FIC: Roses of Picardy [4/?]
Jun. 11th, 2012 10:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Roses of Picardy
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
You are aware that once I sought the Grail,
Riding in armour bright, serene and strong;
And it was told that through my infant wail
There rose immortal semblances of song.
---Siegfried Sassoon, The Poet as Hero
*
It was a cautious balance of deference, aversion, and hope that propelled Jamie past bed after bed in the grey, carbolic-smelling ward of the auxiliary hospital. In each narrow iron bed was an unlucky soldier: some sitting up and looking fit as fiddles, flirting with the nurses in their aprons and headdresses like medieval wimples, some tossing restlessly and crying out in the grip of morphia or uneasy dreams, some simply lying white and still, swathed in bandages. It was past these last men that Jamie sped most quickly. The sight of them in their swaddlings and their ghostly silences, some without arms or legs or both, one or two wrapped head to toe like Egyptian mummies, was too much to bear. The pity he felt for them – pity he was sure would be scorned, if the suffering men knew of it – was too much to bear.
His thoughts were wrenched back to his men still imprisoned in the garrison town, some wounded, some perhaps dying. They would, the Red Cross workers had assured him, do their best to reach them, but it was far from a certainty. That, also, was too much to bear.
“Jamie!”
Startled out of his musings, Jamie turned clumsily on his heel.
“Were you going to visit someone else?” Jim, sitting in his narrow bed, raised a hand and beamed.
“Jim!” Jamie hastened to his side. “I was wool-gathering, I’m sorry – good heavens, look at you. You’re topping, positively the bee’s knees!” He clasped Jim’s outstretched hand, careful not to jostle the bed, and drank in the sight of Jim’s face. He’d been bathed and shaved and his hair combed into place, though errant curls did their best to escape, and if he was still pale and slightly drawn, he looked a thousand times more hale and hearty than he had in the farmer’s barn.
“Do you really think so? I feel ever so much better, I can’t begin to tell you. The nurses will get awfully thundery in the face if you try to sit on the bed, so drag up a rock from over there –“ Jim pointed to a wooden chair against the wall – “and do sit down. I’ve been dreadfully lonely and aching for company.”
Jamie retrieved the chair and sat, taking off his cap and resting it at the foot of Jim’s bed. “I’d have come earlier if they’d have permitted it. I was worried half to death and couldn’t find one blasted person to tell me what was happening with you.”
“I’m sorry for it, but I’m not surprised. There are so many wounded, and far too few to care for them. I didn’t get the news on my own surgery until just a few hours ago.”
“And what is it?”
“Well, they managed to get the bullet out –“
“Thank God.” Jamie let out a long, low breath.
“But it will take some time for the bone to heal. Months, apparently, and I may have to walk with a cane after that. Still, I’ve got the ruddy thing attached to me yet – some of the other poor devils here weren’t so lucky.”
“I saw,” Jamie said grimly.
“You can’t know how truly good it is to see you, Jamie,” Jim said. “I was pathetic and forlorn without you. One of the nurses – really sweet girl – keeps asking if I want her to read to me, but I can’t bear people reading to me. I told her I’ve been doing all my own reading since I was twenty, but I don’t think she quite understood the joke.”
Jamie smiled. “Poor thing. You mustn’t tease her. At any rate, she probably just wanted an excuse to talk to a handsome fellow. I’d say you’re quite the handsomest chap on the ward. You don’t look at all the way you did when they brought you in.”
“Neither do you,” Jim rejoined with a wide grin. “You’re looking spruce again yourself, old man. I’m glad.”
“Yes.” Jamie crossed one leg over the other and examined the toe of his newly polished boot. “Had a word with the infantry commander stationed here. I’m to accompany you home.”
“Why, that’s wonderful! Oh, that’s marvelous news, Jamie.”
“Mm. Apparently there’s some sort of reprieve or dispensation for rescued prisoners of war.”
Jim’s smile dimmed. “You don’t seem excessively delighted.”
Jamie shook his head. “I’m not sorry to be headed home with you, Jim. You mustn’t think that. But I’m not certain whether this is a reward or a punishment. I rather expected to have to give an accounting of myself, but –“ He broke off at the sound of a long, low, eerie moan a few beds away. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
“Poor man,” Jim murmured. “He moans and weeps almost incessantly, and they’ve had to tie him to the bed. I think they might have to take him to an insane asylum. I can’t think what he might have seen to make him so…so shattered.” He shook his head, then turned his attention back to Jamie. “Look here, Jamie – I’d have thought you’d be happy to be getting away from the war.”
“I suppose I should be.” Jamie smiled tightly. He drew off his gloves and twisted them in his hands. “But I’m alive and unhurt. So why am I being sent home?”
“I wonder, did they – did they ask you anything about the time you spent imprisoned? Anything about what happened to you?”
Jamie felt a hot flush rising in his cheeks. “As I said, I’m unhurt.”
Jim nodded and affected to examine the texture of his bedding. “Of course. It must be frustrating. I understand.”
“Jim…I’m sorry. You’re ill, and I’m beastly rude.” Jim peered up at him, and Jamie felt his heart give a tiny extra larrup at the sight of that open, handsome face. “I didn’t thank you properly for saving my skin.”
“Well, you saved mine. That’s a proper thanks if I’ve ever had one.”
“No, I mean….” Jamie swallowed, and his face burned even hotter than before. “I mean precisely when you did. What you – what you walked in on. It….”
Jim leaned over and placed his hand on Jamie’s restlessly twisting fingers, squeezing them reassuringly. “Jamie.”
Jamie stared down at Jim’s hand, afraid to move or meet that steadfast blue gaze. “Please don’t tell anyone about it.”
“I would never. Upon my word, I won’t.”
“I’m in quite enough disgrace already.” Jamie tried for a laugh and failed. “At any rate, thank you. For that, and for the rescue, and, well – for being such a stand-up chap.” This time he succeeded in looking Jim in the eye.
“I won’t say ‘think nothing of it’ because I don’t intend to forget that you saved my life, Jamie, or pass it off lightly. And I’ll stand up in any court-martial, any board of inquiry, or anyone who dares to question your bravery and I’ll tell them that Major James Stewart is a superior officer.” Jim’s fingers tightened on Jamie’s hands, and his expression was both earnest and sweet. “That he led a forlorn hope against terrible machinery, that he faced imprisonment with courage, that he was a model of military silence, and that he refused to condemn his own men and volunteered to sacrifice himself in their stead. That’s what I’ll tell them, and woe betide them if they won’t listen.”
Utterly unused to such passionate and personal declarations, Jamie sat stunned and mute. He dropped his gaze again and yearned to protest when Jim sat back, withdrawing his hand. Forcing his own fingers to remain still, he took a few shallow breaths. “How could I possibly emerge anything but triumphant with a champion like you, Jim?” he asked softly.
“Don’t poke fun, Jamie. I meant it.”
“So did I.” Again Jamie met Jim’s gaze and felt iron bands squeezing his heart. Jim would go home a wounded hero, and flocks of young women would vie for his attention. Well, he deserved it – he was a hero. He deserved the accolades and the feminine favours and soft declarations of adoration. Any girl who managed to marry him would be lucky indeed. He imagined Jim at the altar of some church, tall and gallant in his blue uniform, a white-swathed figure beside him. Shocked at the sudden jolt of pain the image gave him, he cleared his throat abruptly. “I ought to be cutting a caper, oughtn’t I? I must say it softens the blow considerably to know that you’ll be home and safe, old man, and it’ll be splendid to have company on the journey. Perhaps you’ll – that is, I wonder if you’d mind if I called upon you at home? Just to see how you’re getting along.”
A wide smile lit up Jim’s face. “I’d be desolate if you didn’t.”
“Jolly good.” Jamie stretched out his hand – to seal the bargain, he told himself, and not to feel the warm pressure of Jim’s hand again – and shook firmly. “We’re agreed, then. You do know how to cheer a fellow, Jim.”
“Perhaps some more than others. I hope so, anyway.” Jim dropped his gaze once more. “Want to see my cast? It’s dreadful – have a look.” He pulled the bedclothes back to reveal a plaster cast that went from his ankle to his knee. “I did break the confounded thing after all. And here –“ He yanked up his nightshirt to reveal the dressing on his thigh. “The doctor said you did the right thing when you put a tourniquet on it.”
“I wasn’t sure it was the right thing,” Jamie admitted.
“Well, it was. A double injury on the same leg, though. Just my luck! I don’t know how I’ll be able to sit still while it heals. You’ll have to come and visit quite a lot.”
“I can see I’ll have to.”
Jim smiled again. “Good.”
*
Jamie couldn’t claim to be any sort of expert on women’s clothing, but it seemed quite clear that the concoction of midnight-blue satin and net and glittering beads that his mother wore was fairly new and quite expensive indeed. New, too, was the pearl-and-diamond necklace wrapped around her throat, and the matching earrings dangling from her lobes, and the pearl and diamond ornaments in her hair. Her spending habits hadn’t changed a whit because of the war, obviously. He drew on his cigarette and glanced round at the drawing room, observing a painting over the mantel he hadn’t seen before, a young woman with long titian hair, wearing a yellow cloak and standing against a blue curtain. It seemed a trifle gloomy, but was unmistakably the work of genius.
“Millais,” Margaret Stewart said, following Jamie’s gaze. “I know it’s a bit out of fashion, but I simply had to have it.”
Jamie smiled behind a screen of smoke. “It’s lovely, Mother.” He took a glass from the tray proffered by…blast it, he couldn’t think of the young man’s name, but he was a boy, scarcely old enough to shave. The only indication in the Stewart household that there was a war on was that most of the able-bodied male servants had enlisted, leaving behind the women, old men, and boys. Otherwise things ticked on as smoothly as they had before Jamie had left. “It was awfully good of you both to come down.”
Jamie’s father Charles nodded genially. His face was pink with the quantity of wine he’d imbibed at dinner. “Delighted, my boy. And your mother was ecstatic to get away for a while.”
“Beastly weather,” Margaret said.
“Hah!” Charles’ laugh came like a distant explosion. He pointed at the window, where rain beat steadily against the glass. “Hardly balmy here, Meg. She was hoping for a more social visit,” he confided to Jamie, “but the ladies in London are even more patriotic than the ladies in Scotland. Knitting committees, nursing committees, bandage-rolling committees. Imagine her disappointment at not being able to parade around in gowns and furs. Having to tuck up her skirts and deliver supplies to hospitals? Joining the Land Army? Oh, the pain.” Charles snipped off the end of a cigar and lit it.
“Oh, do be quiet. I can’t help it if I think it’s dreary. I’ve sent money to the Red Cross and the Ladies Aid society of St. Andrew’s – what else do you want me to do? Go about and chop wood in a pair of trousers? Besides, what have you done for the war effort, Charles?”
“Not a damned thing, clearly.” Charles exhaled a cloud of smoke. “If you paid attention to anything but the fashions, you’d see –“
“Do you intend to stay long?” Jamie asked, a trifle desperately. He’d been accustomed to a certain amount of his parents’ wrangling since boyhood, but fortunately he’d missed most of it thanks to school and summer holidays. He’d been home for two days and already the constant squabbling was beginning to wear on his nerves.
“The season will be starting soon enough, so I think we’ll be here for some time.” Margaret beamed at him. “I expect you’ll be receiving dozens of invitations, Jamie dear. Men – particularly young, handsome men – are rather scarce on the ground at the moment.”
“I don’t think I’m up to attending many parties, Mother.”
Margaret looked scandalised. “Jamie, you’ve simply got to go. What will people think if you don’t?” Her face softened a bit. “Darling, I know it must have been difficult for you…I do wish you’d tell us what happened.”
“I did tell you,” Jamie replied tersely. “I was captured and held prisoner until my friend Captain Nicholls rescued me.”
“You needn’t be cross.” Margaret took a rapid sip of her port. “Am I wrong to be concerned? You’ve been quite silent since your return – locked up in your bedroom, refusing to see visitors.”
Jamie stifled a sigh. His mother’s idea of seeing visitors was parading him in front of them as if he were a captive war-chief in a Roman triumph. “I realise you mean well, Mother, but I’m not myself at the moment.”
“Heard about the charge,” Charles said.
Jamie stiffened. “Who told you?”
“I’ve got an old friend at Whitehall, Will Gardiner. Fought alongside him in South Africa. Quite a decent chap. He wrote me.” Charles drew on his cigar and regarded Jamie soberly. “What happened, lad?”
What happened? I led my regiment into utter disaster and lost most of them. I was stripped of every bit of dignity and honour, I was beaten and humiliated, I watched my men shot for my recalcitrance, and I would have been violated were it not for Jim Nicholls. Rather a lot happened, Father. “I made a strategic miscalculation. Quite dire, as it turns out.”
Charles examined him for a long, wordless moment, then nodded. “Well, you’re back home now, that’s what matters.”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “Frightful brutes, those Germans. When I think about the stories I’ve heard…I worry about your brother, too.”
Jamie stubbed out his cigarette, carefully avoiding his mother’s eyes. Philip had been demoted to the ranks for fighting and drunkenness, and in Jamie’s considered opinion, the poor devils in the ranks didn’t deserve his odious presence. At the rate he was going, he’d wind up in prison in short order. “Yes. Have you heard from him recently?”
“No. He’s not much of a letter-writer. So busy,” Margaret said.
“Busy drinking,” Charles snorted.
“Charles!”
“Father, Mother – excuse me. I find I’m rather tired.” Jamie stood and nodded to them. “Good night.” He turned without waiting for their reply and made his way to the staircase. He brushed his hand lightly along the cool marble surface of the banister as he ascended, remembering all the times he’d slid down the thing when nobody was watching to scream at him or give his ear a twist – or in Philip’s case, to try to knock him off. Philip always had been a nasty, scheming brute, but his father hadn’t realised it until he’d grown into adulthood, and his mother still didn’t.
He went into his bedroom and sank to the bed. His mother was right; he’d been cross and moody – no, downright sour and unpleasant since returning home, and he’d no-one to blame but himself. Neither of his parents deserved his anger. He resolved to show them a cheerier face – they’d been so pleased to see him, they’d actually met him at Victoria Station themselves, making a rather touching if embarrassing fuss over him. They’d been effusive to Jim, too, exchanging proud greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls before whisking Jamie away, scarcely giving him a chance to say good-bye to Jim.
Jamie toed off his evening pumps and fumbled with his cufflink. He wondered what Jim was up to – probably having a nice, normal dinner in Kent with his parents and sister, reading, listening to music. Upon their parting at the station, Jim had again urged him to visit, and Jamie was tempted to go immediately, but it wouldn’t have been at all polite to descend upon his family when they were so eager to have Jim home, and besides, he needed peace and quiet to heal. Jamie would have to wait at least a few weeks before it was acceptable to visit. Pity.
There was a soft scratch at the door, and the young boy who’d acted as footman poked his head in. “Mr. Sherston says I’m to help you undress, sir.”
“Ah. Come in.” Jamie extended his wrist toward the young man. “Just in time. I can’t seem to manage this bloody cufflink.”
“I’ll get it, sir,” the boy said confidently, and applied himself to working the link free.
Jamie regarded the boy with curiosity. “What’s your name? Sorry, my memory’s got dreadful holes in it just lately.”
“Frederick, sir. Fred for short.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
“Seventeen and a valet de chambre already. Well, well.”
“Everyone else were gone, sir. They had to bump me up here, when they said you was coming home. Was you really a prisoner of war, sir?”
Jamie pressed his lips together. “Yes, I was.”
“Did you get wounded, sir? Is that why they sent you home?”
The boy’s face was eager, and Jamie had to remind himself not to snap in impatience or irritation. “No. I gather they thought I needed a rest.”
“How did you escape, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I didn’t,” Jamie replied shortly. “A friend rescued me.”
“Blimey,” the boy breathed. “Killed some bloody Huns to do it, I’ll bet.”
Jamie sighed. “One, yes.”
“Give me your other hand, sir. I can’t wait to join the army, myself. I’m eighteen on the second of January, and I’ll be at the War Office day after my birthday. Can’t wait.”
Jamie scrutinised the young man. Had he been so fervent, so avid at that age? He supposed he had. And was there any sense at all in telling the young man about what war really was – not an adventure, not a lark, but blood and suffering and humiliation and death? And even if he did, would the boy listen? Likely not – Jamie wouldn’t have listened either, at seventeen.
“I daresay you’ll make a fine soldier.” The boy grinned and squared his shoulders, and Jamie sighed again. “Enjoy life a bit before you head over there, Fred. Make the most of your Christmas holidays.”
“I will, sir. Can I help you with that coat?”
“No, I can manage from here.”
“But Mr. Sherston said –“
“You tell him I said I wanted to be alone,” Jamie said. “Go on. You can sort things out in the morning if Mr. Sherston doesn’t have you otherwise occupied.”
“Yes, sir.” Fred nodded, pivoted on his heel, and left quietly.
Jamie felt weighed down by the excellent dinner, by the two glasses of wine he’d drunk. He stood up and moved to the cheval mirror. The image reflected in the glass was a young man, tall and trim, perfectly groomed, in the dernier cri of modern evening dress.
Somehow, it was a very dissatisfying picture.
*
“Just wheel me in there, old chap – mind you don’t catch the carpet. Blasted fringes trip me up every time.”
Jamie pushed Jim’s wheelchair into the little library and settled him beside a table. “Here?”
“That’ll do.” Jim stretched and yawned, then noticed his sister lingering in the doorway. “Well?”
Pansy Nicholls was very pretty, with the same curly golden hair and blue eyes as her brother, and nearly as tall. She had chattered all through dinner, when she hadn’t been staring at Jamie with an intensity that made him decidedly uncomfortable. “Did you need anything?”
“Yes – for you to go away and let us have a chat. A quiet chat.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Pansy retorted pertly, and beamed at Jamie.
Jamie blinked. “Why – no, I think I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”
“Are you certain? I could get you some more ices, or –“
“Out!” Jim ordered, pointing a finger. “And close the door behind you.”
A scowl clouded Pansy’s brow. “Oh, very well. Honestly.” She tilted her head to one side and smiled at Jamie, then banged the door shut.
Jim pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Good God. She gets sillier every day.” He shook his head and beamed at Jamie. “There’s whiskey in that cabinet over there, Jamie. Would you be a good fellow and pour us some?”
“Certainly.” Jamie busied himself with the decanter and glasses, and handed a drink to Jim, holding his own glass up. “To your very good health.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Jim replied, touched his glass to Jamie’s, and drank. “Lovely on a cold night like this. Difficult to believe it’s November already. Christmas is right around the corner.” He smiled at Jamie. Despite his infirmity, he looked healthy and rested, and dashing in a smart tweed suit. “How’s the Camden Arms? Never stayed there myself, but I hear it’s nice.”
“Quite comfortable, thanks.”
“You know, you could have stayed here. We’d have been happy to put you up. Mother’s been stuffing me like a goose from the moment I arrived home – or trying to, at least. Her attention would have been diverted a bit.”
“I shouldn’t like to be a burden to you,” Jamie replied. “Did you grow up here?”
“Oh, yes. Born and bred.”
“It’s quite cozy, isn’t it? Very charming.”
Jim laughed softly. “If that’s a terribly polite way of saying small, then yes, I suppose it is. But I’ve always had jolly times here. Until lately, that is. I seem to spend most of my time in my room, reading. I’ve always loved reading, Jamie, but it’s all I seem to do now. I try to get out for some fresh air now and then, but the weather’s been so rotten lately, and oddly enough, nobody seems to fancy decking themselves in oilskins and pushing me around in the rain.” He sipped at his drink and regarded Jamie closely. “Why didn’t you come to see me before this? I’ve missed you, old man, and you did promise to visit, after all.”
Jamie stared at the golden liquid in his glass and swirled it around, trying to equivocate. He’d anticipated the question on the drive to Kent – Jim, honest and forthright, would naturally want to know why he hadn’t visited his friend since he’d been injured. He’d come up with a list of excuses, none of them plausible-sounding, and had rejected all of them. Jim deserved to know the truth. If only the truth weren’t so confusing. “I don’t know. It was dashed inexcusable of me, Jim. I’m sorry for it.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes – yes, I’m fine.” Was there a way to say I’ve thought of you almost every waking moment without sounding like an utter fool? For weeks he’d indulged himself in fantasies, but now he saw that he would have to surrender them to this punishing attack of reality. Jim’s casual inquiry was that of a friend, no more – there was no shadow of desire in his eyes, no spark of anger over Jamie’s neglect that had in actuality been comprised of longing and hope – he’d yearned for Jim to summon him, and had stayed away himself – it was damned ridiculous, on the face of it. Talk about shooting oneself in the foot; his aim had been exceptionally true.
“Never mind. It was a prying question. I withdraw it.” Jim’s smile brightened a bit. “You’re here now, that’s the main thing. Shall we have some music?” He wheeled himself to a Victrola on a lace-covered table and picked up a record. “Mother adores John McCormack. She says it’s because he’s Irish but I suspect she finds him attractive.” Jim set the record on the turn-table, wound the phonograph, and placed the needle carefully on the record. A scratching noise followed by low, sobbing strings emerged from the horn, then the clear notes of a man’s tenor voice. Jim wheeled himself back over to Jamie and picked up his glass again. “So how have you been keeping yourself?”
“Well enough,” Jamie said. He cracked a wry grin. “Actually, I’m going mad with boredom, and my parents are driving me absolutely round the bend.”
“So are mine!” Jim exclaimed delightedly. “Good God, and here I was thinking I might ask for a trade. Good lord, I can’t draw breath without my mother popping in to ask if I need a cup of tea or a spoonful of cod liver oil or some Dr. Allinson’s Miracle-sodding-Restorative Tonic.” He chuckled. “Poor thing. She’s trying to help, but I’m being coddled like an egg, Jamie, and it’s infuriating. You too?”
“Quite. Except in my mother’s case, she’s introducing me to roughly fifteen or twenty eligible young ladies every single day, and I’m having some difficulty telling them apart.”
Jim smiled down into his glass. “You could simply hack through the Gordian knot and marry Pansy. She’s quite taken with you.”
Jamie gave an uneasy laugh. “I’m sure there are scads of other chaps she’d much rather be with.”
“Oh, I don’t know. At any rate, if you two did make a go of things, it would keep you around here a bit more.” The brilliance of Jim’s smile clouded a bit.
Jamie’s stomach knotted itself into a tight fist around Mrs. Nicholls’ roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. He’d made too free with his own thoughts the past few weeks; he recognised, with a pain that approached terror, how desperately, helplessly smitten he was, and how futile was his yearning. Time to tell Jim his news. “I shall have to consider it most carefully, then. Look here, Jim –“
“I have to go back into the hospital in a week,” Jim said abruptly, finishing his drink. He pulled his mouth into a grimace and held out his glass. “Another, would you, old man?”
Jamie couldn’t move. “I…back in? But why? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I say, Jamie, don’t look so down in the mouth. It’s not all that serious.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, not really. You see, it’s this rotten leg – the bone’s not knitting together as quickly as it should, so I’m getting a silver plate put into it. Or onto it, I don’t know. In any event, it’s meant to speed up healing. It’s quite common, apparently. I shan’t be in the hospital more than a week or so. You’re awfully pale, Jamie. Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Just concerned about you, old man.” Jamie mustered a quick smile and got to his feet before a paralysis of dread could settle fully into his bones. He took his time pouring the whiskey, doubling both their portions.
“Well, that’s jolly good of you, but honestly, it’s going to be perfectly fine. I…it would be nice, though, if you visited me in hospital. I don’t mean to be pushing, but…well, if you find yourself with time hanging heavy, do feel free to pop in. I’ll be the one betting my shin on the ponies.”
Mechanically, Jamie replaced the stopper in the decanter. He stared down at the glasses in his hand without really seeing them, and tightened his fingers because he felt a strange, draining weakness inside him, insinuating itself through his bloodstream, through every nerve and fiber, and if he succumbed to it, the glasses would fall from his hands and shatter. Mustn’t let them fall, he thought disjointedly.
“Jamie?”
“I can’t come to see you in hospital, Jim.” Jamie heard his own words forced out, heavy and languid, weary.
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “Well, if you’re busy I certainly understand. No matter.” The lightness and natural music in Jim’s voice dwindled with each word he spoke; Jamie had disappointed him.
“I’m –“ Jamie clamped his mouth shut. “I’m going back to France, Jim. I’ve made up my mind.”
In the moment that followed, Jamie heard the steady tick of the clock on the black marble mantel, the crackling of the wood fire, the scratching of the record as a new song began, the light steps of either Pansy or her mother above them, and Jim’s ragged breathing. Unable to meet Jim’s eyes, he set the glasses carefully on the cabinet.
“For God’s sake,” Jim said in a trembling voice, “why?”
“I’ve got to.”
“No, you –“ Jim slapped a hand down on the arm of his chair. “Damn it all to hell.” Jim, who used profanity so rarely that his words now startled Jamie, spoke so quietly, as if his surfeit of control might slip at any moment.
Jamie turned to look at Jim and saw his hands rising upward, gently, to cover his face. He felt none of yesterday’s certainty, when he’d driven to the War Office and re-enlisted. There had been no recrimination, no chastisement, only a warm welcome from a rough-hewn Yorkshire colonel whose regiment needed more experienced men. Infantry this time, not cavalry. The chance for atonement. Raw acid churned in his stomach – fear, apprehension, a sudden crushing regret. “Jim, please. You of all people should understand –“
“You’ve nothing to prove. Nothing.” Jim took his hands away from his face. His eyes were exceptionally bright. “You’re going back into that madness – why? Good God, you’re putting yourself in danger needlessly for England and empire –“
“Please, Jim – don’t talk like that. I couldn’t bear it if you got cynical on me. Christ, you read the papers. You’ve seen it happening – more men are needed, and I’m fit and ready. I can’t sit at home and do nothing whilst others fight on my behalf.”
Jim shook his head slowly. “You’ve already done it – signed up, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
Jim laughed, a soft, bitter chuckle. “I thought as much. It’s settled, then. When do you leave?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Jesus Christ.” Jim turned, awkwardly wheeling the chair away from Jamie.
Jamie stood rooted to the spot, but found his voice. “Jim, please don’t be angry with me. I must go. I…I know it’s too much to ask for your blessing, but I shall ask all the same. Please…please try to understand.” He looked at Jim’s fair shining curls that no comb or pomade could contain, and longed to touch them, to see if they were as soft as they looked. He longed to place his lips on the nape of Jim’s neck, to caress the delicate curve of his ear. The desire was so strong that he moved forward a few steps, and then boldly stepped around Jim’s chair to face him. He sank to his knees and gazed up into Jim’s eyes, startled to see wetness on his cheeks.
The sight tore into Jamie’s heart. Tears dammed up until his face, his throat, his chest ached with them. Never demonstrative even with his closest friends or relatives, he found his hands reaching for Jim’s and clasping them tightly. “Don’t send me away like this, Jim.”
Jim smiled crookedly. “I’m being confoundedly selfish. Jamie, you have my blessing – good Lord, please don’t think otherwise. It’s only that I’m frightened for you. I wasn’t frightened for myself until…well, and now to think…I lost you once, don’t you see? Couldn’t quite bear it if I lost you again.”
“You won’t lose me.”
“Oh? Is that a promise?” Jim laughed a little.
“It is,” Jamie said. “A solemn oath.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to it.” Jim looked down at their clasped hands, then back into Jamie’s eyes. All at once he wrenched his hands away, placed them on either side of Jamie’s head, and kissed him.
Shocked, Jamie held still, and then closed his eyes and yielded. His hands closed on Jim’s’ tweed-clad knees, and he tasted whiskey and salt and felt the firm pressure of Jim’s lips against his, and the faint scratch of a hastily shaven chin as they drew closer together. He heard McCormack’s voice, clear and sweet.
Roses are shining in Picardy
In the hush of the silver dew
Roses are flowering in Picardy
But there's never a rose like you
And the roses will die with the summer time
And our roads may be far apart
But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy
'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart.
Jamie felt the soft, insistent pressure of Jim’s tongue tracing gently between his lips, and opened his mouth. A soft groan arose from somewhere – himself, or Jim, he’d no idea, but the sensation of wet warmth was stirring his prick to life, and he lifted his hands to tangle his fingers in Jim’s bright curls. Heat suffused him, and pleasure, and joy, and then he remembered he was leaving. Stricken, he pulled away.
Jim’s eyes were shining in the firelight, his face was flushed, and his lips parted slightly. “Jamie,” he whispered.
Jamie shook his head. His prick ached, and his mouth trembled with sensation and memory, and his heart twisted inside his chest. “Jim…I must go.”
“Oh, God.” Jim’s face turned a deeper scarlet. “Jamie, I –“
“Will you write to me? Say you’ll write.”
“Every week. Every day, if you want.”
Jamie nodded, quite unable to speak. Gently, he touched his fingertips to his lips, then laid his hand on Jim’s cheek. He rose to his feet. “Promise me,” he said hoarsely, unsure precisely what it was he was asking.
“I promise.” Jim smiled and cupped his hand round Jamie’s.
Oh, God. Oh, dear God almighty. Jamie leant down and kissed Jim’s mouth once more, lightly, fighting a hundred different urges. “For luck.”
“You won’t need it.”
“Write me.”
“I will. I promise.”
*
TBC.....
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
You are aware that once I sought the Grail,
Riding in armour bright, serene and strong;
And it was told that through my infant wail
There rose immortal semblances of song.
---Siegfried Sassoon, The Poet as Hero
*
It was a cautious balance of deference, aversion, and hope that propelled Jamie past bed after bed in the grey, carbolic-smelling ward of the auxiliary hospital. In each narrow iron bed was an unlucky soldier: some sitting up and looking fit as fiddles, flirting with the nurses in their aprons and headdresses like medieval wimples, some tossing restlessly and crying out in the grip of morphia or uneasy dreams, some simply lying white and still, swathed in bandages. It was past these last men that Jamie sped most quickly. The sight of them in their swaddlings and their ghostly silences, some without arms or legs or both, one or two wrapped head to toe like Egyptian mummies, was too much to bear. The pity he felt for them – pity he was sure would be scorned, if the suffering men knew of it – was too much to bear.
His thoughts were wrenched back to his men still imprisoned in the garrison town, some wounded, some perhaps dying. They would, the Red Cross workers had assured him, do their best to reach them, but it was far from a certainty. That, also, was too much to bear.
“Jamie!”
Startled out of his musings, Jamie turned clumsily on his heel.
“Were you going to visit someone else?” Jim, sitting in his narrow bed, raised a hand and beamed.
“Jim!” Jamie hastened to his side. “I was wool-gathering, I’m sorry – good heavens, look at you. You’re topping, positively the bee’s knees!” He clasped Jim’s outstretched hand, careful not to jostle the bed, and drank in the sight of Jim’s face. He’d been bathed and shaved and his hair combed into place, though errant curls did their best to escape, and if he was still pale and slightly drawn, he looked a thousand times more hale and hearty than he had in the farmer’s barn.
“Do you really think so? I feel ever so much better, I can’t begin to tell you. The nurses will get awfully thundery in the face if you try to sit on the bed, so drag up a rock from over there –“ Jim pointed to a wooden chair against the wall – “and do sit down. I’ve been dreadfully lonely and aching for company.”
Jamie retrieved the chair and sat, taking off his cap and resting it at the foot of Jim’s bed. “I’d have come earlier if they’d have permitted it. I was worried half to death and couldn’t find one blasted person to tell me what was happening with you.”
“I’m sorry for it, but I’m not surprised. There are so many wounded, and far too few to care for them. I didn’t get the news on my own surgery until just a few hours ago.”
“And what is it?”
“Well, they managed to get the bullet out –“
“Thank God.” Jamie let out a long, low breath.
“But it will take some time for the bone to heal. Months, apparently, and I may have to walk with a cane after that. Still, I’ve got the ruddy thing attached to me yet – some of the other poor devils here weren’t so lucky.”
“I saw,” Jamie said grimly.
“You can’t know how truly good it is to see you, Jamie,” Jim said. “I was pathetic and forlorn without you. One of the nurses – really sweet girl – keeps asking if I want her to read to me, but I can’t bear people reading to me. I told her I’ve been doing all my own reading since I was twenty, but I don’t think she quite understood the joke.”
Jamie smiled. “Poor thing. You mustn’t tease her. At any rate, she probably just wanted an excuse to talk to a handsome fellow. I’d say you’re quite the handsomest chap on the ward. You don’t look at all the way you did when they brought you in.”
“Neither do you,” Jim rejoined with a wide grin. “You’re looking spruce again yourself, old man. I’m glad.”
“Yes.” Jamie crossed one leg over the other and examined the toe of his newly polished boot. “Had a word with the infantry commander stationed here. I’m to accompany you home.”
“Why, that’s wonderful! Oh, that’s marvelous news, Jamie.”
“Mm. Apparently there’s some sort of reprieve or dispensation for rescued prisoners of war.”
Jim’s smile dimmed. “You don’t seem excessively delighted.”
Jamie shook his head. “I’m not sorry to be headed home with you, Jim. You mustn’t think that. But I’m not certain whether this is a reward or a punishment. I rather expected to have to give an accounting of myself, but –“ He broke off at the sound of a long, low, eerie moan a few beds away. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
“Poor man,” Jim murmured. “He moans and weeps almost incessantly, and they’ve had to tie him to the bed. I think they might have to take him to an insane asylum. I can’t think what he might have seen to make him so…so shattered.” He shook his head, then turned his attention back to Jamie. “Look here, Jamie – I’d have thought you’d be happy to be getting away from the war.”
“I suppose I should be.” Jamie smiled tightly. He drew off his gloves and twisted them in his hands. “But I’m alive and unhurt. So why am I being sent home?”
“I wonder, did they – did they ask you anything about the time you spent imprisoned? Anything about what happened to you?”
Jamie felt a hot flush rising in his cheeks. “As I said, I’m unhurt.”
Jim nodded and affected to examine the texture of his bedding. “Of course. It must be frustrating. I understand.”
“Jim…I’m sorry. You’re ill, and I’m beastly rude.” Jim peered up at him, and Jamie felt his heart give a tiny extra larrup at the sight of that open, handsome face. “I didn’t thank you properly for saving my skin.”
“Well, you saved mine. That’s a proper thanks if I’ve ever had one.”
“No, I mean….” Jamie swallowed, and his face burned even hotter than before. “I mean precisely when you did. What you – what you walked in on. It….”
Jim leaned over and placed his hand on Jamie’s restlessly twisting fingers, squeezing them reassuringly. “Jamie.”
Jamie stared down at Jim’s hand, afraid to move or meet that steadfast blue gaze. “Please don’t tell anyone about it.”
“I would never. Upon my word, I won’t.”
“I’m in quite enough disgrace already.” Jamie tried for a laugh and failed. “At any rate, thank you. For that, and for the rescue, and, well – for being such a stand-up chap.” This time he succeeded in looking Jim in the eye.
“I won’t say ‘think nothing of it’ because I don’t intend to forget that you saved my life, Jamie, or pass it off lightly. And I’ll stand up in any court-martial, any board of inquiry, or anyone who dares to question your bravery and I’ll tell them that Major James Stewart is a superior officer.” Jim’s fingers tightened on Jamie’s hands, and his expression was both earnest and sweet. “That he led a forlorn hope against terrible machinery, that he faced imprisonment with courage, that he was a model of military silence, and that he refused to condemn his own men and volunteered to sacrifice himself in their stead. That’s what I’ll tell them, and woe betide them if they won’t listen.”
Utterly unused to such passionate and personal declarations, Jamie sat stunned and mute. He dropped his gaze again and yearned to protest when Jim sat back, withdrawing his hand. Forcing his own fingers to remain still, he took a few shallow breaths. “How could I possibly emerge anything but triumphant with a champion like you, Jim?” he asked softly.
“Don’t poke fun, Jamie. I meant it.”
“So did I.” Again Jamie met Jim’s gaze and felt iron bands squeezing his heart. Jim would go home a wounded hero, and flocks of young women would vie for his attention. Well, he deserved it – he was a hero. He deserved the accolades and the feminine favours and soft declarations of adoration. Any girl who managed to marry him would be lucky indeed. He imagined Jim at the altar of some church, tall and gallant in his blue uniform, a white-swathed figure beside him. Shocked at the sudden jolt of pain the image gave him, he cleared his throat abruptly. “I ought to be cutting a caper, oughtn’t I? I must say it softens the blow considerably to know that you’ll be home and safe, old man, and it’ll be splendid to have company on the journey. Perhaps you’ll – that is, I wonder if you’d mind if I called upon you at home? Just to see how you’re getting along.”
A wide smile lit up Jim’s face. “I’d be desolate if you didn’t.”
“Jolly good.” Jamie stretched out his hand – to seal the bargain, he told himself, and not to feel the warm pressure of Jim’s hand again – and shook firmly. “We’re agreed, then. You do know how to cheer a fellow, Jim.”
“Perhaps some more than others. I hope so, anyway.” Jim dropped his gaze once more. “Want to see my cast? It’s dreadful – have a look.” He pulled the bedclothes back to reveal a plaster cast that went from his ankle to his knee. “I did break the confounded thing after all. And here –“ He yanked up his nightshirt to reveal the dressing on his thigh. “The doctor said you did the right thing when you put a tourniquet on it.”
“I wasn’t sure it was the right thing,” Jamie admitted.
“Well, it was. A double injury on the same leg, though. Just my luck! I don’t know how I’ll be able to sit still while it heals. You’ll have to come and visit quite a lot.”
“I can see I’ll have to.”
Jim smiled again. “Good.”
*
Jamie couldn’t claim to be any sort of expert on women’s clothing, but it seemed quite clear that the concoction of midnight-blue satin and net and glittering beads that his mother wore was fairly new and quite expensive indeed. New, too, was the pearl-and-diamond necklace wrapped around her throat, and the matching earrings dangling from her lobes, and the pearl and diamond ornaments in her hair. Her spending habits hadn’t changed a whit because of the war, obviously. He drew on his cigarette and glanced round at the drawing room, observing a painting over the mantel he hadn’t seen before, a young woman with long titian hair, wearing a yellow cloak and standing against a blue curtain. It seemed a trifle gloomy, but was unmistakably the work of genius.
“Millais,” Margaret Stewart said, following Jamie’s gaze. “I know it’s a bit out of fashion, but I simply had to have it.”
Jamie smiled behind a screen of smoke. “It’s lovely, Mother.” He took a glass from the tray proffered by…blast it, he couldn’t think of the young man’s name, but he was a boy, scarcely old enough to shave. The only indication in the Stewart household that there was a war on was that most of the able-bodied male servants had enlisted, leaving behind the women, old men, and boys. Otherwise things ticked on as smoothly as they had before Jamie had left. “It was awfully good of you both to come down.”
Jamie’s father Charles nodded genially. His face was pink with the quantity of wine he’d imbibed at dinner. “Delighted, my boy. And your mother was ecstatic to get away for a while.”
“Beastly weather,” Margaret said.
“Hah!” Charles’ laugh came like a distant explosion. He pointed at the window, where rain beat steadily against the glass. “Hardly balmy here, Meg. She was hoping for a more social visit,” he confided to Jamie, “but the ladies in London are even more patriotic than the ladies in Scotland. Knitting committees, nursing committees, bandage-rolling committees. Imagine her disappointment at not being able to parade around in gowns and furs. Having to tuck up her skirts and deliver supplies to hospitals? Joining the Land Army? Oh, the pain.” Charles snipped off the end of a cigar and lit it.
“Oh, do be quiet. I can’t help it if I think it’s dreary. I’ve sent money to the Red Cross and the Ladies Aid society of St. Andrew’s – what else do you want me to do? Go about and chop wood in a pair of trousers? Besides, what have you done for the war effort, Charles?”
“Not a damned thing, clearly.” Charles exhaled a cloud of smoke. “If you paid attention to anything but the fashions, you’d see –“
“Do you intend to stay long?” Jamie asked, a trifle desperately. He’d been accustomed to a certain amount of his parents’ wrangling since boyhood, but fortunately he’d missed most of it thanks to school and summer holidays. He’d been home for two days and already the constant squabbling was beginning to wear on his nerves.
“The season will be starting soon enough, so I think we’ll be here for some time.” Margaret beamed at him. “I expect you’ll be receiving dozens of invitations, Jamie dear. Men – particularly young, handsome men – are rather scarce on the ground at the moment.”
“I don’t think I’m up to attending many parties, Mother.”
Margaret looked scandalised. “Jamie, you’ve simply got to go. What will people think if you don’t?” Her face softened a bit. “Darling, I know it must have been difficult for you…I do wish you’d tell us what happened.”
“I did tell you,” Jamie replied tersely. “I was captured and held prisoner until my friend Captain Nicholls rescued me.”
“You needn’t be cross.” Margaret took a rapid sip of her port. “Am I wrong to be concerned? You’ve been quite silent since your return – locked up in your bedroom, refusing to see visitors.”
Jamie stifled a sigh. His mother’s idea of seeing visitors was parading him in front of them as if he were a captive war-chief in a Roman triumph. “I realise you mean well, Mother, but I’m not myself at the moment.”
“Heard about the charge,” Charles said.
Jamie stiffened. “Who told you?”
“I’ve got an old friend at Whitehall, Will Gardiner. Fought alongside him in South Africa. Quite a decent chap. He wrote me.” Charles drew on his cigar and regarded Jamie soberly. “What happened, lad?”
What happened? I led my regiment into utter disaster and lost most of them. I was stripped of every bit of dignity and honour, I was beaten and humiliated, I watched my men shot for my recalcitrance, and I would have been violated were it not for Jim Nicholls. Rather a lot happened, Father. “I made a strategic miscalculation. Quite dire, as it turns out.”
Charles examined him for a long, wordless moment, then nodded. “Well, you’re back home now, that’s what matters.”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “Frightful brutes, those Germans. When I think about the stories I’ve heard…I worry about your brother, too.”
Jamie stubbed out his cigarette, carefully avoiding his mother’s eyes. Philip had been demoted to the ranks for fighting and drunkenness, and in Jamie’s considered opinion, the poor devils in the ranks didn’t deserve his odious presence. At the rate he was going, he’d wind up in prison in short order. “Yes. Have you heard from him recently?”
“No. He’s not much of a letter-writer. So busy,” Margaret said.
“Busy drinking,” Charles snorted.
“Charles!”
“Father, Mother – excuse me. I find I’m rather tired.” Jamie stood and nodded to them. “Good night.” He turned without waiting for their reply and made his way to the staircase. He brushed his hand lightly along the cool marble surface of the banister as he ascended, remembering all the times he’d slid down the thing when nobody was watching to scream at him or give his ear a twist – or in Philip’s case, to try to knock him off. Philip always had been a nasty, scheming brute, but his father hadn’t realised it until he’d grown into adulthood, and his mother still didn’t.
He went into his bedroom and sank to the bed. His mother was right; he’d been cross and moody – no, downright sour and unpleasant since returning home, and he’d no-one to blame but himself. Neither of his parents deserved his anger. He resolved to show them a cheerier face – they’d been so pleased to see him, they’d actually met him at Victoria Station themselves, making a rather touching if embarrassing fuss over him. They’d been effusive to Jim, too, exchanging proud greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls before whisking Jamie away, scarcely giving him a chance to say good-bye to Jim.
Jamie toed off his evening pumps and fumbled with his cufflink. He wondered what Jim was up to – probably having a nice, normal dinner in Kent with his parents and sister, reading, listening to music. Upon their parting at the station, Jim had again urged him to visit, and Jamie was tempted to go immediately, but it wouldn’t have been at all polite to descend upon his family when they were so eager to have Jim home, and besides, he needed peace and quiet to heal. Jamie would have to wait at least a few weeks before it was acceptable to visit. Pity.
There was a soft scratch at the door, and the young boy who’d acted as footman poked his head in. “Mr. Sherston says I’m to help you undress, sir.”
“Ah. Come in.” Jamie extended his wrist toward the young man. “Just in time. I can’t seem to manage this bloody cufflink.”
“I’ll get it, sir,” the boy said confidently, and applied himself to working the link free.
Jamie regarded the boy with curiosity. “What’s your name? Sorry, my memory’s got dreadful holes in it just lately.”
“Frederick, sir. Fred for short.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
“Seventeen and a valet de chambre already. Well, well.”
“Everyone else were gone, sir. They had to bump me up here, when they said you was coming home. Was you really a prisoner of war, sir?”
Jamie pressed his lips together. “Yes, I was.”
“Did you get wounded, sir? Is that why they sent you home?”
The boy’s face was eager, and Jamie had to remind himself not to snap in impatience or irritation. “No. I gather they thought I needed a rest.”
“How did you escape, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I didn’t,” Jamie replied shortly. “A friend rescued me.”
“Blimey,” the boy breathed. “Killed some bloody Huns to do it, I’ll bet.”
Jamie sighed. “One, yes.”
“Give me your other hand, sir. I can’t wait to join the army, myself. I’m eighteen on the second of January, and I’ll be at the War Office day after my birthday. Can’t wait.”
Jamie scrutinised the young man. Had he been so fervent, so avid at that age? He supposed he had. And was there any sense at all in telling the young man about what war really was – not an adventure, not a lark, but blood and suffering and humiliation and death? And even if he did, would the boy listen? Likely not – Jamie wouldn’t have listened either, at seventeen.
“I daresay you’ll make a fine soldier.” The boy grinned and squared his shoulders, and Jamie sighed again. “Enjoy life a bit before you head over there, Fred. Make the most of your Christmas holidays.”
“I will, sir. Can I help you with that coat?”
“No, I can manage from here.”
“But Mr. Sherston said –“
“You tell him I said I wanted to be alone,” Jamie said. “Go on. You can sort things out in the morning if Mr. Sherston doesn’t have you otherwise occupied.”
“Yes, sir.” Fred nodded, pivoted on his heel, and left quietly.
Jamie felt weighed down by the excellent dinner, by the two glasses of wine he’d drunk. He stood up and moved to the cheval mirror. The image reflected in the glass was a young man, tall and trim, perfectly groomed, in the dernier cri of modern evening dress.
Somehow, it was a very dissatisfying picture.
*
“Just wheel me in there, old chap – mind you don’t catch the carpet. Blasted fringes trip me up every time.”
Jamie pushed Jim’s wheelchair into the little library and settled him beside a table. “Here?”
“That’ll do.” Jim stretched and yawned, then noticed his sister lingering in the doorway. “Well?”
Pansy Nicholls was very pretty, with the same curly golden hair and blue eyes as her brother, and nearly as tall. She had chattered all through dinner, when she hadn’t been staring at Jamie with an intensity that made him decidedly uncomfortable. “Did you need anything?”
“Yes – for you to go away and let us have a chat. A quiet chat.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Pansy retorted pertly, and beamed at Jamie.
Jamie blinked. “Why – no, I think I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”
“Are you certain? I could get you some more ices, or –“
“Out!” Jim ordered, pointing a finger. “And close the door behind you.”
A scowl clouded Pansy’s brow. “Oh, very well. Honestly.” She tilted her head to one side and smiled at Jamie, then banged the door shut.
Jim pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Good God. She gets sillier every day.” He shook his head and beamed at Jamie. “There’s whiskey in that cabinet over there, Jamie. Would you be a good fellow and pour us some?”
“Certainly.” Jamie busied himself with the decanter and glasses, and handed a drink to Jim, holding his own glass up. “To your very good health.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Jim replied, touched his glass to Jamie’s, and drank. “Lovely on a cold night like this. Difficult to believe it’s November already. Christmas is right around the corner.” He smiled at Jamie. Despite his infirmity, he looked healthy and rested, and dashing in a smart tweed suit. “How’s the Camden Arms? Never stayed there myself, but I hear it’s nice.”
“Quite comfortable, thanks.”
“You know, you could have stayed here. We’d have been happy to put you up. Mother’s been stuffing me like a goose from the moment I arrived home – or trying to, at least. Her attention would have been diverted a bit.”
“I shouldn’t like to be a burden to you,” Jamie replied. “Did you grow up here?”
“Oh, yes. Born and bred.”
“It’s quite cozy, isn’t it? Very charming.”
Jim laughed softly. “If that’s a terribly polite way of saying small, then yes, I suppose it is. But I’ve always had jolly times here. Until lately, that is. I seem to spend most of my time in my room, reading. I’ve always loved reading, Jamie, but it’s all I seem to do now. I try to get out for some fresh air now and then, but the weather’s been so rotten lately, and oddly enough, nobody seems to fancy decking themselves in oilskins and pushing me around in the rain.” He sipped at his drink and regarded Jamie closely. “Why didn’t you come to see me before this? I’ve missed you, old man, and you did promise to visit, after all.”
Jamie stared at the golden liquid in his glass and swirled it around, trying to equivocate. He’d anticipated the question on the drive to Kent – Jim, honest and forthright, would naturally want to know why he hadn’t visited his friend since he’d been injured. He’d come up with a list of excuses, none of them plausible-sounding, and had rejected all of them. Jim deserved to know the truth. If only the truth weren’t so confusing. “I don’t know. It was dashed inexcusable of me, Jim. I’m sorry for it.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes – yes, I’m fine.” Was there a way to say I’ve thought of you almost every waking moment without sounding like an utter fool? For weeks he’d indulged himself in fantasies, but now he saw that he would have to surrender them to this punishing attack of reality. Jim’s casual inquiry was that of a friend, no more – there was no shadow of desire in his eyes, no spark of anger over Jamie’s neglect that had in actuality been comprised of longing and hope – he’d yearned for Jim to summon him, and had stayed away himself – it was damned ridiculous, on the face of it. Talk about shooting oneself in the foot; his aim had been exceptionally true.
“Never mind. It was a prying question. I withdraw it.” Jim’s smile brightened a bit. “You’re here now, that’s the main thing. Shall we have some music?” He wheeled himself to a Victrola on a lace-covered table and picked up a record. “Mother adores John McCormack. She says it’s because he’s Irish but I suspect she finds him attractive.” Jim set the record on the turn-table, wound the phonograph, and placed the needle carefully on the record. A scratching noise followed by low, sobbing strings emerged from the horn, then the clear notes of a man’s tenor voice. Jim wheeled himself back over to Jamie and picked up his glass again. “So how have you been keeping yourself?”
“Well enough,” Jamie said. He cracked a wry grin. “Actually, I’m going mad with boredom, and my parents are driving me absolutely round the bend.”
“So are mine!” Jim exclaimed delightedly. “Good God, and here I was thinking I might ask for a trade. Good lord, I can’t draw breath without my mother popping in to ask if I need a cup of tea or a spoonful of cod liver oil or some Dr. Allinson’s Miracle-sodding-Restorative Tonic.” He chuckled. “Poor thing. She’s trying to help, but I’m being coddled like an egg, Jamie, and it’s infuriating. You too?”
“Quite. Except in my mother’s case, she’s introducing me to roughly fifteen or twenty eligible young ladies every single day, and I’m having some difficulty telling them apart.”
Jim smiled down into his glass. “You could simply hack through the Gordian knot and marry Pansy. She’s quite taken with you.”
Jamie gave an uneasy laugh. “I’m sure there are scads of other chaps she’d much rather be with.”
“Oh, I don’t know. At any rate, if you two did make a go of things, it would keep you around here a bit more.” The brilliance of Jim’s smile clouded a bit.
Jamie’s stomach knotted itself into a tight fist around Mrs. Nicholls’ roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. He’d made too free with his own thoughts the past few weeks; he recognised, with a pain that approached terror, how desperately, helplessly smitten he was, and how futile was his yearning. Time to tell Jim his news. “I shall have to consider it most carefully, then. Look here, Jim –“
“I have to go back into the hospital in a week,” Jim said abruptly, finishing his drink. He pulled his mouth into a grimace and held out his glass. “Another, would you, old man?”
Jamie couldn’t move. “I…back in? But why? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I say, Jamie, don’t look so down in the mouth. It’s not all that serious.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, not really. You see, it’s this rotten leg – the bone’s not knitting together as quickly as it should, so I’m getting a silver plate put into it. Or onto it, I don’t know. In any event, it’s meant to speed up healing. It’s quite common, apparently. I shan’t be in the hospital more than a week or so. You’re awfully pale, Jamie. Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Just concerned about you, old man.” Jamie mustered a quick smile and got to his feet before a paralysis of dread could settle fully into his bones. He took his time pouring the whiskey, doubling both their portions.
“Well, that’s jolly good of you, but honestly, it’s going to be perfectly fine. I…it would be nice, though, if you visited me in hospital. I don’t mean to be pushing, but…well, if you find yourself with time hanging heavy, do feel free to pop in. I’ll be the one betting my shin on the ponies.”
Mechanically, Jamie replaced the stopper in the decanter. He stared down at the glasses in his hand without really seeing them, and tightened his fingers because he felt a strange, draining weakness inside him, insinuating itself through his bloodstream, through every nerve and fiber, and if he succumbed to it, the glasses would fall from his hands and shatter. Mustn’t let them fall, he thought disjointedly.
“Jamie?”
“I can’t come to see you in hospital, Jim.” Jamie heard his own words forced out, heavy and languid, weary.
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “Well, if you’re busy I certainly understand. No matter.” The lightness and natural music in Jim’s voice dwindled with each word he spoke; Jamie had disappointed him.
“I’m –“ Jamie clamped his mouth shut. “I’m going back to France, Jim. I’ve made up my mind.”
In the moment that followed, Jamie heard the steady tick of the clock on the black marble mantel, the crackling of the wood fire, the scratching of the record as a new song began, the light steps of either Pansy or her mother above them, and Jim’s ragged breathing. Unable to meet Jim’s eyes, he set the glasses carefully on the cabinet.
“For God’s sake,” Jim said in a trembling voice, “why?”
“I’ve got to.”
“No, you –“ Jim slapped a hand down on the arm of his chair. “Damn it all to hell.” Jim, who used profanity so rarely that his words now startled Jamie, spoke so quietly, as if his surfeit of control might slip at any moment.
Jamie turned to look at Jim and saw his hands rising upward, gently, to cover his face. He felt none of yesterday’s certainty, when he’d driven to the War Office and re-enlisted. There had been no recrimination, no chastisement, only a warm welcome from a rough-hewn Yorkshire colonel whose regiment needed more experienced men. Infantry this time, not cavalry. The chance for atonement. Raw acid churned in his stomach – fear, apprehension, a sudden crushing regret. “Jim, please. You of all people should understand –“
“You’ve nothing to prove. Nothing.” Jim took his hands away from his face. His eyes were exceptionally bright. “You’re going back into that madness – why? Good God, you’re putting yourself in danger needlessly for England and empire –“
“Please, Jim – don’t talk like that. I couldn’t bear it if you got cynical on me. Christ, you read the papers. You’ve seen it happening – more men are needed, and I’m fit and ready. I can’t sit at home and do nothing whilst others fight on my behalf.”
Jim shook his head slowly. “You’ve already done it – signed up, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
Jim laughed, a soft, bitter chuckle. “I thought as much. It’s settled, then. When do you leave?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Jesus Christ.” Jim turned, awkwardly wheeling the chair away from Jamie.
Jamie stood rooted to the spot, but found his voice. “Jim, please don’t be angry with me. I must go. I…I know it’s too much to ask for your blessing, but I shall ask all the same. Please…please try to understand.” He looked at Jim’s fair shining curls that no comb or pomade could contain, and longed to touch them, to see if they were as soft as they looked. He longed to place his lips on the nape of Jim’s neck, to caress the delicate curve of his ear. The desire was so strong that he moved forward a few steps, and then boldly stepped around Jim’s chair to face him. He sank to his knees and gazed up into Jim’s eyes, startled to see wetness on his cheeks.
The sight tore into Jamie’s heart. Tears dammed up until his face, his throat, his chest ached with them. Never demonstrative even with his closest friends or relatives, he found his hands reaching for Jim’s and clasping them tightly. “Don’t send me away like this, Jim.”
Jim smiled crookedly. “I’m being confoundedly selfish. Jamie, you have my blessing – good Lord, please don’t think otherwise. It’s only that I’m frightened for you. I wasn’t frightened for myself until…well, and now to think…I lost you once, don’t you see? Couldn’t quite bear it if I lost you again.”
“You won’t lose me.”
“Oh? Is that a promise?” Jim laughed a little.
“It is,” Jamie said. “A solemn oath.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to it.” Jim looked down at their clasped hands, then back into Jamie’s eyes. All at once he wrenched his hands away, placed them on either side of Jamie’s head, and kissed him.
Shocked, Jamie held still, and then closed his eyes and yielded. His hands closed on Jim’s’ tweed-clad knees, and he tasted whiskey and salt and felt the firm pressure of Jim’s lips against his, and the faint scratch of a hastily shaven chin as they drew closer together. He heard McCormack’s voice, clear and sweet.
Roses are shining in Picardy
In the hush of the silver dew
Roses are flowering in Picardy
But there's never a rose like you
And the roses will die with the summer time
And our roads may be far apart
But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy
'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart.
Jamie felt the soft, insistent pressure of Jim’s tongue tracing gently between his lips, and opened his mouth. A soft groan arose from somewhere – himself, or Jim, he’d no idea, but the sensation of wet warmth was stirring his prick to life, and he lifted his hands to tangle his fingers in Jim’s bright curls. Heat suffused him, and pleasure, and joy, and then he remembered he was leaving. Stricken, he pulled away.
Jim’s eyes were shining in the firelight, his face was flushed, and his lips parted slightly. “Jamie,” he whispered.
Jamie shook his head. His prick ached, and his mouth trembled with sensation and memory, and his heart twisted inside his chest. “Jim…I must go.”
“Oh, God.” Jim’s face turned a deeper scarlet. “Jamie, I –“
“Will you write to me? Say you’ll write.”
“Every week. Every day, if you want.”
Jamie nodded, quite unable to speak. Gently, he touched his fingertips to his lips, then laid his hand on Jim’s cheek. He rose to his feet. “Promise me,” he said hoarsely, unsure precisely what it was he was asking.
“I promise.” Jim smiled and cupped his hand round Jamie’s.
Oh, God. Oh, dear God almighty. Jamie leant down and kissed Jim’s mouth once more, lightly, fighting a hundred different urges. “For luck.”
“You won’t need it.”
“Write me.”
“I will. I promise.”
*
TBC.....
