Archive of Our Own

 “You must miss the shores of the Adriatic since coming home to the bleakest November in memory,” Augusta Barrington teased her elder brother, Miles, with no small amount of glee. “Are you preparing to flee to the continent if it rains for another week?”

“Italy has stunning vistas, that is true enough,” said Miles. He lifted his cup and savored another swallow of the mulled wine. “But if I waited any longer I would miss the festivities of the Christmas season and the fields of snow around Loxley.”

Isobel smiled at her siblings. “Gusta only teases because she wishes she had been able to go with you. You know how she loathes to be excluded from any gathering of interest.”

The trio of Barringtons made a pretty picture by the fireplace at the Collingwoods’ little party. Each sibling had charm and fairly pleasant features which were elevated to handsomeness with their animated speeches and glad manners. Despite their wealth no one thought them spoiled or miserly, as a result they had more invitations than they knew what to do with.

“Once your ankle has healed fully you may join me on any excursion you like,” Miles promised Augusta. “In the meantime you will have to suffer with our more localized venues of amusement.”

Augusta sighed heavily and made a show of gingerly limping her way to the table of refreshments rather than be pitied.

“How fares Miss Violet?” Miles sat down beside Isobel. The Collingwoods must have purchased new chairs and sofas or otherwise had them newly stuffed and upholstered for he could not recall them being so comfortable before. “I have not yet seen her this week past since I returned home.”

“Vi is well,” said Isobel. “Some of the family has the grippe so she is at home under quarantine and on nursing duty. We are awaiting Harriet’s marriage before we say our vows of communion.”

It would not do for a younger sibling to wed before an elder sibling many would well agree. Of course that did not make for a harmonious household when a younger sibling found their romantic match before their older brothers and sisters.

“I pray that Miss Harriet Mayfield is not one for a long engagement. You and Miss Violet have waited long enough to set up your household.” Miles had no intention of making any of his kin wait on his matrimonial decisions. Life was too short and love was too precious to be as fastidious as a Mayfield on marital timetables.

“Five weeks more.” A touch of giddiness colored Isobel’s voice and a blush colored her cheeks. Long engagements did not agree with everyone, but Isobel and Violet did not seem to have suffered overmuch for their wait. It did help that they were usually in town at the same time for most of the year, making visits and messages plentiful.

Perhaps it was for the best that Miles did not currently find himself in the throes of love. His heart was already fit to burst with happiness for his sister, surely there couldn’t be any room for more joy. Envy and jealousy rarely stirred Miles, he’d much rather be happy for those around him than not.

“Barrington! Here you are home at last!” Felton Thorne strode over with all the excitement of a friend who was pent up from all the news they had to share. “Miss Isobel, wonderful to see you looking well. Please give my regards to your Miss Mayfield.”

“Of course Mr Thorne,” Isobel rose from the sofa to let the two friends have their homecoming chat. “I will leave my brother in your excellent care, for I must remind Gusta that she isn’t to dance on her foot until the physician says she may and she will be tempted by the country dance that is starting up across the parlor.”

When one had known a friend since they were in short pants there was little secrecy in the friendship. Felton and Miles knew everything about one another and were brothers in all but blood. After all the general inquiries had been satisfied Felton drew closer and dropped his voice. “Barrington, I’m not entirely sure how to tell you this, but Ezra Harcourt is in a bad way. He might not make the winter.”

That could not be. Ezra Harcourt was a healthy man, body and soul. While slighter than some, Harcourt was fit and full of vigor all through Eton and into university.

“Thorne, I,” Miles began, but could scarce draw breath. Surely Felton had to be exaggerating or he had gotten the news wrong somehow. “Tell me everything.”

What there was to tell was simultaneously a lot and very little. Harcourt had been injured falling from a horse, that much Miles already knew. While the would had not been life threatening it was troublesome enough to impede his general health. Yet that was not the worst of it. The modest family fortune was nearly dried up entirely due to some poor investments by an uncle. Harcourt had to sell two of the three family properties to afford for his brother’s schooling. Things had gotten tight, tight enough that Harcourt was presently a clerk for some barrister, but all his money went to supporting his stepmother and siblings which left none for him when the chill of autumn wracked him with fever and left a present of weakened lungs.

“The stubborn ass won’t take a single pound,” Felton cursed bitterly. Were he less gently bred Miles was certain he would have spat on the floor in disgust. “Not even when told to think of it as a loan. Nothing. His pride is forcing us to watch him die by inches.”

Miles covered his eyes with his hand. That was Harcourt, make no mistake. Their mutual friend was proud, always had been even when attending university in dowdy, cheap clothing. What mattered most to Harcourt was that his family was thriving with himself as an afterthought.

“And nothing at all can be done? Cannot his barrister advance his salary to pay for a physician? Have you tried sending money to Mrs Harcourt or to her creditors directly? Or what about-?”

“He’s shooed three physicians away, two of which were sent by the barrister and one sent by myself,” said Felton. “I am at wit’s very end. And he will not let his family know. Even as the money dries up for he is too ill to work a week in full any more. I do not even know who his creditors are at present, he will not share his business.”

Anger did not quite cover what bubbled up in Miles then. Fear’s icy fingers stroked his heart, anxiety’s birds tickled his ribcage, and sorrow filled him with its lead weight. “Take me to him, Thorne.”

“At this moment I am to presume?” Whilst his friend’s words may have indicated some surprise, Felton was already navigating Miles towards their host’s door. “What am I nattering about? Miles Barrington is a man of decisiveness. Perhaps with the two of us we shall break through Harcourt’s pride and let his good sense come out for a breather.”

The Collingwoods were all graciousness and promised to relay Miles’ apologies to his sisters. Naturally, they understood the urgency of visiting an ill friend. And if they labored under the presumption that it was a kind of emergency, well neither Miles nor Felton would correct them.

As the hackney cab bounced over the cobbles, Miles plotted in his head the speech he would surely unload unto Harcourt. He would utilize the rhetoric they learnt together at school, be persuasive as manners allowed, and Harcourt would see the light. One could dismiss the worries of a single friend - clearly Harcourt thought Felton Thorne, teased as a cynic and pessimist in their school days, was overreacting. However, when one had more and more acquaintances making the same point then one often began to think of things in a different light.

“The chief problem of our spontaneity is lack of supplies,” mused Miles out loud. “If we waited until tomorrow we could have brought food, blankets, and a physician in tow possibly.”

“You assume Harcourt would not throw them all into the grate in a fit of pique,” said Felton.

“The physician wouldn’t be so easily tossed,” joked Miles in spite of the ever-growing pit forming in his stomach.

“Their coattails or petticoats would still be flammable.” Felton ran a hand through his hair, all pretense at formality gone. “Harcourt might even tell the landlord to call for a constable to throw us out.”

How Miles wished that were as preposterous as a winged pig, but Harcourt’s stubbornness had always been legendary.

The new address of their friend was situated in a not very fashionable block of Gracechurch Street. One wouldn’t mind their solicitor, favorite merchant, or apothecary living there, but it was not a gentry’s residence. Miles did not consider himself a snob, but he was secretly pleased that Harcourt had not been driven into the worst slums. He would have visited him anyway, poverty be damned, but the collective societal shame would have hung heavier on both sides. A neat brick townhouse contained Harcourt’s rented room and Miles thought perhaps all was well until the landlord guided them up a narrow set of stairs to the garret.

“I never used to rent it,” Mr Norton explained as they went up the last steep flight. “But times are lean and Mr Harcourt said he preferred being close to the law offices to pick up more work. Mr Harcourt, are you in? There are guests for you, sir.”

There was silence. Miles held his breath and for a moment his panicked fear that Harcourt lay dead - the very image that had catapulted him from the Collingwood party - nearly had him braced to storm the door. Then the sound of a coughing fit within flooded him with relief and impatience. Mr Norton unlocked the door and Miles was appreciative of the man’s initiative and sense.

“Good Lord.” Felton’s low curse could hardly be heard over Harcourt’s body wracking itself nearly in twain.

Good Lord, indeed, Miles thought briefly. Norton and his family had clearly tried to make the drafty garret livable, the curtains on the windows were thick and there was no shortage of rugs and blankets. But little did it take the chill out of the freezing apartment. In an instant Miles was at Harcourt’s bedside and undoing his muffler to put around Ezra Harcourt’s neck.

Once upon a time Miles had done this the first cold day at school when he realized Ezra Harcourt didn’t have anything to keep warm other than his skimpy coat. Miles hadn’t been thinking anything pious in the moment. All he knew was that his classmate was cold and Miles wanted to ease his ills. Mayhap Felton or one of the others would have done the same in time, but what Miles remembered most was how surprised and wary Harcourt was as though he were waiting for the gesture to turn out to be a prank or a segue into something sinister.

“You look cold,” Miles repeated the same words he had said then now once more to Harcourt.

This time there was nothing coherent in Harcourt’s expression. He wore the glassy unfocused attitude of the seriously ill. The coughing had subsided, but the man was shaking even under a full suit of morning clothes and three counterpanes.

“Felton, send for an apothecary, a physician, anyone close at all with a pinch of knowledge,” Miles said with uncharacteristic sharpness.

“He’s already gone, sir,” replied Norton. “You do understand, sir, that I did not think it was as bad as this. Mr Harcourt said he had a trifling cold and was resting from work for a few days.”

One could believe that, Norton did not seem a villain nor a shifty-eyed liar.

“I pray it is not too late for our friend.”

***

Ezra Harcourt, in the clutch of fever and half-sleep, idly wondered what particular circle of the Purgatorio or Inferno was presently his residence. Sweat-drenched bedclothes clung to his skin, abrasive as sandpaper, and the light and clatter made his head throb with renewed pain. Breathing was a chore and his lungs seemed disinclined to put much effort into assistance. The awful fact was Ezra had drowned nearly to death once in an adolescent boating accident and that had been a more pleasant experience in comparison. There were voices all around, too close for comfort yet too distant to understand, both strange and familiar. A cool hand lay on his forehead, briefly, then a different hand. More vocal buzzing abounded.

Was this because I sneaked biscuits as a child? Ezara thought. Or perhaps it’s because I failed to provide for the family? How do the angels or demons make an account of all the particulars of a man’s life for the Lord to judge?

Slumber pulled at Ezra’s mind more urgently, but before it could sink him beneath its waves he was reminded once more of valiant, imposing angels for he was lifted into someone’s arms.

***

Miles did not often carry men as a rule. Nor women. Nor anyone really, for there was no need in his life. Not since the horseplay of his youth had he bodily lifted someone. Thus it was a novelty of sorts to have Harcourt against his chest and weighing a good stone less than he ought. If the man were not ill it may have been agreeable, though Miles did have a sliver of pride to be able to do this much for his friend. With Norton’s help the pair of them had gotten Harcourt down the stairs, but it was Miles alone who carried his friend to the hackney cab Felton had brought the street.

“Mistress Yardley is on her way to my place,” Felton held the door open for his friends. “For it is closer than yours and the guest rooms are made up already. There should be a roaring fire and a bouillon by the time we arrive.”

“Good thinking as always, Felt,” Miles said with true gratitude. A cool head was not something the Creator had blessed Miles with, but he appreciated that others were blessed so.

The dark edged in closer now and the lamps seemed to make scant difference. “Lord, he’s in a bad way,” Felton whispered after Harcourt gulped for air and shuddered, wrapped in Miles’ great coat. “At first I thought you were being impetuous insisting that we not wait for morning. Yet you were right to rush, who knows what state he might have been in by then?”

How unfair the world could be for a strong and virtuous man like Harcourt to be brought as low as any self-centered wretch, thought Miles. His grip tightened on the precious bundle that was Harcourt, but Miles told himself it was to protect against the jolts of the carriage ride.

Mistress Yardley arrived not long after them, with a large bag and a small notebook that she wrote in with pencil no longer than a thumb. Felton relayed to her all he knew of Harcourt’s present situation, then he and Miles tried to recall what they knew of the family’s general constitution.

“His father was a vicar, very kind,” said Miles. “I believe he died of influenza nearly eight years ago, in winter.”

“No one in their immediate circle was prone to consumption,” added Felton. “All the Harcourts seemed hale when we saw them regularly.”

Mistress Yardley nodded, scribbled something in her own personal shorthand, and gestured for them to continue.

“Well, I do recall that Harcourt got chest colds easily at school,” Miles said. The picture of young Ezra Harcourt wracking his lungs out now overlaid with the very recent recollection of him hardly able to take breath. “He would get into a mania of studying and skip meals, stay up late to read, and such.”

With a bit of tallow in his hand and his spectacles pushed up his nose, Miles’ mind added. One would have thought Harcourt the picture of a hermit in a cave, reading scripture by candlelight and wreathed in a glow of beneficence, blankets cloaked about his shoulders. Miles had always liked waking up in the night to see Harcourt like that. There was a strange sort of comfort knowing that Harcourt was awake with his books. It was much less lonely than when Miles awoke and everyone else was so deeply asleep he might have been the only person alive in Creation. Harcourt made the night less discomforting, he made it serene and beautiful.

“Mr Thorne mentioned an injury before,” said Mistress Yardley.

“We were not told of the exact nature or extent of the injury,” admitted Miles. He had written to Harcourt when he’d heard the news. Written four letters, though he’d burnt the first two for they were too prying and overextending. Harcourt never wrote back, but Miles could not blame him. What was there to write when one suffered? ‘Thank you for acknowledging my suffering and I am still suffering?’ “Mr Harcourt is a very private man.”

“I heard a rumor that it involved a fall from a horse that resulted in injury to the thigh or hip, forgive my plain speech, Mistress Yardley,” said Felton.

“One hears a great many ruder words and sees a great many ruder parts than ‘thigh,’ Mr Thorne.” Mistress Yardley raised her eyebrow meaningfully which was enough to relieve the tension for all three of them to laugh, nervously and desperate for the worst not to pass that night.

“I suppose delicate sensibilities are not an asset for an apothecary.” Felton stroked his chin. “And to speak in euphemism could lead to misunderstandings of the highest order.”

With no more information that could possibly prepare her, Mistress Yardley went up to the guest room where Harcourt was. Miles had risen from his chair to follow her, but Felton shook his head and frowned deeply.

“Give the man some privacy,” said Felton. “We’ve already intruded quite a bit and are likely to be intruding even more.”

Miles’ expression must have contorted into something quite strange for Felton said, “Sulking will not work on me, Barrington. Come now, I have a deck of cards and we can play something utterly inane until Mistress Yardley returns.”

Vignt-et-Un kept them occupied for some time, Miles refused to look at the clocks for he had gotten fixed notion that each second was counting down to Harcourt’s demise and that was too perturbing to dwell upon. Littleton, the butler, brought in an assortment of strong spirits and some light refreshment. Miles decided not to pour himself anything until they heard the news, but Felton took a bit of rum and a bite of thickly buttered bread.

Mistress Yardley returned to the parlor, shaking her head and faintly scowling. “Might I join you with those drinks, gentleman?”

“I take it Harcourt was just mulishly unreasonable with you as he is with everyone who tries to lend him a hand,” said Felton as he poured a double shot of rum for their guest.

“Quite so,” she sighed. “I am pleased to report that it does not appear to be consumption yet, for that decline described was worrisome. He is either pneumatic or soon to be, with that fever that has its hold on him. With light, and frequent nutritious meals, a great deal of rest, and clean air I believe he will mend in time. That of course assumes he does not suffer a strong relapse.”

Miles had been focused on the fever to the point where consumption had not even entered his mind. Pneumonia was still a terrible threat, for that could carry Harcourt off in a matter of days.

“He cannot go back to that garret,” said Miles.

“Indeed, I do not think he would heal in that setting considering how weakened his body has become,” agreed Mistress Yardley. “If you can keep him here or in similar accommodations he’ll have a much better chance.”

“And the moment he is strong enough to leave he will do so and take ill all over again until he eventually does become well and truly consumptive.” Felton said darkly, the bitterness nearly palpable.

Something a plan began to take shape in Miles’ head. Likely it would not come to pass, but it was the only thing he could think of to keep Harcourt from slow, inevitable death by overwork and poverty.

“You are too quiet, Barrington,” said Felton after Mistress Yardley left.

“I am fatigued. This night was exhausting.”

“You have some merry scheme in mind,” his friend accused. “Do not disagree, I know you too well. Whatever it is it shall wait until morning. No one is awake now to do your bidding, or if they are awake they are dancing and drinking or rutting or anything else but able to do your bidding.”

Which was how one found Miles Barrington up earlier than gentry are usually awake, ready to take action. There was first the stop to Mr Norton to pay the man the next two months’ rent, though the room would be vacant for Harcourt’s things were to be moved to the Thorne residence during his convalescence. Sadly, Harcourt’s things were even fewer than when he was in school. The lack of books was the most surprising and Mr Norton revealed that Harcourt had sold most of them in the past month.

It was a good thing that Felton was not accompanying him on his errands for he would have had a great deal to say.

The errands were complete three days later, thanks to some liberality of coinage. Miles returned to Felton’s place and his nervous smile alerted Felton to the nature of his scheme.

“If you are setting out to do what I think you are setting out to do, you will be refused,” Felton said by way of greeting. He eyed the portfolio and package Miles brought.

“Then let me be refused,” Miles said blithely. “It does not harm you one bit to let me be foolish and sentimental.”

“There I disagree with you,” said Felton. “Harcourt will be in a snit and you will be in abject misery and I shall be caught in the middle.”

“Do cheer up, Felt.” Miles patted Felton on the cheek. “Or Mistress Yardley will have to prescribe you a tonic.”

As one would imagine the guest rooms at the Thorne house were a great improvement over the Norton house. A fire burned in the grate, the curtains were open to let in gauzy beams of sunshine, and Harcourt was well enough to read in bed.

“Good morning,” Miles felt shy as though the nature of his visit had suddenly dawned on him. “You’re looking well, Harcourt.”

Harcourt went red in the cheeks and placed the book he was reading on the nightstand. “The fever is gone for the present,” he answered. “I have you and Thorne to thank for the timely intervention.”

“Anyone would have done the same for a friend in need.” Miles went to sit in the chair that was next to Harcourt’s bedside.

At that statement Harcourt’s face darkened and he pursed his lips. “You both have always been kind friends to me. Even with the gulf that separates us. Nevertheless, I should be well enough to go back to my rooms and continue working next week.”

“Is that what Mistress Yardley said?” Miles was sure it was not.

“It matters not what she said, I need to work. Danny’s tuition and the household expenses do not take care of themselves,” Harcourt snapped. “And don’t you dare offer money like Thorne. I am not a charity case or a pet project.”

That was the true testament to Harcourt’s illness taking a toll. Never before had Miles heard him speak so blatantly about money matters. Or perhaps it was a sign that Harcourt had slipped from the idle gentry to worker.

“Thorne apprised me of your refusals to take gifts or loans.” Miles struggled to speak slowly and not give in to the frustration Harcourt was stoking. “You are not a charity case, Harcourt. I never thought of you as one and neither has Thorne. We genuinely have enjoyed your friendship all these years. It pains me to see you suffer, just as it would pain me to see Thorne or one of my sisters suffer.”

“Let me keep my pride, my dignity,” Harcourt’s tone lowered. “Do not sully my last few months with arguments and a friendship soiled.”

Miles swallowed hard and his pulse thudded in his ears. “Last few months?”

“That is what I’ve been told,” Harcourt stared at a spot on the wall behind Miles’ head. “Mistress Yardley spoke in a hopeful manner of future wellness, but all the rest have not been so reluctant to speak plainly of my fate.”

“Marry me, Harcourt.”

The words tumbled out of Miles’ mouth before he could stop them. He had thought he would introduce the idea organically into their conversation, but Harcourt’s talk of inevitable demise made his protective instincts roar - as if Miles could combat the reaper for Harcourt.

His friend blinked, his light brown eyes more than ever resembling the moniker of ‘owlish.’ “I beg your pardon, Barrington. I believe the fever may have returned.”

“I am serious,” said Miles. Lord, this was foolish wasn’t it? He certainly felt foolish as he fumbled to get the ring from his pocket. “Will you, Ezra Harcourt, do me the great honour of becoming my frater in holy union?”

“You cannot mean that,” Harcourt blanched and moved back further into the pillows. “Barrington, tell me this is some prank or lark.”

“It’s not a prank at all,” said Miles. He placed the ring, a gold band with a simple inlaid garnet cabochon, in Harcourt’s palm and tried to convey his sincerity through his gaze. “You are not well, Harcourt. If these are truly your last months let me take care of you. And your brothers and sister will never want for anything even after.”

Harcourt closed his fist around the ring as though he could crush it and everything it represented about his situation. “So this is to be my life? Paying for my family’s comfort with my body and soul?”

“Would you take money instead?” Miles asked. “I could have everything in your accounts by the end of the day and there needn’t be any marriage.”

A flare of Harcourt’s nostrils and a deepening scowl was his reply. “Of course not, that is ever so much worse for I would be in your debt. At least if we were wed I could fool myself into thinking you got something out of it.”

“And so I would!” Miles replied. “Did you not hear me say I enjoy your company? I will have no peace of mind if you return to clerking and drafty garrets. This is entirely selfish on my part, Harcourt. I want my dear friend to be comfortable and free of worry, that is what would please me most.”

Picking the ring up between his forefinger and thumb Harcourt studied how the gem caught the light. Not that he was appraising it for value, Miles knew him better for that, more as if he were studying it for some mystical, deeper meaning. “And you have thought this through? Begged permission of your family? Written to my mother?”

“I am more than old enough to make my own matrimonial decisions,” said Miles. “And I’ve yet to write to your mother, though I will if you so wish it. As for thinking the matter through, I’ve had my solicitor draw this up.”

Harcourt squinted at the papers Miles took out of the portfolio. “This is, this cannot be!”

“It is not entirely unheard of for a man to make a monetary present to his spouse upon marriage,” said Miles, purposely bland. Being unusual in that he was giving to his spouse rather than taking a form of dowry was not illegal. “And an annuity to your mother while she lives is what a man would do for his own parents.”

“And what I am to do with this monthly allowance?” Harcourt ran his finger over the amount listed. “It is extravagant and wasteful! Even a pair of costly physicians on retainer would not use up that amount.”

“If my frater wishes to send his allowance to his siblings to pay for their expenses I cannot see how I would protest.” Miles laid his hand atop Harcourt’s, gentle and ready to remove his touch if unwanted. “If my frater wanted to give it all to the church or buy a small library, I would not protest. A gift is a gift without condition. If we wed there are no loans between us, no transactions. What is mine I give freely to you.”

Harcourt squeezed Miles’ hand and frowned ruefully. “I will do it to please all of you, my family, you and Thorne, for I do not care to spread so much misery if my time left is so short.”

It could not be said that it was the most romantic acceptance to a proposal of marriage, but Miles was too relieved to spare a thought for disappointment. “We shall make it a beautiful time.”

***

“Well, this ought to quiet the Mayfield traditionalists,” Augusta snorted. “The eldest Barrington will be married before the youngest with a week to spare. If I find myself a mate next week we’ll have done the order entirely right.”

“Gusta, you never fail to to entertain us all with your unique perspective,” said Isobel shaking her head. She pulled out a length of silk floss and snipped it neatly for threading.

“Hear, hear,” Felton raised his tea cup in a mock toast. “To Miss Augusta.”

Miles kept to his writing desk, besides the ones he had sent earlier there were a great many more letters to be sent when one was setting up a household. “I hope none of you bedevil Mr Harcourt with this mockery. He is in a delicate state.”

“Do you really believe us to be that callow, brother?” asked Augusta. “We mean to tease you alone, for we all like Mr Harcourt and wish for his return to health. By th way, it is you who ought guard your tongue. No one who is in a delicate state likes to be told they’re in a delicate state. There is nothing more likely to get a vase or a heavy book thrown at your head than saying those words.”

Felton once more lifted his cup in Augusta’s direction. “Wiser words ne’er spoken.”

“The solicitor has drawn up papers for you, that I know,” said Isobel. “And the wedding clothes have been ordered. What else need be done? Is there anything we can do to assist you?”

“Simply be kind to him.” Miles said in earnest. “He has suffered in isolation for some time because of his pride. I wish to do everything in my power to give him ease and pleasure-”

Another snort from Augusta.

“Ease and pleasure,” Miles repeated firmly.

“Oh, never mind me.” Augusta waved her hand in an airy gesture. “I am simply rotten with envy. You come home from a long stint abroad, find your boyhood sweetheart at death’s door, and sweep him off his feet with a proposal, and will be wed before the year is out. It’s romantic beyond belief - straight out of a novel.”

“Do not insult novels,” Felton said. “For this to be a proper novel plot I would have to challenge your brother to a duel in Harcourt’s sickroom-”

“And you would be gravely wounded, everyone would believe you to be dead, but you would appear dramatically on the day of their wedding,” said Augusta, eyes bright with collaborative delight.

“With me would be his true father, a minor prince from the Continent looking for his rightful heir-”

“Dear me, do not give away the ending of your novel before it is published,” Isobel said. “I do believe we have found your calling.”

“Dearest, Mr Thorne, would you do me the honour of becoming mine own author in collaboration of writing of tawdry novels?” Augusta reached over the tea table to clasp Felton’s hand.

“Miss Augusta, nothing would give me more delight, if only for the sake of mildly pestering our dear Miles.”

The pair of them carried on for most of the afternoon in that fashion and Miles was more amused than perturbed. When it came time to dress for dinner Isobel stopped her brother in the hallway.

“Are you truly all right?” Isobel touched his arm briefly and her brow crinkled. “This wedding out of the blue will make you happy? You are not sacrificing your life for duty alone, are you brother?”

“Izzy.” Miles lowered his gaze to meet hers. “I will be sincerely happy when Mr Harcourt is by my side and well, instead of wasting away for shillings and pence. He has always been a dear friend to me and more people have married for far less than that.”

***

Ezra Harcourt was restless. Two and half weeks at the Thorne residence had influenced his health quite positively. His fever was mostly gone, though it sometimes returned after a particular trying day. There was little to be done for his coughing fits besides taking generous spoonfuls of honey. More than comfortable lodgings it was the company that cheered him. Felton Thorne was as clever and interesting to converse with as in their youth and Miles was ever amiable. The Barrington sisters even visited on days he was well enough to sit in the parlour.

“Harcourt, do not be alarmed, for I say this with no intent of giving offense, but are you quite sure you want to marry our friend Barrington?” Thorne put down his newspaper to raise an eyebrow at Ezra. “Your circumstances are trying to be certain, but no one would think the less of you if you decided Barrington is not your ideal mate.”

This was a slight shock for Thorne was even closer to Barrington than he was. Ezra wracked his memory for observations and concluded that no, Thorne was not speaking out of jealousy for Thorne had no designs upon him or Barrington. “I am aware that I come across as mercenary in this play,” Ezra twisted the edge of his dressing robe collar. “And a lack of assets is not entirely out of the equation.”

“Sadly, very few can marry without consideration of finances in some way,” said Thorne. “One would hope it is not the only variable in the equation.”

How in Creation could Ezra explain himself, to Thorne or Barrington or anyone else? If Ezra did not need money for his family he was not certain he would have ever been in the role of betrothed to Barrington. Not because he was not fond of Barrington. No, indeed. Ezra had always been fond of his friend and when they were in school it had scared Ezra how very much he liked Miles Barrington. But they had moved in different circles after university and time, fortunately for Ezra, had faded the intensity of the emotion.

That had all come roaring back to life when Barrington uttered that proposal. Let others, let even Barrington, believe Ezra had accepted simply for creature comforts and annuities. That pragmatic part of him had for once lain silent. What prompted Ezra’s reply was the memory of Barrington climbing into bed with him at Eton to whisper stories and secrets when Ezra had an awful day or fell sick from overwork. How they whispered bits of Greek and Latin to make private jokes across the pillow, how Barrington sneaked extra candles for Ezra to read by night, how very wonderful it had been to hear Barrington laugh with pure joy at something Ezra had said - those were the reasons to his acceptance.

“We would not be in this position without things being as they are,” Ezra said slowly, each vowel a deliberation. “I will say that I would not have entertained such a proposal from anyone else. Not even you, Felton Thorne.”

“That is a relief,” chuckled Thorne. “For I am very glad to be your friend, Harcourt, but I do not think we would suit in the long run. I am far too irreverent and moody to be your match. Besides, Barrington would have had fits. He might have even challenged me to a duel.”

“I very much doubt that.” Ezra felt his frown contour his expression and chewed his lip. “Surely Barrington would have been kindly and supportive as always.”

“You doubt your hold on him?” Thorne’s voice rose to punctuate the question. Which was quite beyond Ezra’s ken. Hold on Barrington! As if Ezra, bespectacled and plain featured, were a beguiling siren!

“Are you not confusing sympathy for something else, Rose-Thorne?” Ezra trotted out the old nickname, half in trepidation for mayhap the worldly, genteel Thorne would scorn such intimacy from a fallen from grace former schoolmate. “My pathetic lot may have taken hold on Barrington’s imagination, kindling sympathy and igniting some fantasy of chivalry. To be truthful the whole of it reflects rather poorly on myself to take advantage of Barrington’s magnanimity.”

“Rose-Thorne I shall be once more and my thorns might prick some logic into you.” Apparently, scorn at boyish camaraderie was the furthest thing from Thorne’s mind. He pinched Ezra’s cheek, like he had at twelve when Ezra wallowed in self-loathing. “Do you truly believe yours is the first tale of woe our Barrington has ever heard? Do you think that at five-and-thirty that not a single lord or lady suitor has made overtures to him?”

Put that in those terms Ezra’s suppositions were mortifying. Heat flooded his face swiftly and completely to the point where Ezra might have thought his fever had returned if not for the shame filling him. “I-I suppose it is right and natural for Barrington to be sought after. As a matter of fact I was perplexed as to why he was not already wed.”

“Ez-ra.” Thorne rolled his eyes and the sigh he let out was nearly equine in character. “Barrington has had suitors and lovers. Yet none of them tempted him into the matrimonial state. Not fabulous riches, or great beauty, or woeful entreaties, nothing and no one swayed him. He was happy as he was, blithe and independent, and never felt that marriage with any of those individuals would bring him greater contentment than that he already enjoyed.”

A flame of indescribable emotion began to flicker in Ezra, but it would not do to name it.

“Yet within less than a week of your reunion, Barrington proposes to you and rearranges all his affairs to accommodate that.” Another pinch, gentler this time. “I know it has been well over a decade since we have been frequently in each other’s company, but you must see how much that speaks to Barrington’s regard for you.”

“At least you do not see the affair as transactional,” Ezra said after a long pause. “Everyone else shall.”

Thorne’s bark of a laugh startled Ezra, “No one who sees how Barrington gazes upon you could ever think this as a strictly financial arrangement.”

There were dozens of besotted lords and ladies with deep pockets happily spoiling opportunistic lovers and spouses, Ezra wished to remind Thorne, but the words died on his tongue. To label Barrington among that number tasted like rank betrayal. Besides, his cheeks did not need any more thorny pinches!

***

On the morning of the anticipated day Miles Barrington found himself pacing his bedchamber soon after dawn. Vexation and self-doubt were foreign sensations to Miles as his glad temperament meant he was seldom in such a state and thus at a loss at what to do. He did not want to light candles to read, he did not want to eat or drink, he did not want to lie abed; in short Miles was utterly exasperated and he had no one but himself to blame.

“This is why other people have cats,” Miles muttered. “A wonderfully aloof cat or a loyal kitten would certainly quiet my thoughts for a while.”

Maybe he and Harcourt would get a cat or two, unless of course it would interfere with Harcourt’s health. Mistress Yardley would know. Harcourt could remind him about the ancient Egyptian veneration of cats and they could get a painting commissioned of their inevitably doted upon feline.

But alas such a cat was in the future and not here in the present to soothe agitated master.

After a quarter of an hour, Stanford the footman did slip in quiet as any cat to assist Miles in dressing. He had yet to hire a valet since his return and his family insisted that he could not be trusted to dress himself with the care the occasion required.

“Have you decided on your stockings, sir?” Stanford laid out several different pairs. “Are you adhering to old tradition or modern convention this fine day?”

The modern man, that pragmatic paragon of discretion and sangfroid, would have donned a matching pair of white silk stockings and plain garters. In many respects Miles assumed he was modern, for being devoted to tradition for its own sake never appealed.

Tradition said that soon after fraternal and sororal unions were sanctified in the fifteenth century, a certain Maurice Newsome was so overcome with emotion and gratitude the day of his union with his frater, Leslie Carden, that he could not remember to wear matching stockings. Many fraters and sorors went to their own weddings thus attired as a symbol of devotion, both to their God and their partner.

Naturally, an entire lexicon of meaning grew up around the color and design of the mismatched stocking. Some fashionable folk went so far as to commission their stockings much as brides of opposite-sex unions had wedding shoes made special.

Had Miles been thinking more clearly and with less urgency he would have been delighted to have a stocking set made for the day. However, Miles had to make his general intentions known with the stockings and garters he already owned.

“Blue is always acceptable, I think,” Miles murmured. “For faith and loyalty, correct?”

“I believe so,” agreed Stanford. “My understanding is that many of the heraldry meanings for colors carry over in this tradition.”

It was a great pity that clocking was not as fashionable as it once was for that would have afforded Miles more possibilities of combinations. What he wanted to express to Harcourt could not be limited to simply two colors.

“Your sister Augusta does have red and white striped stockings,” Standford offered as Miles stood petrified in indecision. “Mayhap she would lend one to you, sir.”

When consulted, after pleading with her maid to rouse her so early in the morning, Augusta guffawed in a most unladylike manner, which put Miles’ mind aright for nothing could be awful in the world if Gusta could still laugh like that. “Of course you may have them, dear brother! How daring with white for innocence and red for lust?”

“I thought the combination was more alchemical, balancing each other,” said Miles. “White for peace and sincerity whilst red is action and protection. Have I gotten it entirely wrong, Stanford?”

“Both interpretations are not out of the realm of possibility.” Stanford allowed with a slight tilt of the head and an even fainter smile.

“Do not forget that you must wear interesting garters,” Augusta said as she had Mary shoo them out of her chambers. “I will disavow you as my relation if I find out from Stanford that you wore black buckle garters on your wedding day.”

“I am loathe to inquire as to what Gusta considers ‘interesting’ in garters,” Miles said once back in his room.

“Miss Augusta seems to enjoy accessories with intricate patterns. However, should you choose to wear black buckle garters Miss Mary will never hear it from me to relay to her mistress.” Stanford shook his head, amused at the antics of the Barringtons as though they were sprightly village children instead of gentry.

“Black seems too dour for a happy day even when hidden from sight as garters.” It was also the color of mourning and Miles clamped down on his fear that he would be attending Harcourt’s funeral before spring. “A cheerier, more lively color is better. Green or yellow ought to be in the weave. I’m fairly sure I have a pair to that effect.”

They were mostly green with a cream yellow geometric design that was vaguely floral. Looking at them once more Miles recalled that when he had purchased them Miles had thought of Gawain’s green girdle. He fancied, in that idle fashion, that they might be as lucky as that knight’s token.

Garters tied, waistcoat buttoned, and coat brushed Miles was ready in his attire, if not exactly in his soul. He had pushed for the union and still thought it the right thing to do, but Miles simultaneously believed he was imposing on Harcourt somehow.

Stanford lingered in his chambers, Miles could not bring himself to dismiss the man and the footman seemed to understand that Miles needed some supportive presence - even if it was from a borrowed sort of valet.

“Your rooms on Arlington Street have been prepared for your and Frater Harcourt’s return,” Stanford told him. “A permanent cook has been engaged, a housemaid as well. And Mistress Yardley has agreed to visit in two day’s time.”

That address had been neglected the past few weeks as once Miles proposed to Harcourt it had been easier (both on his nerves and in transport) to stay at the family home with his sisters. Miles had dithered about hiring more servants, but he was not sure how the situation would play out nor was he entirely sure if he were to keep those rooms. They were quite fine for a bachelor, but for a couple the were somewhat lacking.

First things first, he needed to be wed. Everything else could be decided later.

***

If one wanted to be entirely precise, Ezra Harcourt was not getting married. Indeed, as far as the Church was concerned marriage only existed between a man and a woman. What he and Barrington were doing was having a fraternal bond blessed and sanctified by the Church. It was more readily dissolved than a marriage and ostensibly was not necessarily romantic in nature. But cultural attitudes and parlance had folk treating it as though it were simply marriage, a measure by which those unable to love the opposite sex could live dignified, respectable lives. However, the technical difference did naught to calm Ezra. Nervousness, guilt, apprehension, and panic set his insides roiling.

“You are strictly forbidden from heaving your breakfast into the bushes,” Thorne told him as they climbed the step of the church. “It will ruin your cravat and sour your breath for kissing besides.”

“Chastise all you wish, Rose-Thorne,” Ezra shot back. “You are not the one making a holy vow this morning.”

Thorne had the audacity to simply shrug and smirk.

Inside the church the pews were filled with more guests than Ezra had been expecting. Of course Mother Mariah, Danny, Nora, and Thom were seated in the front. They’d come to London a few days ago and had been put up in a fine suite. One of Barrington’s wedding gifts had been new clothes for all the Harcourts and thus they were as outfitted as finely as Ezra was now. Normally, Ezra would not be keen on such extravagance, but he was relieved that his siblings would not have to endure pity from their schoolmates. Nora was being sent away to school for the first time and a new trunk full of lovely things had her in the highest of spirits. Danny would never have to calculate how long he could stay out with friends with his woolen great coat. Little Thom’s growing feet would never again have to be pinched by too-small shoes and Mother Mariah could hold her head high in her circle once more. His beloved family would have come to London all the same for love of him, but it was much better to know they were benefiting from this union from day one.

The other guests seemed to be comprised of not simply Barrington and Thorne’s social circle, but Ezra’s own friends from university classes and people he had known as a child. Even more surprising was that Mr Wilton, Esquire, his recent employer was there as well. Ezra had given no thought to the guests, illness had left him too drained to think much and so focused he had been on his family and Barrington that he entirely forgot other people might have a care for them. -

“If you genuinely believe you shall be happier untethered you need only say the word,” Thorne whispered to Ezra, quite low and close so that none could hear them. “We are all of us united in the cause of your continued health and happiness.”

A weird mania stirred and told Ezra that this was all folly, that it was indeed better to waste away proud and unbending - alone. Then he glanced towards the altar and saw Miles Barrington at the ready.

Miles, for he could not be Barrington with his face so openly tender and vulnerable, stood straight and proper, but Ezra noticed how the thumb and index finger of his left hand fidgeted. No conventional coat of black did he wear, but one of deepest forest green that spoke of sleepy moss and the promise of late summer when the leaves were darkest. And the stockings! Mismatched as any besotted frater would wear for his fellow on this day. It could not be simply for show, Miles was too genuine for that.

From then the service passed in a sort of haze. Ezra ignored the eyes of others upon him, for he was employed in searching Barrington’s expression for every nuance, for every sign, for any omen of where this would all lead. If the priest had not cleared his throat Ezra might well have missed the verse whereupon the wedding ring was presented to him—

“‘And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him.’

“Wilt thou have this man to be thy dearest brother, to knit your soul unto his in holy union, and honour him above all other in most cherished kinship?”

Barrington’s “I will,” rang out clear and true, Ezra dearly wanted to shake him for his foolishness. Did he not realize that Ezra would bring him sorrow? That should he perish as expected it would wound him? That should he live it would burden him. It was enough to make a man weep.

But Ezra was a weak, foolish man himself. He had not the strength to turn away from his friend and as soon as his own troth was pledged a slim gold band joined the garnet ring on his left hand. His knees buckled as Barrington kissed on one cheek then the other as tradition dictated, fortunately Ezra could blame his weak leg for clasping Barrington’s arms in order not to fall.

“Dear Harcourt,” Barrington’s murmured softer than eiderdown, softer than silk.

It would never do to fall in love with his spouse of convenience, yet Ezra was wavering dangerously close.

***

The celebratory breakfast and reception were elegant, Miles had gotten a considerable headache the week before fighting with his father, Augusta, and Thorne over the degree of grandeur to be displayed. All that matter was that the guests were suitably pleased and that he and Harcourt were able to take their leave without much fuss. Harcourt ate little and had gone paler by degrees until Miles decided they needed to be home on Arlington Street. What was the use of marrying the man to save his life if the wedding day killed him?

Harcourt was silent during the ride there, but it did not seem contemptuous for he leaned on Miles and fingered his rings.

“Of course you have your own bedchamber and study,” Miles told his frater as he led him through the rooms. “I would not be such a tyrant to expect you at my side every hour of every day. One must have their privacy.”

“Do you not want me in your bedchamber?” Harcourt glanced around the room, well-appointed and with shelves aplenty for books and curiosities.

“I want you to be where you are most comfortable.” Miles frowned, for some reason this did not seem to please Harcourt either. “I do not want you to regret this day and all that comes afterward.”

Harcourt slumped into the nearest chair and such a defeated posture Miles hoped to never see him in again. This called for drastic measures.

Miles knelt at Harcourt’s feet, “Tell me what to do, I am half-mad with fear of doing wrong by you. Dear Harcourt, dear Ezra! You may ask anything of me, everything of mine is yours including mine own heart.”

“Because I was proud and selfish, you are yoked to me,” Harcourt hiccuped a wretched cry.

“Proud perhaps,” Miles took Harcourt’s hands to kiss the knuckles. “But how are you selfish when I wish to give you the very world at your feet? You are more dear to me than anyone in Creation and I sorely regret that I allowed our friendship to go dormant when you retreated from society. Yours is the voice that is music to my heart and it has been since Eton.”

“If you do not call the clergyman now to dissolve this union, then you are bound to me until the end for I will not be able to let you go,” Ezra, trembling Ezra, told Miles.

“Do not let me go, for there is no place else I will be.”

Ezra’s smile was a question and an answer and it was then Miles knew they would have their happiness after all.