It was his favourite part of the day: the short, brisk walk from his club to his rooms. No matter the weather, he made the walk. Savouring the crunch of snow beneath his feet in the winter; relishing the cold, clear frosty air when the wind was so sharp it took his breath. Refusing to unfurl his umbrella to shield himself against the icy needles of rain in early spring. Sultry summer evenings when the perspiration ran down the back of his neck so that his impeccably ironed and starched shirt clung to him in damp patches. The indefinable tang of autumn in the air as the first leaves fell and swirled about his feet, blown by errant breezes. The smell of snow: the unnameable colour of the sky as the flakes danced in the air and settled softly on the ground. And this, his favourite time of year: when the land became green and good again; the smell of freshly turned earth, the tender buds on the trees; the first evening when he could walk without an overcoat.
Letting himself into his rooms on the second storey of a formerly grand mansion, now divided into "Gentlemen's Residences," he smiled at the general disorder of the place. His exorbitant rent included the services of a cleaning woman, but since he had forbidden her to move any of his papers or books, her efforts were barely noticeable, which was fine with him after the stifling order of his parents' home.
He hung his suit jacket in his wardrobe and removed his collar and tie and went to his study. A wrought iron cage stood in one corner of the room, a small goldfinch sitting on the perch within. He had found the bird on the steps in front of the house, one wing broken and had brought it in and nursed it back to health. He smiled at the recollection of his brother's reaction.
"Honestly Evan," he'd said. "Another foundling? You were always bringing home strays when we were young."
He'd smiled sheepishly, but refused to rise to his brother's bait. The bird had recovered, but would not fly away when he had attempted to free it, so he kept it, although he would have been reluctant to admit how much he enjoyed listening to its chirps in the evening when he worked in his study or how gratifying he found it when he opened the cage and the little bird hopped onto his outstretched finger or perched on his shoulder.
His brother had been right: he was incapable of turning his back on suffering; human or animal. At ten he had flown in a rage a man beating the horse drawing his cart. He had snatched the whip from him and turned it on him until his father had carried him, screaming, away.
When he had finished college and announced his intention of starting his own business, rather than going into the family firm, his father and uncle had shaken their heads in dismay, convinced that he would run through the inheritance he had received from his grandfather in less than a year. But he had surprised everyone, except himself. Five years later, his business was thriving; his two partners, Ted and Cody, were talking about expanding. What had started as a small investment firm with a handful of clients acquired through their numerous family connections had grown into a well-respected business. Family friends and relatives who had placed small amounts with them were surprised to find ever-increasing returns and had, in turn, recommended them to others.
Of course, Evan smiled at the thought, what no one realised was that the three partners possessed a quality that guaranteed them entree into the most rarefied circles of the city: eligibility. Every night they received countless invitations to social functions and intimate gatherings from the mothers of unmarried daughters. All three came from good families of a certain standing in the community; all three were personable, attractive and single. When Cody turned his blue eyes on the dowagers of the community, they were soon urging their husbands to put some business the way of those three charming young men. When their daughters blushed at Ted's slow smile and spoke affectionately of Evan's kindness and sweet nature their fathers warmed to them and, eventually, came to respect their acumen.
He spent an hour working at his desk, reading several prospectuses and writing a couple of letters. One opportunity interested him: a young man from Oklahoma, who had reason to believe he had oil on his property and was looking for capital to drill. Perhaps he should send Cody to meet this Mr Swagger: it sounded promising. But as the evening shadows grew longer, his eyes began to tire and he removed his wire-rim spectacles. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he crossed the room and opened the window.
A figure was leaning against the streetlamp in front of the house, his posture and stance suggesting defeat and despair. Evan felt a pang in his heart for the palpable misery of the lone man because, in spite of his friends, family and wide circle of acquaintance, he was, deep inside, as alone as this man. He saw the man's head turn to look in his direction, and, embarrassed to be caught staring, was about to turn away from the window, when the figure crumpled into a heap onto the sidewalk.
Without thinking, he raced down the stairs and out the door to bend over him. Although he carried a faint aroma of spirits, he did not appear to be drunk and, when Evan laid his hand on his cheek, he was horrified to feel him burning with fever. He tried to lift him, but his dead weight was too much for him to handle. He tipped his head, which was slumped over his chest, back, wondering how best to revive him, when his eyes opened.
A pair of crystalline grey eyes stared back at him, and, in shock, Evan gasped, "Randy?"
Randal Keith Orton had been the crown prince of their school; a golden boy who possessed everything: looks, charm, wealth and talent. His grandfather had been a self-made millionaire, his father had multiplied that fortune many times over and, when Randy was old enough to be sent away to the best school in the state any taint of "new" money had been removed by the sheer enormity of his family fortune.
By the time Evan was sent to the same school, Randy was the undisputed leader, his athletic exploits as famous as his disregard for school rules and his hot temper. Their contact had been minimal, except for one occasion. Several of the older boys were tormenting him having snatched his books, and were tossing them back and forth over his head: an occurrence that Evan, small and bespectacled, was all too familiar with. Randy had calmly retrieved his books, helped him up from where he had been sent sprawling on the ground, and sent him on his way. Several of the boys had sported blackened eyes the following day, but Randy had brushed him aside when he tried to thank him.
Upon graduation, he had enrolled in the military academy. They had crossed paths once or twice when he was home on leave, most notably one New Year's Day when both were making traditional calls on the other families of St Louis. He remembered Randy and several dissipated young men stumbling up the steps to his aunt's house just as he was leaving. They had clearly been sampling the punch in several other homes and were laughing uproariously. Rather than feeling disgust or disapproval, Evan remembered feeling envious of their ability to live outside of the constraints of society: something he knew he could never have the courage to do.
When the news reached them that Randy had been expelled from the academy his grandfather had cut him off. When the reason for the expulsion came out, spoken only in whispers, his father had stricken his name from the family bible and forbade any mention of his name ever again, threatening to cast off his wife, who had aged by twenty years in a few weeks, if she helped him. Occasionally rumours had surfaced that he had been seen in New York among some disreputable company or in Europe, mingling with decadent aristocrats, but it had been years since anyone knew whether he was still alive.
Struggling to maintain his composure, Evan spoke in low tones, "Randy, can you stand? Why don't you come inside?"
Randy stared at him blankly, "I know you, don't I?"
"Yes. From a long time ago." Evan helped him to his feet. "You need to see a doctor. Please, come inside with me." He saw that one arm was hanging uselessly as the taller man set his teeth against the pain. Once inside, he spied his landlady's nephew and sent him to fetch the doctor. Randy slowly climbed the stairs to Evan's rooms, beads of sweat glistening on his brow, until finally Evan guided him into his small parlour and settled him on a horsehair sofa.
"Why don't you rest there until the doctor arrives," he said. "I'll fetch you a brandy."
Returning from his study with a generous snifter, he handed it to Randy, who drank it down in one swallow and leaned his head against the back of the sofa. "You remember me?" he asked.
"We were at the same school."
Randy stared at him thoughtfully. He had retrieved his spectacles from his study and put them back on. "From school? Small boy with glasses. I think I remember you." But before he could say anything further a knock sounded at the door.
Evan admitted the doctor and brought him to the parlour. "Doctor Porter, thank you for coming at this time of night. He has a fever and I'm sure he has hurt his arm or shoulder."
The doctor's eyes widened at the sight of the man on Evan's sofa, but he examined him carefully. "I'm going to have to reset your shoulder," he said reaching into his bag. Pulling out a small bottle, he continued, "I'm going to give you some morphine because this will be quite painful."
"No!" Randy shouted. "No morphine."
The doctor pressed his lips together in disapproval, "Very well then, some laudanum,"
"No!" he repeated. "Nothing! Just do it!"
Randy gave a small gasp as the doctor manipulated his shoulder, but no other sound passed his lips and he slumped back onto the sofa, white and sweating.
"That is a very stubborn young man," the doctor said as Evan accompanied him to the door. He should be all right in a day or two, "But tell me," he looked at Evan carefully, "How did Orton's son end out here?"
Evan supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Doctor Porter had delivered and tended to the children of most of St Louis' wealthy families, himself included, and, most likely, Randy, as well.
"I'm not sure. I found him in front of the house like this."
"I won't fault you for an act of Christian charity," the doctor said, "But you know what he is. I suggest you send him on his way."
Evan carefully tamped down the anger he felt rising, "I know that he is a fellow human being who is suffering right now. Thank you for coming," he said as politely as he could manage and showed the doctor out.
Returning to the parlour, he found Randy had removed his sling and was struggling to put on his coat. "Thank you," he said, "For your kindness. I'd best be moving on."
"Do you have anywhere to go?" Evan asked. Randy's reluctance to speak answered for him. "Then stay here tonight. You shouldn't be out and about in your current condition."
"You heard what the doctor said?" As Evan nodded, he continued, "It's true. It would be better if I left."
"Why?" Evan demanded.
"Because of the harm it could do you if it came out that you had taken in a known pederast."
"The doctor won't speak and I fail to see what harm there would be in you staying for one night," Evan retorted. "You can do as you please, of course, but I think it would be wiser for you to stay."
"All right." Randy stared at him for a moment. "You're Evan Bourne, aren't you? Your father owns that bank on the other side of town. I don't think he would be very pleased if he learned I had been here."
"Maybe not," he answered, "But as you said, he is on the other side of town." He could see that Randy was plainly exhausted, and, finding him a pillow and a blanket, bid him good night.
The following morning, however, he was not surprised to find his parlour empty, the only sign that someone had been there a slight indentation in the pillow.
Randy slipped from the house in the chilly dawn of an early spring morning. Shivering from the cold he cursed himself again for his misplaced pride when he left Connecticut. What stupidity had led him to walk out with little more than the clothes on his back? And what insanity had led him back to St Louis? A wounded animal returning to its lair, he supposed.
And wounded he had been. His shoulder was nothing compared to the gut-wrenching pain he experienced during these last weeks, as he'd huddled shaking and sick, half-crazed with longing until the cravings had begun lessen and finally, disappear. He'd hitched rides, walked more miles than he could count and hopped boxcars. He'd seen the best and worst of humanity: hardscrabble farmers who'd shared their meals with him and pasty-faced boys who'd chucked refuse at him. He'd met tramps with blackened gap teeth who drank shoe polish strained through a sock and lonely Midwestern farmwives who looked at him with a combination of contempt and lust.
And last night, the strangest encounter of them all: a figure from his past. He vaguely remembered Evan Bourne: a small, thin boy who wore spectacles. And he remembered something else: seeing him in the school gymnasium struggling with barbells that weighed more than he did, doggedly scaling the climbing ladders that ran around the wall of the room over and over again, and running up and down the steps carrying ever-greater weights as he willed his scrawny frame into strength.
But then he wondered why should he be surprised he had come to St Louis? Perhaps he'd been borne on the swelling wave of humanity that was flocking to the city to see the great white plaster palaces that rose against the skyline: monuments to man's ingenuity, commemorations of man's achievements; the great Exposition; the World's Fair.
Walking down the streets of his native city, past the homes of people who now shunned him, he held his head high; his clothes were shabby and worn, he was hatless and the soles of his shoes were paper-thin, but he didn't care. He had teetered at the edge of the abyss, but had stepped back. Fearless as only a man who has already been to hell can be, he shook his fist at his father's house and laughed because Randal Keith Orton had come home.