It was a beautiful morning, so Kit decided to walk down to the green and tranquil pool in the middle of the woods
It was one of his favourite spots in the sprawling grounds of Avesbury House. The canopy of trees over the clearing shaded it from the sun, only letting through gentle, dappled sunlight that glinted on the smooth surface of the water. Kit liked to sit at the base of the willow tree that peered into the pool, listening to the insects drone, and the frogs croak and topple into the water.
Sometimes Kit brought a notebook with him, and sometimes he just sat and looked at the water. Sometimes he came alone, and sometimes with Henry—sometimes they kissed under the tree, like boys. Today, though, Kit was alone. Henry was spending the day with his steward, and Kit was only too happy to leave him to it. He had no interest in estate business—agriculture bored him senseless.
But he loved the countryside.
He loved long, vigorous walks, exploring his new home and learning about the flora and fauna of the area. He was growing quite a library of books on the subject. He had even begun taking his own samples home to study under a microscope that Henry had bought him, and his notebooks were full of drawings.
“You’re turning into quite the gentleman scientist,” Henry had teased him just the other night, as they lay in bed.
“Perhaps I should do something more productive with my time,” Kit had said, frowning.
“Oh, I think you’re quite productive enough with the school,” Henry had said, then distracted him from his thoughts with a deep kiss.
Had he not been distracted, Kit might have pointed out that the school did not, actually, take up a great deal of Kit’s time. Clara and Tom did most of the work: Clara teaching and Tom dealing with everything else. Kit had only provided the money to set it up. Well, that and he financed five annual scholarships—and of course, he helped Clara select the scholarship pupils. Oh, and he did help teach literacy and numeracy to the local villagers two evenings a week. And took a turn teaching the local children at Sunday school every other Sunday too.
But all these activities still left him with plenty of time to indulge his own interests to the full. And Kit was trying to teach himself not to feel guilty about that. He was allowed to enjoy some of the fruits of his labours. He had plenty of money carefully invested. As for the rest, he'd used a good portion of it setting up Clara and Peter—and Tom too, who, having fallen in love with Clara, persuaded her in short order she ought to return the favour.
Well, he was a handsome devil.
And entirely unsuited to being a footman.
Kit smiled to himself as he walked the uneven path to the pool, thinking of his friends, and the unexpected happiness they had found together. Gentle sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead. A bank of wild garlic gave off a warm, spicy scent.
As he approached the clearing where the pool was, Kit realised there was already someone sitting beneath his willow tree: a tall, rangy figure with an oddly pensive droop to his shoulders, staring at what looked to be a letter.
George.
Kit stopped walking, but he must have made some noise, because George turned his head and looked at him. For a moment, their gazes locked, and Kit felt as though he should apologise for interrupting what seemed to be a private, quiet moment. But already, George was rising to his feet, and folding the letter up.
“Kit,” he said. “Are you out for a walk, like me?”
There was something about George Asquith that made Kit’s heart ache a little. He was such a serious, sober-minded young man.
Kit sensed a rare sweetness in George that reminded him of Henry years ago. In George, though, that sweetness was both a little more tender and a little less obvious, buried beneath a stiffness of manner that made George seem always distant somehow. Almost stern sometimes.
Kit was keen to know George a little better, but he was wary of scaring him off, like a skittish horse.
“I am indeed,” he said. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you—you looked very peaceful, sitting there.”
George shrugged. “I was only reading.” He lifted the hand holding the letter.
“It’s a nice spot to sit and read,” Kit said. “My favourite, I think, in the whole park.”
George smiled. “Yes,” he said. “It is.” But his smile was wan.
If it had been anyone else, Kit might have asked him if something was wrong.
“I’ll get out of your way,” George said. “And let you have your turn sitting under the willow tree.”
As blissful as that sounded, Kit didn’t want to chase him off. “Not at all,” he said. “No need for you to vacate your spot. I wasn’t planning to sit here today. I’m heading back to the house now.”
“Are you?” George said, tucking the letter into his pocket. “I’ll come with you, then.”
“Oh,” Kit said, surprised—he’d rather got the impression that George avoided his company.
They set off back through the woods, walking the narrow path in single file as they made stilted conversation about the weather, and how pretty the woods were, and how they’d been prettier still before the bluebells had died off.
Once they emerged out of the woods into the wild garden, they were able to walk side by side, and it became a little easier to talk.
“What was it like for you, growing up here?” Kit asked, glancing at him.
George kept looking ahead but his expression softened. “Idyllic,” he said. “We had all of this, you see. And Papa was—well you know how he is.” He sent Kit a slightly awkward smile.
“Tell me,” Kit urged.
“Indulgent,” George said. “Affectionate. Kind. Far nicer than any of my friends’—”
He stopped walking suddenly and covered his mouth with his hand, as though to stop something coming out. He turned quickly away from Kit, but Kit saw the flash of torment in his grey eyes before he did so.
Kit stepped closer, laying a careful hand on George’s shoulder. “George,” he said softly. “Is something wrong?”
George shook his head, but Kit sensed he wasn’t so much answering Kit’s question as expressing some kind of deep denial.
“What is it?” he prompted. “Was it the letter?”
George gave a choked cry, and his shoulders trembled with the depth of his emotion. He choked again then, a horrible repressed sound. The sound of grief being pushed down and buried deep.
Sensing George’s discomfort with his touch, Kit let his hand drop, even though it felt like the wrong thing to do.
At length, George turned back to him. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his gaze was hopeless, but he was back under control.
“I’m being absurd,” he said. “It’s happy news. My friend Ollie is getting married.”
Ollie.
Oliver Fletcher.
“You don’t have to be happy,” Kit said carefully. “Especially if you have a fondness for the person yourself.”
George looked at Kit and in that moment, Kit saw all his misery. How hard this blow really was.
“Why don’t you talk to your father?” Kit said gently. “If there’s anyone who’ll understand how you feel, it’s him.”
George stared at him for a few moments, saying nothing, then he nodded. “All right,” he whispered.