Epilogue: 17 years later (circa 1743)
It seemed to take forever to get rid of the funeral guests. Admiral Sir James Norrington knew his wife had been well-liked in the neighbourhood, but even he was surprised by the number of people who had turned up to pay their respects - nearly a hundred of them had crowded into the small church, and many had been in tears. He was light-headed from grief and lack of sleep and hunger, and wished them all at the devil, but he continued to stand by the door, exchanging the usual words of condolence and hypocrisy, as they trickled out, one by one, into the November fog.
Finally, however, he was left with his sister-in-law Mary, her husband Samuel (a bluff gentleman of comfortable means) and Cutler Beckett. There were no children present: his own three were dead long since (two of smallpox; one of a fall from a tree); while Cutler's only surviving son Toby was at school. Samuel and Mary had left their loud and boisterous brood in the capable hands of their governess, a consideration for which he was most thankful. It wasn't that he disliked children, but his nephews and nieces only served to remind him of his own losses, and he could never endure their company for very long.
As the last of the mourners stepped out, he found Bamford at his side, murmuring that Lord Beckett had ordered tea to be brought to his study.
He smiled. It was typical of Cutler that he would give orders to someone else's butler, but he had no intention of countermanding them. Tea was a good idea, and if Cutler had managed to exclude Samuel and Mary from his study, he would be grateful. He wanted nothing more than to get staggeringly drunk, and then to curl up and sleep for a month, but being alone with his friend would be almost as good.
Cutler was seated in a chair by the fire, toasting his hands. He rose immediately James entered the study and waited only until Bamford had closed the door before throwing his arms around James' shoulders and hugging him closely. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I wish I could have done more. I know she meant a great deal to you."
James let himself be hugged, revelling in the closeness, and nodded. "She was an inestimable woman." It was good to be held in the strong arms of his friend, and it was some time before he straightened up and gave him a rather watery smile. The two of them sat down by the fire: he in his customary chair, Cutler in the one opposite. They didn't speak. Cutler poured him a cup of tea, and he sipped it in silence, grateful that Cutler could be so understanding and so kind. He regarded a loose thread on the arm of the chair, and wondered when his belongings had become so shabby.
It wasn't until he put the cup down that he said, quietly, "She knew about us, you know."
"What?" Cutler was startled out of his own reverie.
"Cynthia. She knew I loved you. She knew we were ... intimate."
Cutler looked stunned. "She knew? For how long?"
"Since Jonathon died, four years ago. You consoled me then, do you remember? I don't know how she knew, but she did."
"She never said."
James gave a wan smile. "No, she never said. She had her pride, too."
Cutler put his own teacup down and stared at him. "Four years ... for four years I've hidden how I felt for you, when she knew all the time? When I could have had you openly?"
"That's very selfish of you."
"Selfish? Of course it's selfish! Eleven years I've been waiting for you, since Catherine died, and you tell me now that the last four years were unnecessary!"
"Keep your voice down, for heaven's sake. I don't want Samuel coming in here."
Cutler glared at him, but brought his temper under control. "I'm sorry, James," he said, looking contrite.
"You are forgiven." He leaned forward and gave Cutler's hand a squeeze. "She didn't tell me, either, you know. It was only a few weeks ago, when she fell ill, that she told me how she'd seen us kissing one day. She said that it took her some time to get used to the idea that I could love you and her both."
Cutler smiled, ruefully. "It took me a long time to realise the same." He rose from his chair and stood by the hearth, looking down into the flames. "It feels like I've waited forever for you," he said, sneaking a glance back at James. "Fourteen years you were married, and I hated every day of it."
"You married first."
"I had to, for the title - you know that. It wasn't a love-match, like yours." He shrugged, hiding the bitterness. It was an old argument, and they both knew it.
"It's over now."
Cutler nodded. "It's over." He took a deep breath. "James, I - I want you to come and live with me."
James looked up, surprised. "At Beckett House?"
"Well, it makes no sense to maintain two establishments now that we're both alone." When Norrington didn't answer, he went on, "I've earned this, James. We both have. We've bowed to society and custom, both of us, and little joy we've had of it. I'm two-and-fifty now, and I don't know how much longer I'll live. I want to make sure my last years are comfortable, and I want to spend them with my best friend. I want to spend my days with you, spend my nights with you, and wake up in the morning with you. I've wanted that for so long."
"What about Toby?"
"He's at school most of the year, then he'll go on to university, or the army."
"He'll notice."
Cutler smiled. "He's a boy, James. When did you ever notice anything unusual about your parents or their friends?"
James smiled back. "Never."
"Everyone knows we're old friends. We've both lost our wives, our children ... what would be more natural than for you to come and live with me?"
James said nothing, and Cutler tried again. He turned away from the fire and moved to stand by James' chair, putting an arm around his shoulder and whispering, "Come live with me and be my love ..." (1)
It didn't have the intended effect: instead, James broke down completely and started sobbing. Cutler perched on the arm of the chair and leaned over him, trying to hug him as best he could given the awkward position, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again.
After a few minutes James pulled himself together, saying "I did love her, you know."
"I know you did."
"She looked like Elizabeth," he added.
Cutler nodded agreement. "The resemblance was very strong."
"I'm going to miss her."
"I know. It's only natural."
James patted his pockets, as if looking for something. Cutler shook his head, fondly, and proffered a handkerchief. James took it with the hint of a smile and blew his nose determinedly, then took a deep breath and looked around the room. There was a modest set of bookshelves, a large, heavy desk, several chairs and some chests of papers. "Would you have room for my chair?" he asked.
Cutler smiled and kissed him. "Bring the whole house if you wish. We'll fit it in somehow."
James shook his head. "Just the chair," he said. "And my clothes."
"What about the books?"
"I think you have most of them already. You always did read more than I."
"True. Still, I think you have some that I don't have - naval memoirs and the like, and your Royal Society papers. You should bring those."
James nodded. "I'll leave the rest to be sold with the house," he said with determination. "I'll have to provide for Bamford and his wife, and the maid will need something besides a reference." He sighed. "So much to do."
"I'll get Mercer to deal with it. It'll do him good - he's getting fat and lazy."
They shared a smile at the thought of the rapier-thin Mercer ever slowing down enough to put on an ounce of fat. As Beckett's major-domo he displayed the same silent efficiency they'd known in Jamaica, with the result that he was the envy of all the surrounding gentlefolk and the terror of the servants.
James leaned into Cutler and rested his head on the chest of his friend. It felt so good to know that he had Cutler's support, friendship and love. He felt as though he could relax for the first time in ... well, in a long, long time.
"Thank you for staying behind," he whispered. "It was very good of you."
"Not at all. Purely selfish reasons, I assure you," Cutler murmured into his ear, reaching a hand down towards his breeches. "You've kept this hidden from me for far too long." He gave a few strokes to emphasise his point.
James groaned, and leaned back in his chair, shifting his hips forward into Cutler's palm. "It's been months, hasn't it? Godsblood, that feels good. Next chance I get, I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name."
"Promises, promises."
"I'll keep this one."
"You'd better. I've got some new oil for us to try, perfumed with sandalwood from Arabia, seven shillings an ounce. It smells delicious and feels like the finest silk on my fingers. I can't wait to try it on you. "
James groaned again and looked up. "And you tell me this now, when Mary and Samuel are still in the house?" He bit his lip, caught between laughter and despair. "I can't leave them overnight. We'll just have to wait until they've gone."
Cutler gave him a bright, conspiratorial smile. "No we don't: I brought it with me."
James gaped at him. "But they're in the parlour!"
"There's a lock on the door, isn't there? All you have to do is turn the key, and then you can bugger me over the desk. You know it's strong enough."
All the blood in James' body went to his groin. God help him, but he hadn't been this hard in years! With some difficulty he rose to his feet and looked down at the mischievous face of his lover.
"You are a wicked, sinful temptation, Cutler Beckett."
"Of course I am. It's why you love me."
He was right, of course, thought James as he turned the key in the lock and unbuttoned his breeches. He was always right.
THE END
Footnotes:
(1) This is actually the first line of two poems: Christopher Marlowe's The Passionate Shepherd to His Love and John Donne's The Bait (quoted by Izaak Walton in The Compleat Angler). It is likely that Donne deliberately used Marlowe's line in order to satirise it. Back