Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will walked home alone, thinking about Tom, smiling to himself and turning the present he’d given him over and over in his pocket, feeling its sharp edges and smooth curves with the tips of his fingers, weighing the significance of it in his hand. 

He had pulled Tom out of his mother’s doorway and up the side alley behind the gate. Tom had laughed and put up only token resistance, calling to his mother that he was stepping outside for a smoke with Will before he left. Will had pushed him against the wall, kissed him hard and fierce and called him a good little mamma’s boy.  

Tom only laughed more and said, “Fuck off, Will, you’re just jealous,” which was true. Will was perversely jealous of having a mother who cared enough to need lying to.  

Will had been invited to supper as Tom’s friend and had been a very good boy himself all evening. Polite and charming, he had even helped wash the dishes and petted the cat—cats made him sneeze, and Will was not generally known for his domesticity. He had been aching to kiss Tom for hours. 

“Got something for you,” said Tom breathlessly, his hand twisted in Will’s hair and his hot mouth on Will’s neck. “Though I don’t know what you’ve done to deserve it.” 

“I know,” said Will, “I can tell.” 

“Not that, you hussy, a present—a real one. But that too if we’re quick and you’re quiet.” Tom deftly turned them both to press Will against the wall in his stead, Tom’s leg between his thighs leaving Will panting and desperate. “You do know how to be quiet, don’t you?” said Tom. “Because I’ve little evidence of it.”  

“Make me,” said Will. “Make me be quiet.” And Tom grinned and kissed him and did just that. 

Will’s walk home was tinged with the melancholy of wishing Tom were with him, wishing for a warm bed and Tom still beside him in the morning. But Tom was indeed a good boy and rarely left his ailing mother for the whole night. As the last of his many siblings to remain unmarried and—to hear them talk—their sainted father dead, the task of caring for their mother naturally fell to Tom. It suited everyone. His sisters were relieved of their traditional duties, his brothers had a ready source of gentle ridicule—a low benchmark by which to measure their manhood—and his mother kept her youngest boy close. Tom, in his turn, was relieved of his own obligations and had yet to come under any pressure to marry. His mother doted on him—both a blessing and a curse. 

Tom’s family trusted him. They trusted him to stay silent and good, and, in return, they did the same. Will could remain a friend—if he kept quiet, he could have those crumbs. They would invite him to supper and ignore an occasional forgetful display of affection. People would stomp into rooms announcing themselves; they would call him Tom’s friend, Tom’s very good friend. Who knows, they might even invite him for Christmas. He liked them; they were warm and loud and robustly argumentative, but there was a conspiracy of silence at their core that he couldn’t forgive.  

Will’s long-dead mother could not have given two hoots for who he was fucking, so long as he kept her in laudanum and gin—blotting out some unknown pain with which she hadn’t entrusted him. Had he not conspired unwillingly in that already? Wasn’t it enough? He knew he would become complicit in a whole family’s lies if he continued to allow it. He had told Henry he knew when to toe the line and keep quiet. But he wanted to change the shape of this family, take up space in it, not merely slot into its well-worn groove. Tom made him want to declare things, to refuse to be silent. Yes, Will was jealous. Jealous of Tom’s family, jealous of Tom, jealously in love with him—with all of them. 

As the only child of a feckless mother and no father he had ever known, love, and the learning of it, was an exquisite pain—Will wanted no opioid to dull it. 

With these thoughts tumbling through his mind and Tom’s present tumbling in his pocket, his route home took him past the shop. He could have shared Mr Carter’s humble apartment, but he had always chosen the pretended independence of lodgings a little further away—lodgings Ambrose Carter paid for, naturally. As he passed, he noticed a light upstairs long after he would have expected Mr Carter to be in bed. He tried the door, found it unlocked, and a sudden panic saw him bound up the stairs two at a time, calling, “Mr Carter... Mr Carter! Ambrose! Are you alright?” 

He found Ambrose slumped at his writing desk, his head at an awkward angle, and Will’s panic did not begin to subside until he’d shaken him and found him warm but groggy. “Wake up, sir...,” he said gently, and, as Ambrose opened his eyes, “There you are... Hello... I was passing, and I saw your light. You didn’t lock up, you know? Are you alright?” 

Ambrose smiled at him blearily. “William, my boy,” he said. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. I’m sorry to have troubled you. The books—paperwork—it was all so unutterably dull I must have nodded off.” 

Will smiled at the heathery traces of lowland Scots that clung to his voice and bloomed when he was tired or angry, or sentimental. As a young man, he had run South to the anonymity of the metropolis with nothing but a couple of scribbled contacts, a small sum of money—but enough—and the good wishes of an uncle who knew full well why he was running. 

 “You must have given yourself an awfully stiff neck,” said Will. 

Ambrose rubbed at the back of his neck to test the theory. “Hmmm, yes,” he said. “You seem to be right.”  

“Here, let me see what I can do,” said Will, and took him by the hand and led him from his writing desk to his comfortable wing-backed armchair, where he began a firm massage of Ambrose’s neck and shoulders.  

“You are a good boy, Will,” said Ambrose. 

“I fear you’re in a minority of one in that opinion.” 

“Surely not, surely not.”  

“Good isn’t an epithet I’ve heard often, no.” 

Ambrose sighed and relaxed under Will’s touch. “Ah,” he said. “Well, you’re my angel. You have a good heart, even if it’s… mischievous. Are you a devil out in the world?” 

“Maybe more of a sprite.” 

Ambrose laughed and reached back to pat Will’s hand. “You are funny… I am very fond of you; you know that, don’t you?” 

“And I’m very fond of you.” 

“Truly?” 

“Truly. Are you feeling maudlin, by any chance?” 

“A little.”  

“What’s brought this on?” 

“The deathless inevitability of the paperwork—I suppose—Memento mori.  And I…I’m glad you’re here because I wanted to talk to you about that.” 

“Death? Goodness. Must we? You’re in your prime. What are you, forty-five? Forty-six? 

“I shall turn fifty in a week, as you well know.” 

“As I say, in your prime.” 

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and consider that you’re flattering rather than patronising me. A half-century concentrates the mind, William. Have you never thought about what would happen to you were I to shuffle off this mortal coil?”  

“I try not to.” 

“Quite so. You are too young and too beautiful to be troubled by such things.” 

It amused Will that Ambrose still considered him a boy when he was on the downhill slope to thirty. “Ha!” he said. “Now who’s patronising? I’m too old and too aware of the ephemeral nature of my charms to be unafraid to contemplate it. I can do nothing about it, so I intend to remain blissfully ignorant. I’m gathering my rosebuds while I may.”  

Ambrose shrugged Will off and stood up. He turned and picked up Will’s hands from the back of the chair and pulled him round to face him. “Come here,” he said. “I want you to look at me. Now then. Is that what you think of me? That I would make no provision for you, after... everything.” 

“You don’t owe me anything, Ambrose,” said Will and broke away from him. He walked over to the console where Ambrose kept a decanter of Port and poured a glass for each of them. He didn’t bother to ask—they were long past standing on ceremony. With his back to Ambrose, he said, “I suppose I might hope for a letter of recommendation, but you’re under no obligation.” He was instantly buffeted by a silent but palpable wave of hurt feelings. 

“William, stop this,” said Ambrose. “It’s cruel. You surely don’t think so little of me.” 

When Will was younger, he could easily have shaken off the pain in Ambrose’s voice; now, it was unbearable. He remembered how once, in passion, he’d teased Tom and called him his rough diamond. And Tom had pulled away from him, hurt, his brow clouded, and warned Will against being too polished for fear of becoming hard and sharp. Will knew he was too old for these games—this dishonesty. 

He turned quickly back to Ambrose and took him his port. Handing it to him, he said, “I’m sorry. I…I can’t bear to think about losing you. It makes me want to be cruel to you…to—” 

“—steel yourself?” said Ambrose and reached and cupped the back of Will’s neck to pull him close. “You have known loss; I know that.” 

“And I’ve started from nothing before; I can do it again.” 

Ambrose sighed and made a face that said he was beyond exasperated with him. “Oh, Will,” he said. “You silly, silly boy, surely you know I intend to leave you the business.” 

Will knew no such thing. If his mind ever wandered in that direction, he pulled himself quickly back to the path of the here and now. No good could come of thoughts that wandered off where the wolves were. 

Will floundered, his head bowed. “I didn’t expect it,” he said. “I don’t—” 

“—I know. And that is my point. You are a good boy, and you do have a good heart. And I won’t hear anything else about it. But there is one who is neither of those things and has been nothing but cruel, and he very much expects it.” 

“Who?” asked Will and pulled himself upright with a rush of protective indignation. 

“My nephew. He is an unpleasant man and will wait upon my death like a vulture.” 

“He’ll have a long wait—you’re as fit as a flea,” said Will, choosing to forget his earlier panic. 

“Pray God you’re right. But be aware, when the time comes, he will hound you. He calls you… Well, never mind that, but he will doubtless dispute the will.”  

“What does he call me?” 

Ambrose sat back down in his chair and put his glass on the side table—he waved the question away and answered a different one. “He has been taught to hate me for my nature, and you the same,” he said.  

“Not enough to forswear sullying himself with your money. Good Lord, is there anything grubbier than hypocrisy? Go on, what does he call me?” Will insisted. 

“He calls you… my whore, if you must know.” Ambrose’s face betrayed his discomfort at having to use the word. 

“Whore, slut, tart,” said Will and laughed when he added “hussy,” remembering Tom had called him that earlier—a word full of naughtiness and having nothing of dirtiness or shame to it. “I’ve heard them all, and they roll off me like water off a duck’s back. And there’s no denying that’s where we began, is there?” 

“I don’t like to think of it. I live in a fantasy where your affection is freely given—” 

“—Now who’s cruel?” said Will and came to stand over Ambrose in his chair. “Mr C, you pay me for my time and my skills in your business and… yes… sometimes in your bed. But you don’t pay for my affection. That can’t be bought, and you know you have it, and my loyalty, always.” 

Ambrose took Will’s glass from him and placed it next to his, then reached for his hand and pulled him gently into his lap. He wrapped his arms around Will’s waist, buried his face in his neck and was silent for a few moments, breathing deep. Will, not knowing what this might mean, simply stroked his hair. He had a fine head of silky hair for a man his age—any age—and Will had always loved to touch it. When Ambrose lifted his head, he smiled at Will and said, “How is young Thomas?” 

“Thomas?” 

“I have eyes, William.”  

“Oh.” 

“Oh? What, oh ? It’s alright, really.” 

“Is it?” Will knew it was alright. There had never been any pretence between them that he had no other lovers, brief affairs of the heart, even briefer affairs of explosive lust—in the early years, other customers—and Henry, always Henry. No pretence, but neither had they ever acknowledged the truth—they were more than capable of their own convenient silences.  

“Oh, my heart,” said Ambrose. “Are you very much in love?” 

Will felt himself colour—an unfamiliar sensation he hoped was covered by the lamplight. “I think so, yes,” he said. 

“Then I am delighted for you. He is such a personable young man. Charming. A gentle giant, if I’m not mistaken.” 

Will was overcome with an urge to share the lovely thing Tom had given him. A lovely thing he had made with his own hands, with his own time, just for Will—Ambrose would appreciate that. “Look,” said Will and pulled the little figurine from his pocket. 

Ambrose took it gently and turned it through his hands. “Oh, that’s darling,” he said.  

“He made it himself. He has a veritable Noah’s Ark of wooden animals he’s whittled. But this one is mine.” 

“How delightful. So delicate. And a hare—for you—how apt.” 

“Why?” Will knew there was meaning in it but had been too proud to ask. Too proud to admit that Tom was not so rough as Will pretended and himself not so very shiny. He knew Ambrose would give him answers—he always did. 

Ambrose glanced at the ridiculous tangle of Will’s coltish legs in his lap. He laughed. “Cunning, quick, and impossibly long-limbed,” he said. 

Will laughed too, kissed Ambrose’s cheek, and slipped off the chair to sit at his feet. Ambrose took the cushion from behind himself and handed it to Will to sit on. “What else?” asked Will. He knew there would be more. With Ambrose, there was always more—Ambrose had been almost his entire education. 

“Let’s see… The hare is a traditional gift between lovers as a symbol of sensuality and desire and a token of good luck. Sacred to many creeds for many reasons, but, in this instance, I think your young man has Aphrodite and Eros in mind. Make sure you keep him safe; he’s precious.” 

“The hare or Tom?” asked Will, knowing the question was mischievous in a way that would appeal to him. 

Ambrose laughed. “Both, dear boy. Both,” he said and handed Will back his treasure.  

Will kissed the little hare on his rounded head and ran his thumb over the swept-back ears. He put him back in his pocket, resolving to find a safer place for him to live and be cherished.  

“Have you ever been in love, Ambrose?” 

“Oh yes.”  

“What happened?” 

“What always happens—he married.” 

“I’m sorry.”  

“Don’t be. I am content with my life. But… I do not wish you to be merely content.” Ambrose sighed. “Some would find it strange, and still others obscene, but you are as close to a son as I have ever had. I want more than anything to see you have more than me.” 

“We can’t waste time worrying about what others find obscene. There are a great many obscenities in the world, and you and I don’t come close. Is he still alive?”  

“As far as I’m aware.” 

“But you don’t see him?” 

“We continued for a while as best we could. But my heart broke every time he went back to his wife. And then, when a child came along… neither his wife nor child deserved the betrayal—I could not live like that.” 

“What was—what is —his name?” 

“Laurence. I haven’t seen him for years.” 

“And no one since?” 

“Not like that, no. When I met you, I was lost and grieving in a way, and I think trying to recapture… youth, innocence… love, I suppose. Or the ghosts of those things. But I make no excuses; it was very wrong of me to take advantage of you that way... but you know I did not know how very young you were.” 

Will had always had the knack of knowing what the customer wanted before they did—a skill he put to excellent use in Ambrose’s business. In his old life, he could play the ingenue or be worldly-wise with equal conviction, and he had known that a callow eighteen-year-old boy was not what Ambrose was looking for. For Ambrose, Will had been a beautiful young man in perhaps his early twenties, receptive, attentive, fascinated by his maturity and experience, who could make him forget his troubles and his own name in bed—for a fee. When Ambrose discovered there were at least twenty years between them and not the fifteen he had allowed himself to believe, the fee had gradually been replaced by an honest wage with no real discussion as to what duties Will’s job now entailed. But what they had come to mean to one another over time—all that Will had affected, and all Ambrose had imagined—that became truth. 

“Have you still not forgiven yourself that?” asked Will. 

“Not entirely.” 

“Have you forgiven me the deception?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then you must forgive yourself for being deceived—please.” 

Ambrose considered this a while before saying. “Perhaps, in honour of my half-century, we should forgive ourselves and each other many things and start again...” He reached out and touched Will’s hair as he said, “I do love you, Will.” 

Will turned and looked up at him. “And I love you,” he said and meant it—though they had never said it before. They were fond; they had affection for one another, but they had never said that. Now seemed as good a time as any to say it—if they were starting again. 

“Ours is its very own kind of love, isn’t it?” said Will. And it was. Impenetrable to anyone but themselves—unimpeachable. Ambrose was part mentor, part father, part lover. All of these and more and greater than the sum of his parts, and Will loved him. 

Without warning, Ambrose thumped the arm of his chair. “Damn and blast it all to Hell!” he said. Will sat up and took notice then—Ambrose never cursed, and, out of deference and respect, neither did Will in his company. He might turn the air blue on an evening in The Silk with Henry, but, with Ambrose, never. Something serious was coming. 

“I have spent so much of my life waiting and hiding, and I’m sick of it. William, I want you to be an equal partner with me in the business—now—while I’m alive to enjoy it. You are the heart and soul of the place—the customers love you. My little shop would be nothing without you, and my grubby nephew will have a much harder time making a claim when the time comes if you are joint proprietor.” 

“Ambrose, I don’t deserve that.” 

“Yes, you do! I am going to see my solicitor and make it so in short order. But me no buts.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Will and laughed, having the sense simply to accept with good grace. 

“I shall hand the reins to you and see what you make of it. Bring in your young man if you like. Do what you choose; only let me be part of it. And make a life, a real and declared life, with someone you love. Don’t compromise on that. Be careful, of course, but demand more. Do not accept silence. Let me see you have that while I’m alive. Let me enjoy that little triumph. And in your turn, pass what we build to someone like us. Lift someone else up, Will; I should like that for my legacy.” 

These seemed to Will like commandments on tablets of stone. He was sleepy now and overwhelmed and wanted to hold Ambrose in his arms and feel the steady heartbeat and regular breathing of his own tiny, quiet family. “I’ll do my absolute best; I promise,” he said and laid his head on Ambrose’s knee. He wanted to lie down and pray for another half-century with Ambrose as his guide, or at least until they could both rightfully be called old men. But he did not say that. He said, “Would you like me to stay with you tonight?” 

“William, dearest, you know I would, but it is unfair of me to ask it.” 

“No, it’s not. We’re friends, are we not? Equals now? Partners? You may ask me anything freely, and I’m free to choose.” 

“We are, aren’t we? I’m so glad of it. Dear boy, stay if you would like, for whatever reason. Do not stay because you feel you must—please.” 

“I want to stay—I know I don’t have to.” 

And so, Will spent the night with Ambrose Carter, sometime lover, long-time father figure. Ambrose slept the sleep of the just, wanting nothing more that night than Will’s comforting presence—his burden shared and halved. And Will lay awake, excited and anxious for a future he had not imagined or expected but, nevertheless, deserved—whether he believed it or not. 

But, while we make plans, life moves on regardless, sometimes bringing us what we want and sometimes what we need— sometimes neither, sometimes both.  Neither Will nor Ambrose could have been expected to notice tucked away in Births, Deaths and Marriages a few weeks previously: 

Walker: Elizabeth Ann, beloved wife of Laurence and devoted mother of David Ambrose, peacefully at home after a long illness. Always in our hearts.

And a few weeks later, when the sign over the shop—newly carved and painted by Tom—read, Carter & Perkins, Gentlemen’s Outfitters, and they finally had a new bell—at Henry’s insistence—neither expected it to be rung by a visitor who would cause Ambrose to drop an entire tray of ha’pennies and farthings all over the floor.  

Will was left scrabbling about to find them all while two broken-hearted men tearfully held one another’s hands in the tiny back scullery over the tea Will had made to soothe their shattered nerves. 

Chapter Text

Will knocked on Tom’s door—but his sister, Margaret, answered. “Looking for Tom?” she asked. 

“I was. Sorry.” 

“What are you sorrying for? He’s here somewhere. Fetching some coal, I think. You alright, dear?” 

“Yes, fine. Well, no, not really.” 

Will should have remembered that once a month, regular as clockwork, Tom’s brother, George, fetched his mother to spend the day with his family where they cosseted and cajoled her to, “Eat just a morsel, Mother; take just a sip of tea,” and she would reply that she was too weak to let a thing pass her lips and couldn’t be expected to see the day out. And yet, somehow, she would force herself to eat and drink heartily and make a grand show of it. In the meantime, Margaret swept in, and she and Tom made everything in their mother’s home bright and shiny as a new pin. Every month, their mother protested against what she called an interference, but she went, grudgingly, and returned the same way. 

“Well, don’t stand there letting the cold in, come in…,” said Maggie. “Tom! Will’s here! He’ll be glad to see you.” She laughed, “He’s always glad to see you.” 

Tom appeared at the top of the cellar steps—smile a mile wide, coal-smudged face and hands. He looked solid—a man of substance. Will wanted to run to him and bury himself, but Tom’s sister was here, and he was holding up his hands, suggesting he was too filthy to touch—as though Will cared. Tom threw him a wink and blew him a kiss behind Maggie’s back, and Will’s whole being did a flip. Tom said, “Keep him entertained while I have a bit of a wash, Maggie, will you?” and disappeared into the scullery. 

Maggie laughed, “Entertained?” she said. “Shall I do you a song and dance? How about The Boy I Love is—” 

“—Don’t think I want entertaining today, thanks, Maggie.” 

Maggie looked a little crestfallen. “Suit yourself,” she said. “You’re not alright, are you?” 

Maggie was a twittering bird of a woman; she talked fast and incessantly and was rarely still. But, while her plumage was a little drab, she listened as much as she talked and had the uncanny knack of hearing a juicy worm below the surface of any conversation—when she hauled the thing out, it was no less summarily despatched than if she were a showier specimen. 

“I slept badly that’s all,” said Will. “I’m all at sixes and sevens.” 

“And my little brother’s a balm, is he? Fancy that.” 

“Something like that. Pay me no mind; I’m being daft. Things are changing—good things are happening—but it’s unsettling somehow.” 

“What kind of good things?” 

Will hesitated; he had planned to let Tom be the first to know. But Tom wasn’t here, and here was Maggie, bright-eyed and eager, and Will was bursting with it. He said, “Mr C’s making me a partner in the business.” He tried to smile but had the feeling he’d only achieved a grimace. 

Maggie cuffed him gently on the arm. “But that’s wonderful news,” she said. 

“I know, I know... but.” 

“He must really trust you.” 

“That’s it really.” 

“You don’t feel deserving? Feel like you can’t live up to it?” 

“I suppose.” 

“Everyone feels like that, Will. Everyone.”  

“He expects a lot of me.” 

“I’m sure he has good reason to.” 

“I came to ask Tom if he’d make a new sign for the shop.” He painted the sign in the air with his hands, and this time, his smile felt real. “Carter & Perkins, Gentlemen’s Outfitters,” he said. “We’ll pay him the going rate, of course.”  

Maggie clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, he’ll be so pleased,” she said. “He’s never happier than when he’s messing about with a bit of wood, making something pretty—just like our old dad—he’s a chip off the old block alright,” she stopped and laughed at her own joke. Will gave her a mirthless smile, and she said, “That’s not the only reason you came though, eh?” 

He didn’t mind Maggie’s inquisition too much. She was, by nature, an inquisitive person and, what some might think nosy, Will recognised as caring. “Like I said, I need cheering up,” he said. 

“Tom’s a good cheerer-upper—he always was a sunny little lad. Not so little anymore though. In my mind’s eye, he’s always about ten years old—probably because I think I’m still fifteen—until I look in the mirror.” At this, she moved to the over-mantle, peered critically at herself, and patted a few sparrow-brown wisps back into place. “Lord, that’s a shock,” she said, then began to rake out the hearth and lay a new fire while she rattled on. “Did you know he had a twin? We were meant to be seven, not six, but Tom’s twin was born a tiny, shrivelled thing and took no more than a breath or two in this life.” 

Will had not known that and said as much. He wondered why Tom hadn’t said so—it felt like no small thing. But there was still much to know and learn about his beloved. 

“It plagues Mother he wasn’t baptised. She imagines him in Limbo in her darkest moments, and she has plenty of those, as you know.” 

Tom’s mother insisted on wearing widow's weeds, although her husband had been dead a good five years. She said if it was good enough for Her Majesty, it was good enough for her. Will thought this ostentatious display of mourning more a demonstration of a keen sense of the dramatic—in both the Queen and Will’s mother. It kept them at the centre of attention that was for sure.  

“Lord, you’d think we were papists. But she's quite high church, Mother. I sometimes think all that incense and candle stuff would have suited her better. She’d love confession. Though what she’s got to confess I can’t imagine. She’s barely had time for sinning with us lot, now has she?”

Pride, thought Will, that was a sin—and hardly time-consuming. 

“Samuel—Tom’s twin—she insisted he had a name. You might think it a waste of a perfectly good name, if you were so inclined. But she had no more babies, so might as well use it I suppose, if it was going spare. Such a tiny thing. Perfect but tiny. And Tom so brawny too. Have you seen the birthmark he has on his back? No, of course you haven’t. How could you?” 

Will was relieved she’d answered her own question because it would have pained him to lie. Seen it? He’d touched it, kissed it, licked the glistening sweat of passion from it—a pretty thing, like a wing on Tom’s shoulder. Tom loved Will’s fairy tattoo—said he wished he had the courage. But Will told him it looked like he’d been born with one of his own. 

“George once called it the Mark of Cain and—oh—he laughed so, he thought he was that clever. Mother got so savage she threw the other one of these mantle dogs at his head.” Maggie had begun dusting the many objects her mother kept on display and picked up the pottery Spaniel by the neck—she looked as though she’d like to give the thing a good hurl herself. “Smashed it to smithereens against the wall over there,” she said and nodded to a dark scar on the opposite wall. “He never said it again, I’ll tell you that. Smithereens.” 

And wrath. That was also a sin, though Will thought it perhaps forgivable on this occasion.  

“I think she keeps this one to remind us to watch our Ps and Qs, ugly old thing that it is. It gives me the shudders, though she loves it. The Mark of Cain? I ask you—poor Tom. He’s all grown up now, I suppose—ought to be settled down. But Mother… you know, he’s the only one who can bring her out of herself—just like our old dad could. I couldn’t imagine a girl who could take her precious boy off her, could you?” 

Will said he couldn’t imagine such a girl, no, and tried but failed to keep the smile from his face. 

Maggie stopped, and her reflection cocked its little head and looked at Will’s with curious glittering eyes. She was suddenly quiet—listening. She said, “If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell.” 

Will said he would be the soul of discretion, and, in truth, he could usually be relied upon for that. 

“So, the other day I was chatting to our Freddy about the church picnic, Lord knows we have to start talking about it months in advance. Hard to imagine picnicking at this time of year, isn’t it? Anyway, Fred says—Uncle Tom will take Will, won’t he? And I said, probably—he’s not courting as far as I know, so he can take a friend. And Freddy says—bright as a button, you know how he is—he says... but Will is like Tom’s girl, isn’t he?” 

Will said nothing but felt the colour drain from his face and hardly dared to look up and catch her eye in the mirror. But she must have been looking at him because she took some time before she said. “What do you think of that?” 

“He’s bright as a button alright,” said Will and, for distraction, went to her and took the cloth—she was struggling to reach the top of the mirror, so he took on the job of polishing it himself. 

“I hadn’t the heart to wallop him. He meant no harm,” said Maggie, at a loss now for something to do. 

“Oh, no, please don’t do that, not on my account.” Will thought he could easily change the subject now, distract her, move to safer ground. But honestly, where was the fun in that? He said, “What did you say?” 

“I said he wasn’t to make up things like that because you could get in a lot of trouble—you and his Uncle Tom.” 

“But you weren’t angry?” Will glanced at himself in the mirror and thought—stop now, that’s far enough. 

“With him? No point.” 

“Were you angry with anyone?” Will’s own reflection seemed to urge him to be quiet. 

“Who would I be angry with? Babes and sucklings, eh?” 

Will paused his polishing and looked away from himself—he didn’t want to see the fear on his own face. He said, “Isn’t that meant to suggest truth and wisdom in the innocent?” 

Maggie turned to face him. Looking directly at him rather than his distorted reflection, she said, “Is there truth in it then?” 

Will knew he did not want to lie anymore—however hard his heart was pounding—and, marking Ambrose’s words, decided it was time to declare something and damn the consequences. He said, “There’s wisdom in it.” 

Maggie fell quiet and took the duster from him. She took hold of both his hands—her hands were small, but her grip was strong. She said, “Do you love him, Will? Because our Tom deserves someone to love him. Someone all his own who won’t swallow him up like we do.” 

Will’s tongue mutinied and refused to produce a sound. But, in a world where people lied and every day declared love they did not feel, Will thought denying love when it was felt was unforgivable. He nodded at her. 

Maggie said, “I think maybe you need that too,” and Will nodded again. “Good,” she said laughing her twittery laugh, and letting him go. “Well, it’s like I always say—the heart wants what the heart wants, and there’s not a perishing thing anyone can do about it. So, you’ll come to the church picnic, if we’re spared that long?” 

Will’s tongue broke free with joy at being included in her far-off plans. “If he asks me,” he said. 

She laughed again. “He’ll do as he’s told.” 

She moved to the coat stand and kept talking as she donned her outdoor shoes, coat, hat, and gloves. “The rest of them won’t hear it from me Will, you can be sure of that. Especially not Mother. Lawks! Can you imagine? Though I can’t speak for my Fred, he’s a law unto himself as we all know, and he comes out with all sorts when you least expect it. There’s not a perishing thing anyone can do about Freddy either, though it’s not for the want of trying, God love him. Do you know, our George called my Fred a changeling? I’m not sure if I like that. George wants to watch his tongue sometimes, he really does... Where is Tom anyway?” 

Tom emerged from the scullery, scrubbed and shining, his shirt over one shoulder and his pretty wing peeking out from beneath his undershirt. Will’s heart took flight.  

“There he is, the great lummox,” said Maggie. What have you been doing in there? Shirking from doing any work, I’ll wager. Will, here’s been very helpful, very helpful indeed. Come on now and give the lad a cuddle and a kiss—he needs one.” 

She adjusted her hat in the now sparkling mirror and said, “Right, I’m off home to my kiddies before they cause any more trouble. Should be a good hour before our George brings Mother home, so you've the run of the place till then, boys.” 

Tom’s mouth had fallen open, and he stared after her as she headed out the back door. He turned back to Will with a baffled expression. “A cuddle? And a kiss?” he said, and with a sudden realisation, his bafflement turned to anger. “What in Christ’s name have you done? You're a fucking liability, do you know that? You had no right to—” 

“—I told her I love you.” Will said it quickly and let it hang in the air. It didn’t make it right—he knew that. And neither did it have the intended effect because Tom spat, “If you loved me, you would have given me a choice! Did you even stop to think about me for a second? I have to live in this bloody family” 

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” said Will, catching a glimpse of Tom’s familial temper. “Maggie asked if I loved you, and I couldn’t lie.” 

“Well, maybe I wasn’t ready to tell the truth. You’ve had so much more time than me… Fucking Hell, Will!” 

“She already knew though.” 

“They all know,” Tom hissed at him. “But we don’t say.” 

Will thought of little changeling Freddy—this family's escape valve. He might produce a plume of scalding steam when they least expected it—who knew how long the not saying could last? Will went to Tom and wrapped his arms round his neck, breathed in the clean, coal-tar soap scent of him—he feared he might never have the chance again. “Tom, please,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I should have lied—it was selfish. Forgive me?” 

Tom held his whole body rigid in a vain attempt to resist until he could hold out no longer and softened, sighed, and, with a little groan, pulled Will close. “Do you love me, Will?” he asked, and Will whispered a contrite yes. “Then I’m glad you didn’t lie. I am, really. I’m just scared.” 

“It will be alright, I promise, darling—we’ll make it alright.” 

Tom said, “I’m a fool for believing you but, God help me, I do. I believe you can do anything you set your mind to.” 

But something was left hanging and it was beyond Will to leave it there. He said, “The thing I said… you didn’t…what Maggie asked me…” 

“You want to know if I love you?” said Tom, laughing. 

“Yes, please.” 

“It probably makes me an even bigger fool, but, yes, Will, I love you.” 

“Can you please just do as your big sister tells you then and kiss me?” 

Tom nodded and gave Will an indulgent smile. He said, “I suppose if we have an hour to ourselves, we best make good use of it.”  

Chapter Text

Will hardly noticed him at first. He looked up, wished the man good morning, said to let him know if he needed any help and went back to his chores. The customer did not generally like to be harangued into definitive action until he was ready to commit or be guided to it.

After a while, the man cleared his throat once and then again, and Will took the second one to mean his attention was required. “Are you looking for something in particular, sir?” he said.

The man smiled and opened his mouth to speak but shook his head and went to leave instead—Will questioned his usually infallible sense of when to make a move. But at the door, the man turned back, walked to the counter and—as though the thought had only just occurred—said, “Some…one, actually. I wonder, is this...? Carter? Would that be Ambrose Carter, by any chance?”

Will heard the tray drop behind him. A thousand tiny coins raining onto the floor—pennies from heaven. Ambrose, stupefied, said, “No”. Quite calmly, “No.”

Will felt transfixed, wanting to turn towards Ambrose but unable to take his eyes off the man who stared over Will’s shoulder at Ambrose beyond him.

The man said, “Ambrose—please.”

Ambrose said nothing more, but he turned and left, his footsteps retreating up the stairs.

Will said, “I’m sorry, sir… I don’t know—”

“—It's quite alright. I’m sorry. Tell him… no, don’t tell him anything.” The man gestured to the scattered coins as he headed to the door. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

The new doorbell chimed sweetly as he left and Will sprang into action, chasing after him, calling “Sir, wait!”

The man had retreated with a purposeful stride, and Will, in his haste, collided with the costermonger who called him a clumsy fucking ponce. Will thought this not unreasonable—on either count—but resented the time wasted in charming him out of calling immediately for a policeman and promising faithfully to buy the bruised apples if he’d only stop by the shop later. Will was quite breathless by the time he caught up. He grabbed the man’s arm but thought better of it and darted in front of him to block his path. He said, “Forgive me, sir, but… are you… is your name Laurence?”

“What of it?”

“Apologies for the familiarity, but I don’t know your surname.”

“I’m Laurence Walker—let me pass.”

“Why did you come? You didn’t pass by coincidentally and become suddenly curious about the name, did you?”

“It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have. Let me go... please.”

“Yes, sir. But one question. Does your wife know you’re here?”

Mr Walker regarded Will as though he were at best an idiot and at worst a callous one. “My wife is dead, young man,” he said and, all at once, Will took in his black cravat, black banded hat, and the crepe band on his arm and called himself a callous idiot and a Philistine to boot.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “That was a very stupid thing to say.”

“Yes, well, I’ll thank you to mind your own business.…I… this was a bad idea. I’ve had a few of them lately. This was the worst of them. Grief is—”

“—With respect, sir, it is my business—me being the Perkins of Carter and Perkins. Ambrose is my...” Here Will stumbled. What was Ambrose to him? How could he possibly begin to explain? He only knew his Ambrose deserved better than this. He said, “You can’t do this to him. Please, sir, don’t do this to him.”

“What do you think you know of me?”

Will took this as an invitation to take his first good look at Lawrence Walker. He had a commanding presence, broad-shouldered and heavy-browed. He looked tired and sad, but something else was written into the story the lines on his face told, something more enduring than grief, something that would remain when the high tide of grief retreated—an intelligence, a kindness. Will took the lines etched around his eyes and used them to imagine him laughing and erased them to imagine him young—young and laughing. Oh, but he and Ambrose must have made a striking pair; Will was struck by a sadness that precious few—maybe no one—had ever seen them that way. He said, “Only that… you are important to him. You’re important to each other.” Not the whole truth—but not exactly a lie.

“He doesn’t want to see me. I think that much was clear.”

“He does. He just needs… please. Please come back. I’ll talk to him. Please… for what it’s worth, I don’t think it was a bad idea.”

Mr Walker looked Will up and down, perhaps appraising him as Will had done—Will wondered what he saw. He said, “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good lad,” said Mr Walker, and smiled.

***

Will found Ambrose in the scullery, sitting at the table, head in hands—Will suspected he’d been crying. “Has he gone?” Ambrose asked.

“He's in the shop—I’ve closed up.”

Ambrose shook his head fiercely. “No, Will,” he said. “No. There is nothing in the world... No reason…”

“What does reason have to do with any of it? His wife is dead, you know.”

For the third time that day, Will received a look that asked what variety of idiot he was. “No, really?” said Ambrose. “I can’t think what gave it away. That’s alright then. We can just pick up where we left off.”

“Of course it isn’t alright. He’s grieving; he’s sad. I think—”

“—What do you think William?” Ambrose snapped at him. “What do know? What could you possibly know?”

And Will snapped back, “Nothing, obviously. Too young and muddle headed. Haven’t a thought in it. Too pretty by far.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“No, you don’t be like that! I’ll tell you what I know. I know you told me you were in love once. I believe that’s worth something and so do you!” Will was aware he was shouting and could probably be heard in the shop. He took a few deep breaths and dropped his voice to an entreating whisper. “Ambrose, you’ve put my name over the door, don’t you think it’s time you stopped treating me like a child?”

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry, Will,” said Ambrose and reached for his hand. “You are a grown man and I know you have some hard-won wisdom. Tell me what you think—please.”

“I think there’s a hole in his life. He’s confused and empty and looking for… do you remember what you told me about how you were when we met—lost, grieving?”

“I’ve already done my grieving for him and it damn near killed me.”

“So, he’s dead as far as you’re concerned? He looks pretty lively to me. He’s clutching at memories of love just like you were, maybe just to keep himself afloat... I don’t know, something like that.”

“He’ll likely drag me under with him then.”

Will dropped to his knees in front of Ambrose and took hold of his other hand. Looking up into his face, he could see he’d been right about the tears. He said, “I won’t let that happen, darling man; I promise. Please trust me.”

“He can’t just waltz in here—”

“—Does he look like a man who’s done any waltzing recently? This wasn’t done on a whim—it’s taken courage. I know it’s a shock but, if you let him go without so much as a conversation... Ambrose, this isn't like you. You didn’t get where you are by walking away from opportunity… from luck. Please just talk to him. I’ll make you both some tea.”

“Oh, that’ll solve everything.”

“It can’t hurt.”

Ambrose sighed. He said, “Do we have any cake?”

Glancing around the scullery, Will said, “I think there’s some shortbread in that tin on the top shelf.”

“Oh, alright then,” Ambrose said, sounding resigned to his fate. “Put the kettle on, laddie.”

Will laughed. “The shortbread swung it?”

“I have a sweet tooth, you know that,” said Ambrose, with a sheepish smile.

Will stood, pulled Ambrose up out of his chair into his arms and kissed him softly on his sweet-toothed mouth—it felt like the right thing to do, and who was there to judge? He said, “Good thing I was planning an apple crumble then.”

Ambrose gave him a quizzical look, but Will only smiled and said, “I’ll fetch him, shall I?”

Ambrose said, “Your name’s over the door, Will—you’re in charge.”