Sometimes, if he stayed real quiet, the room would talk to him. Most of the time walls only listened, but that didn't seem to be the case with him. He could always hear them whisper. Trouble was walls don't speak in words and although their message was desperate, Amon couldn't understand what it was they were trying to say. Sometimes, in certain rooms, he would hear them speak in the form of feeling. Some strange emotion would wash over him and the street rat would catch himself freezing in time, mind completely blank. It appeared to worry the maids and they would always offer to sit him down, but once out of his spell, Amon would merely smile at their sympathetic faces and tell them he was feeling fine, not to worry.
But they did. He saw it on their faces and in their voice, this thin film of panic and concern and fear. He was familiar with it. Dammit, he saw it every day on the street! Used to. Used to…
If they took him away from Bailey he would--
But they didn't. None of them did.
Days went by painfully slow while Bailey recuperated from his cold. Amon could barely stand it. They were in the same house now and still he didn't get much chance to be with Bailey. Even at night when all others were asleep, Amon wasn't able to meet with the other. The bedroom door was locked and although he could have easily broken in, he suspected that would cause more harm than good. Anything that could possibly upset the strawberry-blonde was to be avoided at all costs. He didn't want to give anyone any reason what so ever to get him to leave. Never mind arrested, for that thought was the farthest in his mind. Besides, he made a deal with him.
As severely reluctant as he had been before, Amon did take Bailey's suggestion—or demand, depending on who you asked—of taking William out into town to shop. Thanks to his simple disguise, no body questioned this new friend of the family and Amon saw first hand how kind and humble these shop keepers could be to a man who appeared to have some pounds on him. It was almost shocking to be treated so well by these people. The very men and women who would chase him away from their stores with brooms and buckets of dirty water were now offering up their finest clothes and treating him as someone important as opposed to a mangy dog. Amon had never been anything of importance to anyone and the abrupt transition was awe-inspiring, but at the same time nauseating. No matter, the trip home was quick and the man spent the rest of his time eagerly awaiting Bailey's illness to lift.
However, he wasn't the only one anxious for Bailey's health to renew. Floods of invitations to aristocratic parties were delivered almost daily to the house. Birthdays and other such things that Amon couldn't truly comprehend the importance of. Who cared if Susan Walsh was turning twenty-two? Did Bailey care? It puzzled him how many parties a rich person was coaxed into going. So many events! When he questioned one of the maids about it, she nearly laughed at him. "The rich always need something to entertain themselves with!" She exclaimed, good naturedly. Bailey was no different, he supposed. For one reason or another, just when he thought he would finally have some time to spend with the man, Bailey appeared to have agreed to some party. His new guest in tow, of course. Much to Amon's dismay.
It wasn't that he wasn't ecstatic to be with Bailey again, but he would much, much rather be alone with his beloved and not in a crowded room filled to the brim with strangers he didn't care meeting. Alas, he wanted to please Bailey. Surely he'll be happy to know he would be joining him.
Now if only he could put this thing on right…
Amon wasn't much of a snappy dresser. He knew what would be warm and comfortable, but he didn't have a blasted idea in terms of color combination or even how to tie a cravat! Fiddling with the silky fabric and frowning down at himself, Amon had proceeded to choke himself twice upon tying it and now turned the thing into one massive knot under his chin. Further more, the cream-colored shirt he was wearing wasn't even buttoned yet, there was no vest to compliment it, his pants were gray and he did not have a bloody idea where his shoes wandered off to. What was even better was that he was sure they were late.
"My hair isn't done, either." He reminded himself. Oh, this was going very, very bad.
Due to Bailey's poor constitution in general, his recovery from the common cold was a prolonged one. Not only was his suffering double the length of any normal human being, but the dread of confronting what lurked outside his bedroom door was quite possibly worse than the sniffles. The only time he unlocked his door was when he was absolutely sure that it was William and that was only for meals or fresh towels. Letters were slipped under the door and messages relayed through the thick lacquered wood by the servants. Unfortunately, the letters didn't keep Bailey entertained for long. He read them repeatedly until he became absolutely disgusted with the pretentiousness oozing from the party invitations or the completely shameless insistence on marriage from his mother. He did get one letter from his sister, but it screamed of all the wonderful things she was enjoying in Paris while Bailey was trapped in his bedroom. She had been to a number of dance parties and certainly had acquired an equal amount of suitors. After his letters had been read, recycled, and eventually cast aside, all Bailey had to think about was Amon. What was he going to do with him? How was he going to keep him from doing something violent or promiscuous? How was he going to keep his own reputation in tact while trying not to have another emotional breakdown around Amon?
One day he managed to gather up enough of his wits to pick through the ball invitations and sort out the ones that might ease Amon into society a little bit better than the rest. By this time, the aristocrats of Bailey's social circle had found out he was housing a guest and they absolutely insisted that he introduce this new young (perhaps he's rich!) man to them. This took several days of contemplation, but he eventually found a decent starter for the former outcast. Bailey gave some instructions to William on preparing Amon for the dance, but William only did about half of them. They had had an argument through the door about teaching Amon the popular dances of the day as well as teaching him the proper etiquette for social events. Bailey had previously told William that Amon was from France had no idea what English culture entailed. William believed that Bailey owed Amon enough to spend more time in his company and so should instruct the young man himself. In the end, William won out. However, by the time they settled the argument, there was no time to do such things and Bailey was forced to take the risk. There weren't a terrible number of highly influential men and women at this event, so if something terrible happened, it could possibly be fixed through interception of gossip.
The night of the ball, Bailey was just finishing buttoning his dark, cool gray jacket of his suit in his room. His fingers shook a little bit. He would have to see Amon eventually to make sure he wasn't bringing his own sweetbreads to the party. However, it was getting late and Bailey couldn't delay any longer. He took a deep breath and left his room for the first time in days.
When he slowly pushed open the door, the image presented to him did not please him at all. Of course, it could have been worse. Amon could've been standing there with someone else's blood all over the new clothes William had acquired for him. But the man's hair was a mess and it looked like he had slept in his clothes after a long, hard battle with a silk python. Bailey was torn between rushing to the man's side and make things right with this apocalyptic crisis, and running away. Knowing that the only direction he could move was forward, he plowed right through. He gave a light cough and a small knock before inching into the room.
"I'm afraid those pants won't do. Dark brown is more your color," he said, coldly, summoning up some sister-Elizabethan authority. He strode over to the wardrobe with as much confidence as he could muster and took out the aforementioned suit. "Put this on and I'll redo your cravat. I'll teach you how to do it yourself later, but we're late enough tonight as it is."
Bailey briefly hesitated, but steeled himself and reached out to undo the knot that had manifested itself on Amon's throat. His cheeks flushed a bit as he made a considerable effort not to make eye contact with the man who had previously made it clear that he was ready and willing to get intimate at a moment's notice.
"Just stay close to me tonight and follow my lead." Bailey cursed himself as the words tumbled from his mouth, but he tried his best not to physically acknowledge the accidental double entendre. "Watch what I do. Watch what other people do. Let me do most of the talking. Do you understand?"
Amon was half expecting to spy a maid or perhaps William at the door the moment he had heard the knock. A suspicion that was in no way pleasant for the man, made evident by the look of impatience as he whipped his body around in order to face the source of the sound, his fingers still rubbing and clawing at the material at his neck. The expression changed instantly the moment his stony eyes caught sight of Bailey and immediately there was a brightness to him that mimicked a child's joy upon receiving a desperately wanted gift. He was so happy that, for a moment, the only word the brunette could utter in response to Bailey's manifestation was an excited, "oh!"
His lack of an appropriate greeting didn't appear to faze Bailey one way or another. The young aristocrat didn't seem to waste any time at all taking charge of the whole situation Amon had made for himself, and that left for a very grateful street urchin whom, clever as he was, couldn't come up with any valid excuses as to why he wasn't dressed for the occasion they were about to have tonight. Then again, he had only been half-prepared for excuses. Every other thought was orbited around Bailey. He was just so happy to see him again! And in proper health!
Grinning like a fool, Amon watched with fixed eyes as Bailey proceeded to dig out a dark brown suit and offer it to him. It took a few seconds, but eventually Amon took the outfit and, hardly even glancing at them, laid them still folded on the back of a chair that sat right beside him. Not only were his clothes in disorder, but the once perfectly respectable room had suffered quite a bit in Amon's hands. Though, thankfully, there were no holes in the walls nor torn curtains and things of that nature, the furniture was completely disorganized as if the man had never once been blessed with their presence before. Chairs were against walls, the tables over turned, and the only thing left where it was, was the wardrobe and bed which were the only two objects Amon decided he didn't need to move… for the time being.
"You like me in dark brown?" With his eyes still locked on the other, Amon finally found his voice and smiled as the man came over to him to fix the cravat-knot. It pleased him to hear such a thing from Bailey. Surely this was a sign the other had been thinking of him. How else would he know what color suited him best unless he had spent at least some amount of time identifying his looks? Did this mean he was attractive in his eyes and, even more importantly, was the reminder of Oliver slowly being forgotten?
So entranced by his thoughts and worries, Amon had failed to listen to most of Bailey's words and thus did not answer the initial question by the end of it. Instead, the street rat began to hum a sort of soft, but pleasant tune that purred deep in his throat as he watched Bailey work with a loving gaze. Accompanied with the absent humming, Amon raised a hand and brushed the back of his fingers gingerly against the side of the redhead's face, entangling them in locks of hair which appeared to melt right off his digits whenever he moved his hand away from Bailey again, the hair bouncing back more or less the way it had been before, prepared for another assault which Amon was all too happy to do.
If Bailey were as manly as he liked to pretend to be, he would have taken Amon's surprisingly handsome face and introduced it to his fist. However, common sense told him that he would probably hurt his shoulder trying to throw the punch more than he would hurt Amon. Instead, Bailey suppressed the chill that threatened to run up his spine and grabbed Amon's wrist, forcing his arm down.
"Stop that," he snapped, finishing tying the cravat. The redhead thrust the dark brown jacket into Amon's arms. "That's exactly the kind of thing I told you not to do. If you do that while we're at the ball, you are going to create a terrible amount of trouble for me. And once that happens, you won't be able to stay here any longer, regardless of what I do. We're taking separate carriages. Albert will be driving you. Come downstairs when you're properly dressed."
Before Amon could touch his face again for the thousandth time, Bailey beat a hasty retreat out of the room, met William at the bottom of the stairs with his overcoat and hat, and went outside to wait in the chilly carriage despite William's protests. Bailey watched his breath curl up and fill the air in front of him with a white cloud. He glared at the cloud and held his breath until he couldn't anymore and icy mist returned. Bailey took a few deep breaths to slow his breathing down and then pressed his warm cheek to the window glass.
The problem wasn't that he liked Amon in any way, shape, or form. Of that he was sure. Every night he imagined ripping out Amon's own heart and holding it in front of his dying face like the man surely did to Oliver. Bailey knew he was just desperate, just curious. Everything he secretly dreamed about was suddenly being thrust in his face and the only way he knew how to react to it was positively. A lock of wavy hair fell into his eyes and he snarled, gripping the strands that had slid through Amon's fingers in clenched fists, knuckles turning white as he put his face to his knees. The sound of the front door slamming shut signaled that they would be departing as soon as Amon got into his carriage. Bailey raised his head, smoothed back his hair, and straightened his coat. If there was anything he was good at, it was putting on a farce for the ladies and gentlemen of society. After all, he'd been doing it for seven years.
Nothing but the sound of horse hooves and the jerking of the carriage registered in Bailey's mind. By the time they had arrived at the gleaming, white manor, Bailey was stepping out of the carriage with his chin held high and a slight smile on his face. He stepped lightly over to the carriage behind his, Albert holding the door open, and peered in nonchalantly.
"Did you do your homework and come up with a last name? I'll have to introduce you, you know," he said quietly. Even his eyes smiled.
The jacket was retrieved with some alarm. Bailey's scolding certainly snapped him out of his content reverie and when the man came to he couldn't for the life of him understand what he had done to earn such a show of disdain. What exactly did he do that he was not supposed to do? But the question fell dead before he could rake his brain for an answer.
Longing eyes stalked Bailey out of the room until they could not follow him any farther, the door closing shut. The subtle hint of surprise was gone now, replaced by an eerie calm that corrupted his features. It left a dreamy glaze in the street rat's eyes and a soft smile soon began to tug at his lips as he looked back down at the outfit still awaiting his attention. And as he stripped to put them on, he hummed.
If only Bailey knew how much he loved him. He would make everything right. He would be good, he knew he could, he knew he could be everything he'd ever wanted! He didn't need another man—certainly not an Oliver—all he needed and would ever need was him. As much as he detested this party he was to be attending, Amon saw it as an opportunity. He'll prove his worth to him this way. He'll find a way to make him happy.
Even if it meant dressing up in uncomfortable clothing.
Despite the privilege of riding in a carriage for the first time in his life, Amon had little appreciation for it after a few minutes of watching thin, naked trees and frost bitten roads rush by his window. But he supposed it was much better than walking anywhere in this chill, and it did leave him free to finally groom himself. Granted he didn't have a mirror in the carriage to aid him, but Amon felt confident in his abilities to brush back his hair into a pony tail. It wasn't that hard, he had certainly done it before.
Riding in the carriage also gave Amon plenty of time to think. He would need a name for himself. A French name, but which one? It wasn't as though he managed to find many French novels in the Adams estate and certainly none he could pronounce well. There was one he had seen earlier. It began with an M, he knew that much. How did it sound? Mo… Moly…
His body jerked slightly as the carriage came to a stop and Amon silently cursed to himself for having forgotten the name he had chosen. He slammed the silver brush down onto the bench beside him with a fury, not even watching as the innocent object projected itself into the ceiling only to collapse onto the floor. What was the name?! Moly! Moly-something!
But Bailey's sudden intrusion robbed Amon of his anger and the street rat glanced over at his sweet love, finding so much… light in him. It was incredible. Something of a miracle to Amon, who had only seen Bailey with misery in his eyes as of late. But now! Something in the other man glowed and the brunette couldn't comprehend why. Nevertheless, he smiled back. "Molyneux." He replied, a sense of pride washing over him when he finally recalled the name for Bailey. Unfortunately he pronounced it entirely wrong.
A disgruntled expression appeared briefly before being swept off and replaced once again with an affectionate smile. Bailey coughed lightly to try and dislodge the growing lump in his throat.
"Remember," he said, softly, as the footman helped Amon out of the coach, "just stay with me. If you go wandering off, I might not be able to find you later."
As if he could lose him so easily anyway, Bailey thought to himself. They entered through the grand mahogany doors into the well-lit, chandeliered manor; Bailey about a half step in front of Amon as they checked in with the servant at the door. Bailey saw quite a few familiar faces that, although politely inquired as to his health, were clearly begging to know more about his mysterious, and probably very wealthy, French guest. He managed to make what Amon called a French last name into sounding something resembling authentic by putting a French accent on it, though it probably wouldn't have mattered considering these people seemed to feel that the more exotic, the better (or, as exotic French people could possibly be). Women cooed over Amon's long, dark locks, wondering if it was fashionable for men in France to wear their hair so long. Of course, never stopping to see if Amon was even capable of responding, Bailey always answered their questions with, "Yes, well, that's how they do it in France." It was lucky that his sister Elizabeth was still in said country otherwise she would've probably said something along the lines of, "Oh, is that so? Well, I'm sure you know better than me, brother dearest, since you frequent Paris so often. The city of romance is practically your second home, isn't it?" After which, the ladies also engaged in their conversation would shoot questions at him like flaming arrows about what it was like in Paris while Elizabeth would watch him with her usual air of smugness as he smoldered and burned in the fires of embarrassment.
However, he may have preferred that over his mother, who happened to be there as well. It shouldn't have surprised him. After all, she was still scouring the fields of high society for a respectable little morsel of a girl to whom she could marry her only son.
"Bailey! Bailey!" she squawked upon seeing his bright strawberry-blonde hair bobbing in the seas of brunette and gold. She took his arm in a powerful, pincer-like hold with her plump fingers and hissed into his ear. "What's this? How can you let your own mother be the last person in the whole world to know about your guest?"
Bailey highly doubted she had been the last person in town, even more so the whole world, to find out about Amon, but juicy gossip was more delicious than the best full course meal. Not to mention that it seemed to her that Bailey was finally acquiring more male friends. He had always kept close to his sister and certainly courted many girls in the past (though kept none of them, to Mrs. Adams's severe disappointment), but it was rare for him to go out hunting or have a smoke and a chat with solely testosterone-based company. Bailey had complained that he thought hunting was a stupid sport, the smell of smoke made him sick, and all the men she wanted him to be friends with simply talked about politics, money, and themselves. When Bailey expressed a desire to get to know the artists, writers, and cultured people of society, his mother and father had spluttered a bit before pretending he hadn't said anything at all. Oliver had been a relief for them until his incredibly inconvenient death. After Bailey's parents heard what had happened to him, they quickly denied any suggestion that the Adams family were even remotely acquainted with him. Now, his mother had to make due with a foreigner, but she supposed it was better than nothing.
"Mother, this is Amon Molyneux. He's from Lyon, France. Amon, this is my mother. I apologize for not introducing the two of you sooner. I'm afraid I had quite a lot on my mind these past few days."
"Lyon! That's quite far!" One could almost see her calculating how many francs and subsequent pounds it would have taken to travel the distance. Bailey knew she would not dare try and kick Amon out at this point, even if he was a strange foreigner. It would have been a lie to say Bailey hadn't considered having his mother be the driving force that would have Amon standing at the gallows in a matter of days, but his mother had the disadvantage of being very fat, so it was more likely that Amon would have had a higher probability of sticking her with his beloved knife before she could flatten him.
"Yes, we wouldn't want to introduce him to Elizabeth or we would never see her again," Bailey laughed, giving Amon a friendly nudge with his elbow which he hoped would be interpreted as 'Right, you jolly old chap with whom I share no more than a proper, noble brotherly friendship?' rather than 'Please take me to the nearest dark, abandoned corner and start touching me in all the most socially inappropriate places'. Mrs. Adams's face fell a little at the realization that she wouldn't marry Elizabeth off to a fabulously rich man if what Bailey said was the case. However, her mood brightened once more after she told herself that she needn't worry about Elizabeth finding a suitable man to marry. It was Bailey that was the problem here.
"Well, I daresay Mr. Molyneux will perhaps embolden you to acquire some respectable company for once, Bailey," she snorted. She turned to Amon and Bailey suddenly grew nervous. "He probably hasn't told you this, Mr. Molyneux, but he is completely hopeless when it comes to finding a proper girl for a wife. We both know he isn't going to be getting any younger. And I am certainly not going to be around forever to take care of him. He needs a wife! Don't you want your mother to see some beautiful grandchildren before she dies, Bailey? Surely you know what I'm talking about, my good sir."
"I'm sure he does, Mother," Bailey said quickly. At this point, he wanted to make sure his mother wasn't going to be the next on Amon's black list. "But as riveting as this conversation is, you cannot monopolize Mr. Molyneux's attention. I still have yet to introduce him to my friends."
Without waiting for his mother to open her large mouth, Bailey took Amon by the upper arm and led him away toward slightly more pleasant company.
Bailey must have the patience of a God to deal with so much publicity so effortlessly, Amon thought. In the span of two minutes wave after wave of guests seemed to flock in their direction and Amon certainly dealt no complaint when Bailey took the lead. With a frozen smile, the peasant watched his love work the masses, answering everything with an automatic statement and often explaining and re-explaining some trivial fact to whomever asked. In the meantime, all Amon was expected to do was stand there and smile. Look pleasant, which became more and more difficult with every new face.
He wanted to grab Bailey and flee for the outside world. Get away from this suffocating room and all the bright lights and colors that swarmed inside it. Escape from all the loud, boisterous music and the artificial laughter before it consumed them body and soul, but never made a gesture towards it. Bailey wanted him to be like these people, didn't he? To be more like him? He'd do it. He'd do whatever made him happy, he would. He just… didn't want to lose him again. He didn't want to be alone.
He needed a drink, he reasoned. A glass of scotch or something heavy, otherwise he wouldn't be able to handle much more of this attention. His hands were all ready fidgeting amongst themselves and Amon could feel his heart tremble with excitement. He wanted so desperately to leave it almost left him feeling ill to his stomach, but they couldn't leave just yet. No, he wasn't really expecting them to. But if he could just convince Bailey to leave with him to an empty room perhaps—
A massive blob of flesh robbed him of his thoughts and Amon clenched his jaw to keep from snapping at the vaguely familiar woman grabbing on to Bailey like that. Who the hell was she? How dare she stand so close to him?! His blood boiled with accusation but one word managed to subdue the savage beast before it could break free from Amon's restraint; Mother.
Suddenly the man's body fell into a deep calm and the brunette bowed his head slightly in respect to the giant pig, the corners of his lips curled into the most refined of smiles. He wanted to gouge out her thick throat.
With Bailey nudging him so suddenly, having not been following along with much of the conversation seeing how the party thus far required him to keep his mouth shut anyway, Amon gave the redhead a puzzled look then quickly plastered on a half smile to compliment the odd laughter that came from him. Bailey had a wondrous laugh. It was a shame it was forced at the moment, but, losing track of the conversation yet again, Amon couldn't help wishing for the chance he could make the man genuinely happy! To bring out pure joy that wasn't just a part of the show.
Amon redirected his gaze to Mrs. Adams now that he was addressed. It was impossible that such a beautiful man could ever be born from this… rippling monstrosity. Her voice didn't share the same melody as Bailey's nor did her appearance have any similarities with him! It was mind boggling. This couldn't really be his mother, could it? Amon sucked in a breath. No, no, he'd have to drown this all out. He had to give this woman his attention now.
"Is he?" It was the first time words left his mouth the entire evening. Bailey managed to kill the discussion before any other words followed and Amon let himself be dragged out of Mrs. Adams' presence. His smile was no where to be seen. All the street rat could do was direct a smoldering glare into nothingness. A wife… a wife…!
Amon grabbed Bailey by the waist—about the only place he could grab onto with one of his arms captured in such a way—and quickly pushed him into the only available corner in the entire bloody building that wasn't all ready occupied. "A wife?" He hissed. He had forgotten to let go on him. "You can't. You can't take a wife!"
He didn't know what would happen if he did. He wouldn't be able to stay at his home, for one. He himself hadn't any set place for Bailey to visit if he ever found the time. A wife would ruin everything he worked so hard for! Bailey couldn't hope for some dirty hag to take care of him. It—it wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair!
Just as his anger was beginning to peak, Amon managed enough common sense to let Bailey go, more out of fear that he would hurt him physically than how hurt his reputation might be if anyone paid enough attention to them to see such an act. "I won't let you do that. I'll burn London to the ground if you do."
Bailey had been under the brief misconception that he was, for once, in charge of the situation as he led Amon along, but he soon realized that he was sorely mistaken when he felt an arm snake around his waist and pull him forcibly into a corner. Bailey inexorably found himself staring up into smooth honey-brown eyes shining with fury. He hardly registered what Amon was saying as all of his senses immediately concentrated on their point of contact. The first thing he did was to look frantically around to see if anyone could see this vulgar display. Once it was confirmed that everyone was too busy worrying about their own appearances, Bailey's second thought was immediately repulsed by the third thought which believed the second thought was being completely inappropriate. The second thought then slinked away sullenly into a dark corner of Bailey mind. Once this happened, Bailey's flushed face returned to its normal pasty color and he had the sudden urge to introduce his fist to Amon's face if he didn't let go anytime soon. However, rationality kicked in and Bailey reasoned that fisticuffs would not aid him in the least. One, because they were still in a public place and two, because Bailey had never thrown a punch in his life. Unfortunately, all of these trains of thought inevitably collided with each other, leaving Bailey merely frozen on the spot, feeling shocked and baffled.
Luckily, Bailey was spared from having to make a decision when Amon released his hold on him. At this point, with Amon's arm gone from his waist, Bailey finally processed the words.
"What are you talking about?" he hissed back, returning Amon's glare with one of his own. He truly wanted to shout, but his words came out in an angry whisper instead. The blood that had previously been in his cheeks was suddenly in the back of his neck. "Would you get a hold of yourself for a minute? There is absolutely no need to be burning cities, especially at a respectable party like this! Not that you should or that I encourage you to care in the least bit, but I am not taking a wife. Ever! Now will you calm down? We can talk about this later! Do you see what I just did? I said "talk"! In high society, we only resort to physical means of expressing our emotions when it is of the utmost importance to defend our honor while you, on the other hand, are ready to set fire to London just because you're too childish to realize that I have a reputation to keep! Though at this point, I may just have to slap you with my gloves and shoot you now with the way things are going!"
Although it was probably a poor decision, Bailey extracted himself from the corner and stormed off to some room away from Amon. He needed to cool down and being around Amon would help him do nothing of the sort. As he strode away, he realized what he had just said. "I am not taking a wife ever." That did it. It had been said, albeit to an insane person. There was no doubt now that, inside or outside of Bailey's mind, he would never be interested or willing to live the life that was expected of him. He could never explain himself to anyone and he would die alone in his own estate, without children or a companion to support him through his old age. And the worst part about it was that even if he got married, nothing was stopping him from secretly committing adultery with other women. The fact of the matter was that he was just not sexually interested in women. All of the courting he had done was just part of his fantasy world. It would have been foolish of him to think that it ever existed past the day when he had found the first heart.
The truth was that he was homosexual.
His cravat was suddenly too tight and the rooms too cramped. His surroundings seemed to swim before his eyes and he had to put his shaking hand to the wall to support himself. Avoiding eye contact with anyone, he managed to rapidly disengage himself from whatever conversation other guests desired to have with him and stumbled his way toward the French doors that opened up into the back gardens where there was surely a plentiful amount of freezing air to send him into a slightly more peaceful hypothermic state.