 1987 Merchant/Ivory movie. More than any book/movie pair, I think it's best to take in both, because the book explores a lot of motivation and inner turmoil of the characters, while the movie makes it all tangible. Plus there's boykissing.

Maurice was written in 1913-14 but remained unpublished until the author's death in 1971 because of the subject matter: homosexuality. (Since canon is already gay, I can't call this story slash). Wikipedia has a plot summary, which is adequate but misses the subtleties and complexities of the original story. My story takes place post-canon.

Title: Somewhere to Begin
Author: Geoviki
Source: Maurice by E.M. Forster
Rating: G (sheesh!)
Disclaimers: I don't own or profit from this story.
Warnings: Original characters.
Author notes: Thanks and props to

parthenia14 for beta duties. I couldn't have too many betas, or I'd quickly deplete the potential readership, which I estimate at about 4.

For

jonem, one of the nicest guys I know on LJ, in celebration of his new job. Congratulations! You will never again pass the Cheltenham Ladies' College without thinking of me now. For good or ill.

Somewhere To Begin

Is this the place that I've been dreaming of? – Keane

***
August, 1915—Cheltenham, England

George Crossley didn't own the black Singer sedan he was carefully rinsing off, but he felt pride of ownership all the same as the faint traces of mud sluiced off, revealing the gilt lettering adorning the door: Cheltenham Ladies' College. The sedan was far more genteel than the1909 Commer that he usually drove while land surveying; a beastly and irritating motorcar which he never bothered to wash out of sheer spite. He'd found out too late that he paid far too much for it; the man who sold it to him had cheated him. Right now, the thing was in exile, parked below the caretaker's cottage—this time it was the carburetor that needed parts, hard to come by now that the country was at war.

"George? George!" he heard his sister call, seconds before she rounded the corner outside the school's infirmary. "Oh, here you are."

"Hullo, Evelyn."

"You're a dear," she said, noticing his activity. "Thank you. I didn't dare ask anyone."

"I thought I'd make myself useful, since you're feeding me and putting me up for a fortnight."

"You have no idea how useful. I was just about to ask you if you could take the sedan to the train station this afternoon. We've two new staff members arriving on the 3 o'clock from London."

"Two new members? I thought you needed only one."

"Yes, a groundsman."

"Didn't you advertise the position long ago?"

"I did. But the war has made it impossible to find an able-bodied man these days. They're all off to France."

"So why hasn't this new groundsman joined them? He's not unpatriotic, is he?"

"Oh, no, he's already gone to France and returned. We're very lucky to have found him. Scudder's his name."

"And the second person—his wife?"

"No. Another soldier. A gentleman. Mr. Hall. He'll do our bookkeeping."

He became interested in spite of his earnest promise to himself never to interfere with his sister's authority at the school. Still, with the thief who sold him that appalling Commer fresh in his mind, he said, "I thought Mr Whatley was handling that."

"Oh, didn't I write to you about him? He had a stroke last month, poor dear. He's quite disabled. It happened as I was arranging to hire the new groundsman. Sad as it is, something good came of it. The man I'd found was reluctant to come unless a position could be found for the gentleman as well."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," George said quietly.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"A gentleman and a groundsman? Unusual at best."

"Oh, no, it's nothing like that, I assure you! It's quite above that. Mr Hall was Mr Scudder's commanding officer in France. Mr Hall was seriously injured rescuing Mr Scudder on the battlefield. I have a letter from their superior officer explaining the whole matter."

His mind shied away from the direction his sister's had taken. His own thought had been more pragmatic—her remark that two strangers had contrived to have a hand in the financial business of the school set off warning bells in his head. Yet she seemed oddly unconcerned.

"And now Mr Scudder is nearly deaf," she was telling him, "and poor Mr Hall has lost one foot and part of the other and is in a wheelchair. Mr Scudder has taken on the duty to care for the man who saved his life. Rightly so." She settled her shawl more firmly around herself and added, "I've given them the caretaker's cottage. They won't be stared at quite as much there, out of the way."

"Very noble of them, I'm sure."

"George, you are altogether too suspicious! I told you, Mr Hall is a gentlemen. Cambridge educated. Before the war, he worked for his father's partner, at a brokerage. I've a letter from them as well."

"You seem to be keeping the postal service busy at any rate."

"I'm glad to oblige them. And don't you dare say anything to make them feel unwelcome, for I know I'll never find another groundsman!"

George held up his hands to ward off his sister's chiding. "Oh, I shan't say a word. At any rate, if they were that way, it might be for the best."

"You are trying to be shocking, aren't you? Why would you say such a thing?"

"Well, if it were true, you could rest easy that they—and am I right in assuming these men are young?—that they wouldn't be interested in your girls."

"Oh, you—" Her face fell. "Why did you have to remind me? I hate having to give them the warning. It is always so mortifying to have to explain it aloud."

***

George was certain that there was more to Mr Hall and Mr Scudder than met the eye. His sister, while so far proving cautious during her tenure as Principal, was, he thought, far too trusting. Good that his stay with her overlapped the arrival of the two odd newcomers and gave him a chance to decide for himself before the girls swarmed over the school for the autumn term.

Either the train had arrived before 3 o'clock or George was late. The two men were already waiting, made obvious by the wheelchair, less so by the trunks beside them. Even from this distance, George thought that Hall seemed to be reassuring the other man, who anxiously paced a few steps in one direction and stared off into the distance, only to turn and pace back the other way. Then Scudder leaned forward, probably to better hear what was being said, and his whole demeanor suddenly changed to something more spirited and amused.

He tooted the horn and waved. "Sorry I'm late." The next instant, he leapt out of the car and shook hands, feeling nervous and unprepared.

"No problem. We've only arrived ourselves," Hall said, which was an obvious lie as the station was otherwise empty of passengers. Only the station master, fanning himself with his brimmed hat, strolled the platform; George had been a passenger here often enough that they had a nodding acquaintance.

George hesitated by the newly shined sedan door, uncertain of how to handle either Hall or the wheelchair, but Scudder seemed to know exactly what to do. He maneuvered the chair close to the open door, then leaned over and bodily lifted the other man into the car as though he were no heavier than straw. Scudder paused a moment to rearrange Hall's clothing and smooth his jacket.

"Don't fuss so," Hall said, far too quietly for his deafened companion to have heard, but George noted it with interest. Was it a hint at bitterness that this gentleman found himself in thrall to a working class fellow? And did Scudder too already begrudge the promise he'd made to care for this man? George imagined that their social differences were great. Were they too great to overcome? It bore watching.

Now that he had determined to learn as much as he could about the two men, he found he had no natural talent for it. Any topics of conversation he had dried up; the only questions he could think of were ones he mustn't ask outright. He tried to feel annoyed but was actually relieved that the noise of the engine made conversation impossible during the drive up to the college. On a whim, he took them the full length of the circular drive and pointed out the minor buildings and fields that sometimes seemed to him a second home. A newcomer couldn't help but be impressed by the Regency elegance of the school.

"Isn't this somethin', then," Scudder remarked.

"This used to be the original town spa. The river lies beyond that small rise," George bellowed, not sure if his words were even heard by the man who'd settled in the back seat, but Scudder turned and looked across the broad—and currently unmown—lawn as if he had. "The girls have their rowing lessons there. Are you familiar with the upkeep of boats, Mr Scudder?"

"Boats, did you say?" Scudder shouted back. "Yes, I can handle them, sir."

"And there's the caretaker's cottage where you'll be staying. I can take you down there later, but first I think you'd like to meet my sister, Mrs Kirkham."

"Yes, we would, thank you," Hall replied, and they were at the door before George could think of another thing to say that wouldn't seem like a clumsy attempt at prying.

***

Over the course of his sister's nine-year tenure as Principal, George had heard the Dire and Ominous Speech About the Girls—his name for it, of course; his sister frowned on the descriptor—only twice before. He had to admit it sounded far more dire and ominous when delivered at full volume, done for Scudder's benefit.

"One always assumes these things go without saying," she began, "but I learned several years ago that this may not be the case. We come to these arrangements with the understanding—the hope, if you will—that all of our staff are honourable and above-board, and that they will prove to be an asset to our College, no matter what their position." She looked at Scudder, who blinked uncertainly but remained silent. "I'm sure you realize that honesty in one's work is always expected and will be rewarded. Conversely, dishonesty will also be treated with. I'm certain you understand and expect this."

"Of course, Mrs Kirkham," Hall replied, polite and careful.

"Good." George watched his sister steel herself for the next part. "There is one other issue I must address. Because we are a college of young ladies, I need to impress this upon you. I will not tolerate any interference with them. Neither of you in the course of your employment here need have any direct contact with them, but I believe that forewarned is forearmed. Is that clear?"

Hall nodded, but Scudder looked even more uncertain.

"You're saying to keep our hands off the girls," he finally said. "Is that it?"

George stifled a laugh.

"Yes, Mr Scudder, that's what I'm saying," she said.

"I think we'll both have no problem abiding by the rules here," Hall said.

"Right," Scudder added. "Anyways, they're awfully young, aren't they?"

"Some are as young as eleven, yes. Some are nearly eighteen. I will warn you, however, that girls of this age are capable of, shall we say, flights of fancy? They see very few young men here as a rule, especially nowadays. Past incidents have shown me that some girls will contrive to cross your path all too frequently. They can be rather determined when they set their minds to something, I'm afraid."

"You mean stalking us, like?" Scudder said. "But we're both wounded in the war. Who'd want us like this?"

"I appreciate your plain speaking, Mr Scudder, so I will do the same with you. I think you'll find that your infirmities bring out the nurturing side of certain girls. And I'm afraid they will try to make you a very real part of their romantic fantasies."

Scudder looked incredulous; Hall concerned. "I shall do most of the bookkeeping at the cottage," Hall said. "I suspect they won't even know I'm here."

Evelyn laughed, her nervousness apparently gone now that the topic had reverted to one she knew well—her girls. "Oh, you underestimate them, Mr Hall. They'll know within the first week. You'll be that mysterious young man imprisoned at the caretaker's cottage. I expect you'll have more than a few unwanted visitors. But do not let any of them inside. In fact, I suggest that the more the two of you are together, the better it will go for you."

"No, no, I see that you are right. We'll be on our guard, Mrs Kirkham."

"See that you are. I've done my best to warn you, but I cannot and will not protect you from any girl's family if you should succumb to a moment of weakness."

***

George and his sister were just finishing dinner. Hall and Scudder had begged off, to George's dismay, agreeing instead on having a kettle of the Cotswold stew sent down to their own cottage. Rather than the hoped-for opportunity to learn more about the two men by letting Evelyn lead the conversation, he found himself the target of his sister's own probing questions.

"If you persist in trying to marry me off, Evie, I shall have to call you Mrs Bennet."

"Come now, George. I only mentioned it because I happen to believe you a good catch. I don't know why you've waited so long."

"Perhaps because I can't think of a young lady who'd agree. An old bachelor like me?

"You're not old. Stop trying to play for my sympathy. Thirty-six is not old."

"Thirty-seven."

"Not for another two weeks, and yes, I do remember your birthday is coming. Really, I blame your office."

"For my birthday?" he asked slyly.

"No, silly. For keeping you apart from the company of ladies in the few weeks you're even in civilized company. None of the men you work with seem to have the common sense to introduce you to their sisters or cousins. A woman would immediately see the work that needed to be done."

"Oh, so you think my office should turn its business from surveying to matchmaking instead? It would jolly well become bankrupt through sheer neglect!" He couldn't resist turning the tables on his sister. "Although if I recall I've been reminding you of a certain gentleman I know who asks about you. Yes, you do right to look away. It isn't so comfortable with the shoe on the other foot, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Forty-seven is much more serious an age, especially for a woman."

"You should have remarried long ago; I've always thought so."

"Well, there were my sons to rear. I couldn't just replace their father that way; it wouldn't be fair to them. And now I have this College and the girls here. I'm quite settled."

"Then I shall tell you the same thing and we can part friends."

George took the excuse of an after-dinner pipe to slip away from his sister's sitting room and into the night. The moon would be full in a matter of days, but he didn't think the bad weather would hold off much longer—even now the first stray clouds tracked across its face, and the chill air smelled like rain soon to come.

He followed the foot path down the hill towards the caretaker's cottage, now cheerfully lit against the darkened woods that edged up to its back door. He worked his way among a stand of larches he'd remembered and slipped among them, leaning against rough bark. He wouldn't be seen here.

The men had finished dinner and he could see Scudder standing at the sink, probably doing the washing up. Hall in his chair was too low to be seen through the window, but George suspected he was wiping—the dishes in Scudder's hands disappeared in one direction. Quite a come-down for a gentlemen; he wondered if Hall resented it.

He'd nearly forgotten that Scudder was hard of hearing: it was brought out abruptly when he heard Hall speaking loudly inside the cottage, his voice carrying to George and beyond. Scudder's reply, too, had the odd intonation of someone who couldn't gauge the pitch of his own voice.

"Do you think the girls are as awful as the lady said?" he heard Scudder say.

"Oh, worse, probably. You'll have to make sure you're covered from head to toe in your ugliest rags, no matter how hot the weather."

"Do you really think so—oh, sir, you're teasing!"

"Alec, I despair of you! You had come so far, once. And now all I hear is 'sir' all over again. I blame the army."

"I couldn't hardly call you Maurice in France. You know it!"

"I suppose not. But please tell me you'll let it drop here."

"I'll try—. Maurice."

"Anyway, I think if you stay clear of the girls, you shall have no problem. Unless you've a mind to marry a young lady and become a gentleman yourself?"

"I've no mind to marry at all."

Against his will, George felt himself warming to the young groundskeeper when he heard his own sentiments echoed.

"But Alec, you'd be quite a catch."

"That's what I'm afraid of. A catch for some girl's father, most likely, all furious for spoiling his daughter and bent on cutting off my head. Or even worser parts." There was soft laughter: one man or both, George couldn't tell. "And then I'd lose my job and be run off, and who'd take care of you then, I'd like to know? And for what? An empty-headed sixteen-year-old wife and no money and no future? No thank you."

Now George could hear Mr Hall's distinctive laughter. "Well, when you put it that way..."

"Anyways, you're the one who's got to watch hisself. A gentleman like yourself, and handsome, too."

"No, you know me better than that. Damn!"

George heard the sharp clatter of cutlery hitting the floor, followed by a long silence.

"You dropped a fork," Scudder finally said.

"For God's sake, Alec, I know that!" Hall shot back, clearly irritated. "Rather than be a scold about it, you could pick it up. Isn't it obvious I can't reach it from this bloody chair?"

Scudder's voice got both terse and low. "I can't rightly say. Seems to me obvious would be if I saw you trying to pick it up and failing. But you ain't even tried."

"Don't be ridiculous! Anyone can see it's impossible!"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I reckon if you've decided you can't reach it, the obvious thing would be to ask me to do it for you, instead of expecting me to. This isn't Penge."

"What are you saying? You won't do it?"

"No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that things will go better for us if you say what it is you need me to do. That way you won't be grumbling about me behind my back for fussing over you."

"You heard me, then, earlier."

"Well, no. I read your lips."

"Really? Well, I wish I'd known before I said anything."

"Anyways, Maurice, do you see what I mean? You're not helpless. I don't want to do things for you that you can do for yourself. So you should ask."

"All right. Sorry for snapping at you."

"That's all right. But I'm not your servant. Never was."

"No, you've made that clear from the beginning. Sometimes you make me sound like the worst sort of snob!"

"Well, you are. You've just learnt to hide it better."

"I shall never have a swelled head with you around, I can see that. Let's have our tea out on the porch."

"All right."

"But I can't carry my tea and I'll need help over the step."

"Very good, s—"

"Maurice."

"Maurice."

***

A flurry of motion let George know that the two were moving onto the porch and into his direct line of sight. He slid back into the shadows of the nearest larch, but he suspected it was a needless effort. The light from the kitchen shone through the window and door, casting the two men in perfect silhouette. Golden light edged their outlines, but their faces were a dark cipher.

"Nice night. Looks like rain later, though," Scudder broadcasted to the surrounding countryside.

"Mmm."

"Makes me think of the week that you first came up to Penge. I remember you and buckets of rain for days on end."

"And don't forget our first week in France. It rained endlessly then, too. I thought it meant bad luck for us—and after everything that happened to us after that, I'd say that was so."

"Do you think so, Maurice? The way I see it, what happened to us in France—well, it's not all bad."

There was a long silence. "Go on."

"You saw Mrs Kirkham—she didn't raise so much as an eyebrow at us. You can tell she feels sorry for us, is what. Just two miserable soldiers, with no families so's we take care of each other. Nothing wrong with that."

"There is nothing wrong with that. I don't follow."

"She don't suspect nothing, is all I mean."

Instantly, George felt far less guilty about eavesdropping when he heard Scudder say this. So there was something surreptitious about these two—his suspicions were well-grounded.

"Why should she? It's all true," Hall replied. "Davis wrote to her as well. She can check with anybody she likes about what happened in France; they'll tell her the same."

"No, not about France. I mean she don't suspect the rest."

"Oh."

"The way I see it, if things hadn't happened to us the way they did, we wouldn't be here. Not together. There'd be too many questions. See?"

"You're a funny duck, Alec. But maybe you're right."

"We just have to be careful like and keep our business to ourselves."

And exactly what business was that, George wondered darkly.

"Have you got the cigarettes?" Alec's voice, and George cursed the change of subject.

"Mmm. Oh, damn, it's the last match."

"Here, I'll do it." He watched as a flame illuminated a pair of hands and then drew closer to two cigarettes and a blond head, wreathed in golden flame. Hall lit both cigarettes with no effort and passed one to his accomplice. From then on, their black silhouettes were accented with scatterings of a reddish glow lighting them from below, making them look faintly satanic in the darkness.

So intent was his attention on the two men that the brush of something against his legs sent him crashing back into the underbrush in alarm. He clutched at the trunk of the nearest larch, the bark embedding itself most painfully underneath his fingernails. Glancing wildly around, he was vexed to find his spectre a mere tabby house cat, who ignored his firm rejection and wound itself around his legs as if he were a beloved master.

He dared not speak to chase the beast away, but he nudged it gently with his foot until it hissed a response, then wove its way towards the cottage. Moments later, he heard a loud meow.

"What's that?"

"Oh, Maurice, it's nothing but a cat. 'Ere, pussy, pussy," Scudder called.

"What's it doing down here, do you suppose?"

"Maybe we're in its old home. Looks fed and all. Don't you like cats? Some gentlemen don't, I've heard."

"I can't even say. I've never been around one before."

The cat seemed attracted to the wheelchair, darting in and out, easy to see in the light spilling from the cottage door.

"He likes you, look, Maurice. Cats always head for the one who likes them least and try to woo them over. Here, puss, puss. See? He won't even bother with me."

"Why's he doing that with his tail?"

"He want you to scratch him there. You naughty puss, leave Mr Hall be, do you hear?"

"No, it's all right." Hall's voice became quieter, more interested. "He's very soft."

"I think your he is a she. Think you might like to keep her round? She's likely a good mouser. There was a cat at the boathouse," Scudder's voice was reminiscent, "who kept me company sometimes."

"If it comes to that, I think I'd prefer a dog."

"Really? Why a dog?"

"One of our neighbours had a terrier. It was uncommonly clever."

"I used to care for the dogs at Penge. They're all right. If we got one, maybe you could train it to pick up forks for you."

Hall laughed long at this remark, and Scudder followed, throwing his head back with enthusiasm and delight. George sensed that their earlier quarrel in the kitchen was forgiven.

"At least a dog would let us know if any schoolgirls were lurking about and would warn us."

"A dog it is, then, sir."

"Maurice," they said in concert, and followed it with soft laughter.

The two men lapsed into silence. George felt snug and secure in his hiding place, wrapped in ever-darkening shadows and waiting for them to offer up more clues of their deceit. After his fumbling efforts this afternoon, he was gratified to find that he was capable enough to unmask them after all.

"This is a nice place," Scudder finally said. "Peaceful like. I could fancy living here."

"It's nothing like the greenwood that I promised you, though."

"I reckon that bit of woods down below will have to do for us. England's changing since the war, and no mistake."

"I'm glad to be anywhere that's not a tent or a hospital," Hall said. "I've had my fill of both."

"We just have to both of us work hard here and make sure to do our best, then. And steer clear of the girls, too. Mrs Kirkham seems a nice enough lady, don't you think?"

"I dare say. Although her brother was watching us as if he thought we might pinch the silver." George froze in place, heart beating faster, as though that simple remark could expose him. But their conversation didn't falter.

"Did he? I didn't really notice. Servants is always getting that from their employers. You're just not used to it yet."

"No, I suppose not. Still, it's not as though he has anything to worry about. We're harmless as doves."

"The way I look at it, Maurice, he'll either learn to trust us or he won't. Some gentlemen are funny like that. They get suspicious of anything they can't understand right off."

The conversation died away again, but their words left George more confused than ever. He was certain that they'd admitted earlier that they were hiding something, but the things they'd just said didn't match up with that. 'Harmless as doves?' Had they somehow realized he was lurking in darkness and so had pitched their words for his ears alone?

"Alec?"

"Mmm?"

"I was wondering about something. You never told me—what made you miss your boat?"

"I thought you knew." Scudder blew out a long stream of smoke, and the red glow moved lower and disappeared.

"No, I mean what changed your mind? You seemed fairly well set on the Argentine that morning in London."

"Oh. I reckon I started thinking about what happened at Penge, that night before the cricket match. You was looking at me so hard then—it was a bit scary, to tell you the truth. No one ever looked at me like that before. Then you told me to call you Maurice. I remember talking about something or other that happened that day, just to have something to say—"

"Diving, I recall."

Scudder laughed. "Right. Mr. London and the water lilies, weren't it? Anyways, you seemed to relax some after that. Then you said something clean out of the blue, do you remember? 'Alec,' you said, just like that, my own name like you'd been saying it aloud forever. 'Did you ever dream you had a friend? Someone to last your whole life.'"

George thought Hall wasn't going to answer, but he finally said, "I remember." There was some unfathomable emotion in his voice.

"And it struck me hard, because I'd never thought about it like that. A friend. The way you put it, you made it sound like the best thing in the world. 'Course I had no friends at Penge, not a single one. Not even before that, really. I had family, people. But I reckoned from the way you put it, it wasn't the same."

"No, I suppose not."

"Then we met again in London, and the next thing I knew, you was asking me to be your friend. Well, not at first, not during all that talking at that museum—ugh, it was all too ugly, we both was."

"The less said about that day, the better."

"Right. At first I thought all your talk of friends was just another of your ways to—well, you know. I didn't think you could mean that. It was funny to me, almost, the idea that you and me—. A gentleman like you, and me a gamekeeper, friends? But then you was looking at me, hard and serious and scary again, the way you do, like you could get me to say yes just by staring at me. Like you really meant it."

"Of course I meant it."

A low laugh. "I wasn't sure, though, not then. You'd have to admit things had been awful muddled between us up to then. I didn't exactly know what to think. I never met anyone like you before."

"You know, you never even said goodbye that day."

"Didn't I? Well. No harm done, being that I didn't leave after all."

"Watching you go out the door was—. Well, thank God you changed your mind."

George could see Scudder's head bow and he was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, well. After I left, I got to thinking different about things. It came to me that I wouldn't rest easy if I never worked out what it was like to have a friend the way you said." There was a longer silence, then he added, "'I half-thought you'd get bored with me after a month or so, and I'd have been fucked out of a job, too, wouldn't I? And my family, too."

George expected some kind of protest at the sharp language, but instead Hall laughed. "Why did you risk it?"

"Because the other half of me thought you might just stay after all. I had to chance it."

"Did you worry over that? You needn't have."

"Didn't know that then, did I? Things happened so fast. We barely knew each other, really."

"But I had great hope. Alec, can you hold me up for a minute? I get so uncomfortable sometimes sitting in this chair all day. I'd like to stretch a bit."

Scudder stood up and manoeuvred himself next to Hall. A tug and a loud exhale, and Hall was upright, leaning heavily into his companion.

"All right there, Maurice? Does it hurt?"

"No, I'm all right. Give me a moment." Hall's voice was muffled.

"We should do this every day. Get you ready for walking again."

George was taken aback, and apparently so was Hall. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I've got an idea about making you a special shoe that helps you stand steady. If we can get you up easy on one foot, then you can use crutches, get around better."

"But how?"

"Oh, leave it to me. After working to patch up Penge, what was falling down more and more every day, and some things I learnt in the army, I reckon I can work something out. Don't you worry, Maurice."

"You're too good to me, Alec."

"I'm your friend. That's what it means, right?"

And with that, the two silhouettes slowly blended into one, closer than the rain that had started to fall, and the light from the house traced a succession of hands combing, tugging, smoothing through hair, at first blond, then dark. The conversation became nothing more than quiet murmuring. And there were softer sounds, too; sounds that two men together should never make.

George lurched back against the nearest tree, wholly shocked, but then found himself abruptly anchored to the spot.

"Oh, Alec, we shouldn't... Not out here."

"No one's around to see. Just the puss. And look at her; she's curious, is all."

Hall's face was more in light than shadow now, and George saw his lips press against Scudder's neck, at first gently, then with more vigour as Scudder tipped his head to allow him to get closer.

"God, I missed you so. All those months not being able even to touch you."

"Bad as with Mr Durham?" Even George could hear the challenge; he wondered who Durham was.

"Far worse. This time I knew exactly what I was missing. I nearly lost you once to the Argentine, Alec, and that was hard enough. When I saw you lying on the ground after the explosion, I was sure I'd lost you again, and this time for good...." He didn't finish—George doubted he could.

"Come inside, Maurice. Let's not wait no more." The longing in Scudder's voice gave weight to his words and exposed him even more than their embraces had.

George barely noticed Hall settling back in his chair, nor Scudder manoeuvring him into the cottage. He barely noticed the rain, which had finally begun to reach him through the larches. He was too wrapped up in taking on board what he'd seen and heard, and thinking about what he was going to say to Evelyn.

****

"I never thought I'd have to remind you to come in out of the rain, George. Look at you—you're soaking wet!"

"Oh, sorry. Where shall I leave these wet things?"

Evelyn was plucking at him like a mother hen, but her tolerant smile let him know he wasn't in too much trouble.

"So what did you find out about our new arrivals? I hope it was worth all your suffering."

He was just about to protest her accusation when he glanced down at her hand, which was holding a good number of larch needles she'd gathered from his wet hair and coat.

"There's only one stand of these trees that I know of nearby," she told him.

"I only did it for you and the school," he said feebly.

"Don't bother making excuses. I could tell you wanted to get to the bottom of those two from the moment you heard about them. And?"

"And?"

"Oh, don't be a goose. Are you going to tell me or not? Are they here to steal from our coffers, or worse?"

George's voice was as steady as he could make it. "No, I think they're honest, actually. I don't think we need to worry about that. And they seem to have taken your advice about the girls to heart, too. There'll be no trouble there, I'll warrant."

"And are you horribly disappointed?"

"What—what do you mean?" he stammered, before he realized his sister was baiting him in good humour.

"You seemed so anxious to prove them false, the way you were playing at Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, no. I was only concerned for your sake. I can tell you, though, the way they were talking this evening, they seemed more worried about doing well and keeping their new jobs."

She was spreading his wet overcoat over the hall coatrack, fumbling in one pocket before handing him his briar pipe with an affected smirk. "Are you very sure you didn't give yourself away, Mr Holmes? You weren't smoking your pipe down there among the larches, were you? That smell carries for miles."

"No," he said. "I'm positive they didn't know I was anywhere near them." He prayed she didn't ask him how he was so certain.

She didn't. Instead she patted him on the arm and thanked him for his concern before settling into her favourite chair by the fire. He relaxed for the first time that night, watching her retrieve her current book and slip out the bookmark. It was their old habit to read this way before retiring for the night.

He fumbled with his own book, finally settling on a page at random that he gazed at without seeing. The whole time, his mind replayed the words he'd heard from his hiding place in the darkness, words that even now pierced him to his core: Did you ever dream you had a friend? Someone to last your whole life.

Because he had dreamed such a thing and had kept his dream deeply buried; a secret no-one could penetrate. It rose up unbidden during long nights spent sleepless, as he questioned himself with mounting despair, why him and why this. It drove him relentlessly from place to place, led him to take on the jobs that frequently sent him away, so that he never let himself fall into a situation where someone could study him and know. Not even his sister, to whom his deepest loyalty and tender feelings belonged, suspected what his heart demanded of him and what he was forced to deny.

A friend. A hopeless cause, he always thought—until tonight.

Unexpectedly, while watching two strangers in the quiet evening over their cigarettes and tea, he had come face to face with the dream transformed into reality. These two men, so unequally yoked, had not only dreamed the forbidden dream, they had embraced it. At first, George's initial shock had dissolved into a darker emotion that took time to recognize until he finally knew its name: jealousy. Discarding that grim emotion as unworthy of him, he urged himself towards something more honourable and protective, something softer. And with only a little time and thought, it became as if the two of them were now the three of us, newly linked by their nature into unspoken brotherhood and bonded together by inescapable secrecy.

Their discreet hope for the future had become his own hope. And their fear of discovery led to his new commission to protect them.

"Evie?" he said quietly, so as not to startle his sister from her reading. "Do you know if Henrietta Trumbull still raises terriers the way she used to?"

His sister looked bewildered by the subject, then thoughtful. "Terriers? I don't—yes, now that you mention it, she was crowing about a new litter a few weeks ago at church. Why? Are you thinking of getting one?"

"You know me better than that. I'm not settled enough." He shook his head and smiled. "Actually, I was thinking that a dog might make a nice housewarming gift for those two at the caretaker's cottage."

Evelyn lowered her book and looked at him with a trace of a smile. "Goodness, George, whatever you overheard tonight has changed your view completely. I can't say I support your methods, but I'm glad of the result. Do you really suppose they'd like a dog? It's not a present one would want to spring on anyone without knowing."

He leaned back in his chair with a grin of satisfaction. "Yes, I think they'd like one very much."

"Perhaps you can visit Mrs Trumbull this week, then," Evelyn said, her attention already returning to the page.

He didn't answer; his eyes closed and he was deep in his own thoughts once more. His sister didn't look up from her book again, but if she had, she might have supposed by his gentle expression that he was dreaming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The End