“He’s fine,” Henry said. “And very grateful to you for your intervention last night.”
Freddy shrugged. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“No,” Henry said. “In point of fact, no one did—only you.” He smiled. “I can’t tell how proud I am of you for that.”
Freddy flushed, his mouth curving briefly into a smile before he cleared his throat and said, “May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Henry said.
“How do you know Mr. Redford?”
Henry had been expecting this, and he’d had time to consider his answer on the way home. Even so, it was not easy to speak the words.
“We knew each other a long time ago,” he said. “But until very recently I hadn’t seen him for many years.”
“So you’re… friends?” Freddy asked.
Henry set down his cutlery. “Freddy—”
Freddy blurted, “Are you like George?”
“Like George,” Henry repeated slowly. “Your brother George?”
Freddy swallowed. He nodded.
Henry frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Freddy paled. “Don’t you—?” He broke off. “I thought you knew. George did too.”
“Knew what?”
Freddy’s eyes widened, his gaze horrified. “I—nothing, I—”
Henry had never seen him so flustered.
“Tell me,” Henry insisted. When Freddy just stared at him, he added, “Freddy, please. I know George has been unhappy for a while. If you know why—” He broke off then, remembering what Freddy had just said before panic set in.
“Are you like George?”
Faintly, almost disbelievingly, Henry said, “Are you telling me that George—that he prefers men?”
Freddy swallowed and nodded. “I thought you knew,” he whispered. “I would never have mentioned it otherwise.”
“How would I know?” Henry said helplessly. His heart was racing, his gut in turmoil. The thought of George suffering in silence the way Henry had suffered for so many years made him hurt all over.
“Fletch’s father caught them together at Dinsford Park, when George was there for the holidays.” Freddy said. “Don’t you remember when George was sent back in disgrace? We were sure Fletch’s father had told you what happened.”
Henry did vaguely remember an occasion when George had been sent back early from his friend’s house—he would have been sixteen or so. Back then, he’d spent most of the holidays with his best friend, Oliver Fletcher, sometimes at Avesbury House and sometimes at Fletch’s family estate in Surrey. On that last occasion, George had been sent home with a terse but vague note from Sir Joseph Fletcher alluding to unacceptable behaviour and suggesting that Henry ask George for an explanation.
After reading the note, Henry had taken one look at George standing on the other side of his desk, his expression miserable and defeated, and had thrown the note on the fire. Henry had always liked Oliver Fletcher, a scamp of a lad who was the one person who seemed to have the power to bring out George’s more frivolous side.
Henry had decided then and there that George had been punished enough. Instead of asking George to explain himself, he’d dismissed him, saying only, “Take yourself off—just don’t do it again.”
“Don’t do it again.”
Hearing the words again in his mind, he wanted to weep. He hadn’t even known what he was telling George not to do.
“I didn’t know,” Henry said, his tone agonised. “God, if I’d known…”
It all made a horrible kind of sense. George’s low moods had begun a year or two before the incident at Dinsford Park, and they only seemed to have got worse since then. Henry ought to have recognised them for what they were, given he’d suffered from the same malaise.
“Papa?”
Henry looked up, meeting Freddy’s worried gaze.
What if George had known that Henry was like him? God knew this world did not make life easy for their kind. Would that knowledge have helped?
“Yes,” Henry said hoarsely.
Freddy just waited silently for him to go on.
“Yes, I am like George,” Henry said. “And, yes, that is how I know Christopher Redford.”
There was a moment of profound silence, then Freddy said, “Was he your…” He trailed off, seeming unsure how to finish the sentence.
Henry nodded, watching his younger son carefully. “He was, yes.” Henry’s stomach hollowed with fear and dread, but he made himself continue, made himself say the next words. “I loved him. I still do.”
Freddy closed his eyes for a moment, taking that in.
When he opened them again, he said quietly, “When were you and he together?”
“A very long time ago.” Henry paused then added, “And I’m afraid that’s all I’m going to say about Kit for now, Freddy.”
“All right,” Freddy said quietly, but his brows were drawn together in a frown and he stared down at the table as though he couldn’t bear to look at Henry.
“Are you disgusted?” Henry whispered. That was an unbearable thought, but he had to ask.
Freddy shook his head and looked up again. “Confused mostly. You and Mama—” He broke off.
“I loved your mother,” Henry quietly. “We loved each other. That’s all that matters.”
Freddy didn’t say anything to that, only went back to staring at the table. After a while, Henry said desperately, “What are you thinking?”
Freddy shook his head. “All this time, I’ve been so angry at you, because of George. Because he started being miserable after you learned about him.” He shook his head disbelievingly. “Except now it turns out you didn’t actually know at all and, in fact, you and he are the same and… oh hell, everything’s topsy-turvy!” He sighed and rubbed a weary hand over his face. “I’ll get used to it eventually, I suppose. I can hardly accept this in George but not in you, can I?”
He offered Henry a watery smile and Henry wanted to weep, because Freddy was proving to be far more understanding than Henry would ever have imagined. His younger son could be brash and recklessly neck-or-nothing, but he had a solid core of decency that ran through his character like a seam of gold.
“Thank you,” Henry said. The words were inadequate. He felt so much profound gratitude in this moment, for Freddy’s understanding towards himself and his loyalty to his brother. And he felt relief too, overwhelming relief that, having bared this part of himself to his son, he seemed—against all his expectations—to have been accepted. Shown kindness, even. He would never have dared hope for such a thing, yet here it was, being given to him.
“You need to speak with George, Papa,” Freddy said.
Henry nodded. “I do. I’ll make arrangements to return to Wiltshire soon.” He paused, then added, “But before then we must speak about you.”
Freddy frowned. “What about me?”
Henry took a deep breath. “Last night, Kit made me see it’s time I stopped standing in the way of what you want to do with your life—though I hope I’d have realised that for myself by this morning anyway.”